Something happened...

That fateful day 15 years ago
something utterly tragic
happened.
And we were witness.
Everyone has a story.
Never forget- they say...
No one can forget.
But throughout the days that followed
the images that permanently scar our memory
And the terror that is ever present
We have to acknowledge
the way the world changed.
We changed
Every single one of us
For generations to come
Has been changed by this day
Forever in our hearts
Our minds
Our words
And CG was born
To my family
My fellow wordsmiths
keep using your voice
Keep Tasting the ketchup
And Spitting venom
While Lost in Mental Fornication
Just keep being...
CG..

what's that about...30 for 30

In case you have been reading and simultaneously have been wondering why this coffee thought has morphed into a poetic lounge of sorts...it is because April is National Poetry Month. Now me, being the poeticly inclined and all, decided to throw this idea out there and challenge my wonderful group of Chicken Grease folks (with Bro#3 input) with 30 for 30 poems (a challenge poets are having out there) and write 30 poems. the results have been amazing, literally. We have come together (virtually) every day posting prose and exploring words and all that jazz.
I am really proud of (some) of the things that have come out of this... and maybe (finally) they we will have a book to put out there or something...
time will tell..
yay for creative minds..
that's all...

coffee thought...

Thursday
A day that is closer to Friday but important in its own rights...
Thursday was usually reserved for Grandmas fried chicken nights in our youth coupled with the wholesome goodness of the Cosby show. Gone are those good days of memory and in my latter years Thursdays were the start of the weekend partying (while in school) and those of us unfortunate enough to have an 8 am Friday theology class (yup over here) had the misfortune of missing that class more often than not. Luckily I know God in many forms and was able to skate by on the catholic school upbringings + my dabbling in the other worldly religions.
As the college years escaped me, enter the 'pre-adult' adulthood I was experiencing. Working full time and enjoying my own place, Thursday nights became synonymous with chicken grease- poetry, drinks, grandmas fried chicken (again) and spoken/ written word. Those days furnished experimentation with verbiage, synonyms, double entendre and the likes.
Pre-adulthood is a term I use (still) because staying up all night and still stumbling into work was the norm.
Now a days my life has adapted to me.
Slower moving but at the speed of light are the thoughts and actions in my space.
My place is still up in the air, but I like that weightlessness.
Wait less.
And besides, when is one truly ever an adult?
that's all...

Chicken...Finally

for those of you that know me...know me know me....really know me...know that

i can't fry chicken.

seriously, and even in my admission of that statement makes me have to look over my shoulder to make sure 'they' don't come to take my black card away. <-- by the way, this fictitious black card? what does it entitle one too? has anyone every received the gift o' the month just by presenting this black card? has anyone been skipped to the front of the line with the black card? has anyone gotten out of jail free with this black card?? maybe it would work the other way around with that one..eh, just a thought...

Anywho even if the other things were in question (about ones' blackness) like hair type (remember the good hair vs. not good hair argument) or the skin color (dark vs light) or education level, or how many children you have, or brothas you have slept with, or how many times you have seen the color purple-- you could kinda sorta get a pass if you could fry chicken.

Sadly, i am lacking in a few of them items listed above including the frying of the chicken- a staple in the African-American household. So like any other determined black woman I decided, "never give up, never surrender" and vowed to try it again.

Rewind- I guess I should tell you how the previous chicken frying experiences turned out. First time, it looked like a pretty golden brown chicken- inside was utterly raw. Second time, was totally sopped in grease and sooo nauseating that it was just wrong. The third time I tried, let's just say there was almost a fire extinguisher involved...so you can see my reticence in trying again.

This time, I called the expert (grandma) and questioned her- her chicken frying skills are legendary. She told me (after hearty laughter) that is it not that hard, heat the oil, batter the chicken and fry. Thanks grandma. Then I called on bro #2 cause well, he has fried chicken before to my knowledge and is still alive. I questioned him: how hot does the oil have to be? do you put the oil in a hot pan or a cold pan? do you season the chicken before or after you flour the chicken. do you put seasoning in the flour? how do you know it's done? how many times do you turn the chicken over? when do you put the hot sauce on? <--- see soo many questions!!!!

Anywho,

perfectly fried chicken that actually tasted good & was edible.

