I've never liked mild this much

or an ode to being less incendiary if I must.

all my most controversial statements are, to my knowledge, in plain sight. My poetic is third-party rigorous. I just try to make Static something to step to. My practice as of late has taken me pretty far out of my head. My body dictates the agenda as of late. I've been sleeping regularly, if not consistently well, as of late. I make it through the day, sometimes with naps, sometimes whole shifts of work & socialization. I've been working in a way I never imagined. Not a single facet. My machination of community. My vast material intimacies. My continued health. I'm grateful for new allowances.

I have all these collage ideas. Some new poems. Taking new footage. Just throwing scraps. I keep the best for my friends & paying spectator. The evolution of a glamor. I'm excited about Arizona light I'm excited about the ambiguity of Southern California in Winter. I'm preparing to teach students of my work. Students of poetry. of Poets I admire. of scholars I seek. I always get a little freaked out on college campuses. There is a surreal atmospheric pressure making everyone determined to breathe out of sync with their surroundings. There is the ubiquity of patrol, a parody of youth, frailty of monied brat. My alma mater was it's own insignificant slice of liberal dispair. Scraped what we need with tusks & trunks. I don't miss being a student in the traditional sense. I learn every day. There are a few things I know formally. Most of them include things I live in regardless. I'm not including biography. My memoir is in hiding. Still at the forefront of my mind: I am what I am supposed to be.

Fonder. My Heart is already in the sky. I'm ready to miss this again. I need to yearn for my home again. Before me is travel, conversation, classroom, bookstore. Multiple cities. When I get back it's my Ball. After that more. Installations, salons, galleries, popups, guests, games show. Inbetween that: looks, sets, promotions, emails, phone calls, counting back from 10s. I've felt more stressed by less (& more with less gratification). Normally, I prepare to drop out of myself for the sake of "care". These engagements finally feel like a job I truly like. I can manage the labor it costs to share. This balance (though like, my old favorite things, is frail & new) gives way to branching & rooting into my surroundings.

all of my coin cards were in reverse,

or look at the new gesticulations.

in my new days of friendship & local explorations, I've realized the preponderance of white "hip" cafés playing Black music of specific decades. Hip, meaning not ornate but thoughtful & fair-to-unreasonably priced. Certain meaning only "avant-garde" contemporary or decidedly classic retro, sample fodder. Hip-Hop is a dicey distinction. The other "gems" range from vaguely predatory country/rock songs or neo-folk orchestral Amerikkkana. The title of the poem is being "the only nigga in the coffeeshop hears her name over the speakers". I'm not writing that one.

Do you ever see a face that makes you question if we are all made equal? My mommy used to say some folks should smile more just to improve their real estate. I knew I never wanted to be a corner house. I like living at dead ends. One of the streets I grew up on was essentially one block. One side a house, the other the Boulevard & the University of Southern California. I want to be where I am, indefinitely. Residing I mean. The large "place" I am seems to be steadily expanding. The further I venture I see my atmosphere has already touched.

my cards signal material pivots & the presence of cycles. this is the year I acquire new knowledge & agility concerning time/being. I seem to have been positioned to shift, brake, & disrupt some cycles, to better with justice. My challenges aren't around my direction but the ways I make matters & care for myself. My body is in need & I'm still taking care of her.

I've been looking at my words differently. I love seeing what I can trace of myself over time. This is the longest I've worked on a manuscript. I feel so fresh & exiled about this writing. Maybe I'm my biggest fan.

I miss something. People. A person or two. I thought caring more for myself meant more people to share my newness with. So many people I've called friends have wormed away. Success can shift capacity. Semi-related so many have (un?)knowingly linked up with venom & bile, I worry if politics exist in poetry. I've decided to eat crow + grovel this year for publication. I want blood money. Legacy publication. I'm no freer hungry & interrogating the underpaid. I've lost more friends than the opportunity & that bothers me for the wrong reasons.

everywhere I go in real life I have fans. readers, gawkers, but fans. there is third-person magic when I enter a classroom lecture hall or performance space. In some cities, I walk down the street & get recognized. I want my boyfriend to make fun of me for it. I can't date a fan but he needs to recognize that I'm a star.

