VOL.8/2014 F A&MU LO RIDA
NIV ERSIT Y
CAKE
A JOURNAL OF POETRY AND ART
VOLUME 8
CAKE 8
Faculty Editor Kristine Snodgrass
Editor Breauna Roach
Poetry Editor Miciotto Johnson
Readers Levander Thomas Clare Mobley Robyn Mowatt
Layout and Design Jay Snodgrass
CaKe is produced by the students and faculty of Florida A&M Univeristy’s Department of English and Modern Languages. We invite submissions of poetry, fiction, drama, art, non-fiction, and reviews year round. All submissions must be sent via email attachment to cakepoetryandart@ gmail.com Our online component is Slices. Please visit us at haveasliceofcakepoetry.blogspot.com All submissions are considered for both print and online publication. All future rights belong to the individual authors or artists. Copyright Š 2014 by Florida A&M University. All righfts returned to the author upon publication.
Coaver Art: Tyler Brown
Special thanks to Dr. Yakini B. Kemp, Chair and the Department of English and Modern Languages
CONTENTS Lamar Garnes Ambient Light 10 Alfred Williams Childhood Innocence 11 Ashley Griffin Raw 12 Robert D. Young-Drake Recaptured Memories 13 Christopher Watson Sleeping Beneath the Moon 14 To Be Continued 15 Ashley Griffin White Girl, Smiling Sun 16 Kevina Fullwood Just… love 18 Michael Lee Johnson When You Get Old (V2) 20 Donovan Blot The Artistry 22 Changming Yuan Solitude 24 Zanubea Flowers Cuddle 25 Miciotto Johnson II Soleil Hill 26 Miciotto Johnson II Verdant Hearts 27 Kendra N. Brynat Artificial Light 28 Excerpt from “Remembering Amiri Baraka: Teaching ‘Somebody Blew Up America’” 28 Ashley Griffin Photobucket 30 Wayne Burke talk, talk 31 Derrick Standifer A Poem on Lying 32 Yolanda Franklin Blemishes of a Vanity Affair 34 Black Writer 35
Brandon Jorif Whose Timeline is it Anyway? 37 140 Characters to Life 38 Ephraim Riggins Full For Now 39 Changming Yuan To a Tenant of My Heart 40 Chelse Collins A Letter of Lies 41 Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán Dark Room 45 Christopher Watson Drugs 49 Christopher Watson The Homeless Man 50 Pepper Smith The Pile 51 Two Weeks After Katrina: The Pile 52 Wayne Burke Tears 54 Drule Medina A 5 Year Old’s Bedtime Story 55 Kissing the Coke 57 Brandon Jorif Don’t Hit Snooze 58 Breauna Roach Housekeeping 59 Keeping House 61 Elizabeth Tomlinson Interview with L. Lamar Wilson 62 Levander N. Thomas For the Trumpet Player 68 Na Introspective of Indifference Parts 1-3 69 Na Indifference of Reality. 3/6/11 72 CONTRIBUTORS 74
LAMAR GARNES
Ambient Light
10
ALFRED WILLIAMS
Childhood Innocence
I can see myself now, Outside in my parent’s front yard with my best friend, Playing basketball in the breeze of the summer evening, Without a care in the world. The only worry I had, Was how long I could play the X-Box before it was time to go to sleep. To dream of what I wanted to be; At that age, I was determined, To be all that I could be, with no limitations. How the time flies, and how this innocence is stolen, Blind to the facts that life would hold in front of me. What I would give to have that innocence back, Not to witness how horrible mankind is; How terribly we treat each other as human beings. To have the innocence of not knowing, But living freely, Without any known judgment. Innocence is blind, And ignorance is bliss.