*score 1 for the 'good haired' black chick.

me bday continued...

just random pics of CG @ Mel's house-- Tanya make pina coladas

poem of the day...

moon- 11:13--11:19

awakened while sleeping or am i dreaming?
i have been having these visions of things
that wake me up in the night...
nothing bad,
but usually about 3:20 am my mind says 'time'
and thru my closed lids, the moon speaks a soft hello.
now normally this would not bother me
except that time Denzel was about to marry me.
or there was that other time when he told me he loved me
& wanted to stop the wedding
oh & then there was that time
i was driving my own jeep truck
& then there was the time
that i was watching Nocturnal _ _ _ _
woah, whew
thank god for the moon
i guess i'll close my eyes again,
dont worry i'll be awake soon.

chicken grease

poem of the day...

Anticipation is the addiction that keeps me wanting you…
The pulsating vibes of your chocolate ride makes you desirable...
Much to my consternation you feel the same way too...
And as disconcerting as that may seem…I love you

the age of 25

Many, many moons ago when I was a little girl, I thought that at the age of 25 THINGS happen.

What things? (One may ask) well ANYTHING. Like? Sex, drugs, jazz & rock and roll?
Not necessarily in that order…but Life.
Plain and simple.
General “adultness” would happen. So I recall on the eve of my 25th birthday just thinking, "wow, is this what I planned for?"

Let me take you back…

May 22, 2001…
it was a Tuesday evening. Not too hot, not to cold, perfect spring weather.
Where was I? Painting what would become my very first apartment (as of June 1, 2001). I do recall thinking man, I know I have to turn on Con-Edison (gas & electric), think about having a home phone # (because who doesn’t have a home #) and think about actually furnishing this apartment...but overall I had this generally accomplished and almost satisfied feeling.

Almost.

What was missing, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it yet, but I seem to have thought that if I had someone to share this with, it would be better. Better than it currently was (in my mind) which was my first real foray into the single dome of the world. My first place/ space/ something to call my own. I do know that back then, I didn’t fully appreciate what was truly mine, and anticipated what could become an “ours”. <---who was this imaginary person that would share my world, NO CLUE, but I thought I was ready for love.
I also recall on the magical day of May 23rd, nothing really spectacular happened, (besides me being born of course)

I mean I went to work that day, got a few phone calls and cards, but had a generally pleasant day with the family.

Nothing happened.

I also know that because NOTHING happened, I needed to do something to make a change come.

This was the time I cut off my hair.

Back story- child of Island parentage, Mom from NY by way of Jamaica & Grenada, Dad from Bermuda, by way of Bermuda. Apparently, I am one of those with “good hair”. Always long, flowing, curly in the summer, easily straightened in the winter. Can be tamed and wild at the same time. ALWAYS told to keep my hair long, people [read= men] loved longhaired lassies. To cut ones hair made you ugly, and boyish and if you were a girl, then you may as well be a lesbian and call it a moment, so to come to the decision to cut my hair was not an easy one.

But I did, figuring it would be a new me.

A different me, maybe lead to a better me.
What happened?

NOTHING.

A few “Oh’s, that’s cute”. A few “wow, I can’t believe you did that”. One definite “oh my goodness you look so much better with long hair, don’t worry you can always buy a weave.” And another “I loved you with long hair”. I should of had a V-8

Fast-forward a couple of months—9/11/01.

The world changed. Big time.

While everyone around was tying to make sense of it all and trying to put the words together to make it be alright, everyone had the same issues of realizing something bigger than them (right here/right now) is happening. And as stupid as it may seem now, one of the MANY things I realized was the hair (MY HAIR) is just that- dead follicles on my head, no more a definition of me than the pink shirt I wear (on any given day) or the dress I choose to put on the next day.

And with that, I started to write again. Now, you must know that I have always written, contracts, journals, poetry, short stories, so I considered myself to be a writer of sorts. But it seemed that for awhile, I had no voice. I could no longer express anything to anyone. And I stopped putting pen to paper to let it out.

In my apartment, chicken grease was formed.

Chicken grease: a group of poets who are so amazingly talented, it is beyond belief.

Alone, pure fire. Together, unstoppable. Powerful.

This is to my fellow poets…
I realize: we make things happen.
Don’t stop.

keep writing.