Temptation came up today in my spread. In the spiritual chakra. I am going to challenge my discipline. Something about stretching. This is also the devil in other decks. What sinister needs will I have to attend to this year?

impressive woman seeking ambitious fauna

or i didn't forget about y'all.

which camera do i look at? Welcome back. again. today sits squarely on the other side of a multitude of milestones; cosmic, minute & otherwise. as with all revolutions (of the cyclical nature) the same old faces cast on this season's ill-fitting beat. digital lurking may not be catching but maybe this will be the year of gloryholes. all my other ideas need therapy. i finally wrote new poems. they are coming out cross-wired. each new piece split & undoing itself as fermentation begins. I don't not edit my poems but they normally exit my pre-material place with stronger silhouettes. my new work exits me deconstructed. i hate puzzles & this isn't that.

elsewhere, i am not resolving to do anything, in particular. my newest regimens are still new & not connected to shared typicality of time. every day has been living in the corner of my room. recently all my dreams have taken place in the backstage of nightclubs. I don't have an audience but patrons. I'm getting the talent dressed. Working in your dreams makes being awake & broke even more infuriating.

To be a woman doing it for herself. Never without help. I am a woman in need. I feel the needs I see. I want my needs met. A man that I love told me I needed to find someone who looked at me like I was Cleopatra -- a man who would build a pyramid just at my slightest glance. I didn't think to tell him of the man who I didn't love but was a lover wrote & staged a play retelling our love between Anthony & Cleopatra. He went so far cast a symbolic doppelganger of sorts. He sending poem packets to presses dedicated to me. These aren't the monuments I want especially from him (his life's work upon first meeting was a play about a trans white slave owner who was trying to free his enslaved "crush"). I see my own grave I was making with him & still had time to climb out.

I want to not be a mystery to my love. Anyone who loves me sees me. I don't try to make it hard. Even people who challenge my default settings. Love for me dissolves the unnecessary fantastic that clouds my connections. I am spectacular least to loved ones & they get the best of my shows.

Already had my heart broken once this year, but it was of my own fumbling. begin the year with a wound & i hope to forget the scar by spring. i'm too loved to be a kind of lonely. i know what i want still. i'm humbled by how much work I've given myself.

maybe this is the year of recognition on a new level. this is my fifth year committing to this life professionally. full time? what i lack in financial security, I make up for in audacity. or all my art will be intrinsically more valuable when i'm dead. i think too often which hateful fuck will claim relation to me if I dropped dead right now.

I'm heavy on my Saturn's shift. last year was a grounding. before me is a birth. new mouths to feed. new stunts to plot. new treachery in every image.

what's your threshold for the fantastic?

or replacing the audacious with the content.

every time i believe myself knowledgable, the universe reminds me that most dynamically I am nothing. humility is my favorite feeling because is a more rare moment can also acknowledge being proud of myself. my favorite questions leave me speechless. i've heard my own inquiries in such a loop they've transcended music back into static. i melt at intentional interrogation. i hate asinine considerations. we HAVE had this conversation several times in a few dimensions.

every day feels here & more every day. when i go to bed at night, i'm gratefully aware of the minor gravities i've traversed. the new rhythm is more ambient. i am less in my own way. here i'll mention i was a repressed child. i'm a more distilled woman. a concentrate of "cool whatever". I eat more. still a chore. I've chosen to not be silent about it.

I almost can't believe people walk around feeling like this. a regular. nothing more human than projecting. i wonder why I haven't been asked which tortilla i prefer. i haven't thought of my preference since naming it, months ago. I forget to inform of its importance. But wasting food is an old trick & I deserve to eat now. there are other shortcomings on my plate but generosity is sazon completa. Mother goose eats a rainbow & these days are soundtracked by Luther Vandross & the best of 2019 lists. my memories tell me butternut squash isn't pumpkin but orange is still one of my favorite colors.

revisiting proto-selves has been sweeping me in sadness. a decade ago, i wanted nothing more than to be legendary & dead. prodigy turned untapped potential. the song still tugs at my heartstrings. the chorus of "at any moment now". now, every moment has a beat & my best friend says i look less wild in the eyes. a decade ago there was nothing behind my eyes. every word i recorded i wanted as evidence i thought for myself. i'm still.