11
ASHLEY GRIFFIN
Raw
Scents of coconut and plantain Filled flared nostrils, As the Caribbean breeze passes. This smell is raw. Instantly the pilot asked All passengers to fasten seatbelts. I’m taken back To that roundtrip flight to Dallas. With my heart tattooed on my sleeve, These motions feed off each other. Scents of passion and anger embedded themselves In the molded motel walls that surrounded us, These feelings are raw. In the midst of you being my tropical get away I’m reminded by the scent in these walls That we’re in the lone star state, and I’m lost. Stuck between what feels like my paradise and what looks like my paradise. The only two things these places Seem to have in common, Is the vision of them both Being hot and raw as hell.
12
ROBERT D. YOUNG-DRAKE
Recaptured Memories
The people in this captured memory Often times stand still, Like stain glass against chapel walls. But sometimes I see them move. Acting out life as if nothing has ceased to be. These people, I wish I could see again. I see, my great grandmother washing Dishes, my grandmother, age 17, helping. I overhear them conversing about college And I could feel how excited my grandmother was. University of North Florida seemed like A different planet. It’s funny how I knew what she would Major in before she did, Psychology, for my grandmother loves The workings of the mind. And I could see both of theirs so clearly. The sun shining like ignorant diamonds Through the satin blinds. My grandmother teaching me rhymes Through her eyes; and they look so beautiful. I felt her hug me, as if she knew I was a part of Her spirit. Movement ceases. The picture Is frozen again. And just like that I’m reminded that I’m blessed.
13
CHRISTOPHER WATSON
Sleeping Beneath the Moon
This dark water is a mirror, Waiting to catch whatever stars fly past without wishes. A heavy mist like hot winter springs form clouds that will eventually let the moon peak through shining like a silver hook without a fish. Ripples allow wind to be recognized, and the world seems to have gone mute as I hear breaths of dragon flies playing tag through the night. I try to find the big dipper in peace’s. But peace comes with patience. Islam green grass covers most of the surrounding ground where I lay my head Thinking, how am I so happy chasing what is in space. My soul, finds its way to the center of the galaxy My eyes, heavy as if they were holding the world’s pain My body, resting still until motion find its way back into my molecules, The moon, sits and watches as I lay in peace and fall asleep.
14
ASHLEY GRIFFIN
To Be Continued
The hairs on my back align perfectly In parallel rows of what feels like An army of soldiers My window is open. And this inconsistent breeze reminds me Of change yet I sit still and meditate. Blank for a second, my mind wraps itself Around an image permanently sketched to my brain, Like brands on slaves you are my master. Servant to your will, you have made me believe You are jah, or at least the closest thing I have to him. My release, my escape you were it.
15
ROBERT D. YOUNG-DRAKE
White Girl, Smiling Sun
White Girl, Smiling Sun I hear Nothing. I see Nothing. Dreaming soberly, I create a world that Exists Beyond childish fantasies. In there, I see a foolish looking Bumblebee bumbling boisterously Around adjacent apples appearing average Actually attractive to daring Dingoes with Flamingo furs. I breathe air that smells like cinnamon snowflakes Falling from fragrant skies. Purple skyline swimming With Saline chemicals. I fly with Grenwarts and Papyra birds soaring Ever closer to a smiling sun selling positive vibes Like heaps of cocaine. I pick up peculiar fruits and examine warily. I sink my teeth into its core like I’m eating its heart haphazardly, hungry Harvesters harking To a dozen strange fruits. It tastes like cotton candy mixed with cold Cashews and chocolate covered carrots. I walk nimbly across a never ending chasm. Climbing cautiously towards the other end in spite Of my extreme fear of heights. I theorize thoroughly about the Death Lights Blooming in the flower fields far from Farplane and even further Evangelous. Evening events spur radical reasons for Running rapidly from Crosseyed Crooks.
