I am...a New Yorker

[Previous entry: "Writing Poetry"]

Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Displacing my Emotions

After those two semi-interracial kisses at the Oscars, someone at the party I was at began to say, "Wow! Everyone's getting, uh..."

These are the times I wish I were visually white, because I have to know everything and this was clearly not a comment he felt comfortable making in front of me.

More mussels with K.

Over Adrien Brody. Between Son of Same and Liberty Heights, I already had a bit of a thing for him. Can't comment on his performance in The Pianist, as I won't see it until Friday.

Home from school and not completely shivering, it's wonderful. In fact, I didn't walk, I strolled.

Poems and jotting down ideas to further develop a scene I've been working on. In fact, it's developing into a complete story, a screenplay I think. Exciting.

The bus driver sing, "I'm in the mood for love...simply because you're near me."

"Ya'll needed that," he said.

Lipstick and nail polish, which suddenly appeals to me in the spring, when the cloud of sleep and sadness lifts considerably.

About the Cuban Missile Crisis, which seems oddly salient right now.

Orange County as "just another faceless, WASP wasteland."

I think it's apt.

I am...not sure what the block is, the poems aren't so long, flowery or densely packed. And you read the crazy dead dad poem, but didn't say much about it. I hope you're not just intimidated by the form. I'm writing in verse more for brevity's sake than poetry's.

I think my stuff is rather transparent, actually. But then, I know the backstory (dead dad, war and the quickly-married coworker, torn between two lovers, freaks who pursue me v. semi-sane people who don't, etc.). What I'm most concerned with is that the reader gets the message properly, regardless of what their response to it is. I value your opinion, otherwise I wouldn't ask.

I originally called this "Curious Yella," but the instructor said that was too pun-y. It was a bit of a pun on the film "Curious Yellow," but mostly a reference to a label used by blacks for "light-skinned" blacks/biracials. And here I was, caught between two ends of the spectrum, as it was (simplistically) seen from outside. But the truth was something else, entirely -- as it so often is.

Part of being my friend is enduring my writing (though not usually nearly this much poetry). Maybe you didn't mean to sign on for so much. I'm certainly not sending poetry to the boy toys, let alone writing it about them.

: : :

Waverly Place
I was enjoying,
savoring his soft, full lips
delicious kisses

strong arms around me, for once
a masculine treat

Unafraid of me
nor intimidated, so
free to be myself

From Uganda via
Amsterdam and Geneva
New York rendezvous

West 4 Street Station
walked him to the uptown A
you left me there too

Large hands hold my face,
his caress slowly melting
my inhibitions

Powerful, gentle
everything all at once
he always loved me

I much prefer your
Pale, frail face in spectacles
Exquisite glances

Delicate fingers
strumming until I quiver
your fragile caress

His blue-black hue is
further from my yellow than
your alabaster

Know he's not the one
yet even friends assume it
makes him somehow right

Pathetic, blind world
I love you much more deeply
than mere genetics

Strange dichotomy
appearance over feeling
mass mind illogic

Scylla, Charybdis
improbable decision
truth over beauty

[Next entry: "Drawing a Line in the Sand"]
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