i needed Audacity to get me to this place but i am ecstatic to shed some of my bombastic predisposition. i am still TS Black Romantic, will still venture land, sea & multiverse, to tell you to believe in love. i drama up reasons to dance in the mirrors.

i think i've bullied myself into thinking i needed to write a memoir. I can't sleep with sensationalists. there is no world i live in where my story won't be reduced to shallow talking points. with my poems, i know i place them so high in the stratosphere the average reader can't tell the difference between cumulus clouds or cephalopods.

the other night i ate mussels in front of "a man i love". not to be confused with "the man i love". i've been laughing at the choice of supper. my father & I love mussels. this man is a father. there is a daddy issue somewhere. mostly my consistent inclination to not lie to fathers like some act of confession. I'll omit, singsong, allude, but never do i lie. never had a face i wanted to save. there is something i get by letting men think they are seeing, tasting my brine, shell, & tendon. i needed to eat. i needed to think aloud. he was the first person i told about my latest fear. i love being able to afford company.

the word of the week is performative. one of the more formidable concepts i studied for my "sociology" degree was Goffman's theory of the presentation of self. the theatrically tinged rhetoric includes understandings of "front-stage" & "back-stage" selves. the "front-stage" being an intentionally observable realm, where we produce & reproduce gestures with each other & various facets of society at large. "backstage" than the interior mechanisms at play. where the emotional rigs & movable set pieces reside. some misunderstand the "front-stage" as a mask but actors appear on stage with masks. it is not a question of what is hidden but how the obscured keeps the production going.

in my archival footage, my mask looks like my face, superimposed on a wild clown understudying a trapeze artist with no net. my "front-stage" was filled with set chewing soliloquies all with the subtext of "save me". the only thing that breaks my heart over again is reviving this production to the gain of uncritical praise. the most fantastic thing about my life up to this point is that i haven't squeezed it for all its salacious characterizations. my peers have varying levels of success telling truth vs. living it. least especially there is no safe way to tell you my story.

my poems have been called memoir so often, I feel like my memoir would be an obituary & i don't wanna die like that (anymore). each of my productions used to feature a funeral. now they always include a club night. i haven't been able to write a poem since starting hormones. i have at least [redacted] until i have to worry about that. i even have a plan. projected projects. i have so much more now & future. i decide how to fall out of sync. to be aligned.

less than $70 from my goal your support is appreciated.

careless whisper shouldn't speak to me the way it does

... or what began as gratitude has blossomed into grace.

eye contact is not the only way to make vulnerable. it is the most effective way for me to feel something immediately. I'm not one to panic but my pleasure in looking can look embarrassing on my face. my thirst reads as ambitious. how boring.

i stopped keeping a personal account of every gaze that traces my figure -- at least the ones i catch looking. i can't ever remember feeling any one particular way about being impossibly conspicuous. i over indulge in the fraught attention i was afforded growing up. i as allowed all my joys, hurts, & otherwisers. taking all the space they needed. I didn't know how to hold all of them. but i always saw their magnitude. there can only ever be so much space between you & your body.

things i'm recognizing: i'm grown. this man's jawline has been in a dream of mine. not all matcha lattes taste the same. i have time. i wake up happy. i am generally happy. nothing is better. i still get lonely.

the man i loves say i am the kind of woman he wants, busy -- not waiting around. i question if i make time or just feel more. i am busy. never not between some-thing. i can tell him all i do. i know where he goes when he is away from me. this is mostly irrelevant but all this is about what feels good nowadays.

i tell all my nieces & nephews that we are cycled through scenes of disfigured possibility. each of our struggled can harmonize with each other. i tell all my nieces & nephews i am as broken as they are. the sickness of want is a cure to living or some inverse parallel song. i tell all my children my dirt grows in my stomach first.

i have nostalgia for so little. i feel like i'm rediscovering the boxes I've been keeping all my memories. mangled. boxes. container feels somehow both more & less fragile than my contents.

what does it mean to consistently show up for me? because i feel the closes I've ever been to my body. i see the sweet-hurt in others because i speak to my own every night before bed.

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