16
CAKE
I enjoy the thrill til time temporarily Transforms itself into the sounds of a Silly thing. I bask in the warmth of my dream and I grin From ear to ear like the cocaine Selling sun on a Sophomore summer sunset. I dream. -
17
KEVINA FULLWOOD
Just… love
Just… love I enclosed you in my desires and wants, unconsciously scripted your response to my over flow of love. Love sincerely, genuinely, maybe even carelessly givenaccording to you. However I put out love where I see love is due. Initially I rejected your physical appearance A bitter remembrance of past relationships I prayed to finish. My heart was fondled and fiddled by men that looked like you They originated from down south too Canvasses of ink embedded in their skin, nappy heads, rough lookin. I tried to reject you from my spirit, from deep within But I met a spirit as strong as mine and it demanded to be accepted. I began to give in, you are nothing like those men Still consciously trying to fight this alien attraction. The poetic stanza of your spirit well spoken had chastised my arbitrary judgment, chances not given I was tuned in. Understand that I loved you before I knew it I love your essence, I love your words, I love your awareness of your corrupted surroundings and refusal to be bound by it. Because this is, all of you, apart of you Is it accurate to say I Love You? Why yes it is accurate to say so, do so… But unfair to impose, those feelings and emotions on an unready spirit, unready soul. I grew up in a home where saying I love you is second nature, truth in every syllable. But in your not so… Obviously built to be tough. Chains and military combat to guard your spiritual source, your precious gem I tried to find the kryptonite to this man of steel
18
CAKE
Maybe the loss of your beloved grandmother laid the first layer of bricks The loss of a love you treated inadequately, due to immature boyish behaviors and childish mentalities. She laid the cement, the final brick As long, as wide, as that wall in China I would scale those walls and travel to its very ends Just to have a place in the heart you have strategically hidden within. These two instances shed light on the truth People don’t last forever but love do. Love teaches and you learned. So apply it without fear of damaging another heart because the guilt from it was burdensome. You are a man, baby you are a man and now you understand love. -Kevina Fullwood
19
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
When You Get Old (V2)
When you get old you leave everything behind− present tense past tense, hangers on refusing to turn loose, high school letter sweaters, varsity woolen jackets, yearbooks 1965, covers that quickly open, slam shut− high school romances only faces where they were then− ice cubes frozen in time. No more teary eyes, striking flames, moist match heads igniting bedroom sheets and teenage bedside rumors. You leave wife, or wives behind toss out your youthful affairs. All single events were just encounters, cardiac dry ice, ladies with crimson clover eyes. No more strings tightened, broken bows, heart dreams slit vows, melancholy violin romances. You continue leaving reading glasses, key chain, ATM card, senior discount cards, footnotes are your history, artificial sweeteners, doctor appointments daily, keep touching those piano notes, phone numbers in sequence in tattered address books, names attached to memories hidden behind. Everything rhymes with plural thoughts and foggy memories.
20
CAKE
Youth was a bullyboy clubthe older I get the less I’m battered− trust me I got witnesses in between− saviors of wings, fantasies, tense has no grammatical corrector, it always dances around the rim of red wine. Life now fills with silver teaspoons of empty senior moments− blank shells of present, past tense, and yank me back recalls. Do you remember those 1st 25 years? Shrinking brain space remembers dances of sporadic nighttime boogies, sports, senior prom, Thomas’s Drive-In, Spin-It-Record Shop, Dick Biondi, WLS Chicago top 100. Remember the next 25 years? high school reunions grow dimmer− priest of the voodoo dolls punch in numbers of once living and now dead− undresses all. Rise forward from your medieval pews. Wherever you now live, do you remember these things− prayer, ghosts deep in the pockets of our former youth. Old age waits patiently in the face of a full moon−a new generation. When you get old you leave everything behind. 21
DONOVAN BLOT
The Artistry
I need a Muse. Do you think it could be you? Can you pick up a paint brush and show me what you can do? I need a painter of portraits; to fill in the gaps inside my head. I need a Goddess of Love, to notice the stuff I write in my bed. A breath-taking vision, simply Heaven sent, an angel to paint me a Picasso of my poetry in pieces, before I end up like Van Gogh. Slightly impaired be deafness, I guess. Going grey now; thank you stress. Hi Mona, how’s Rembrandt? He’s been drinking in a bar, with somebody called Cesar? Call Michaelangelo; Donatello will have a plan. Leonardo’s busy with his inventions, but here comes Raphael. Turtle power! Hi Master Splinter. Do you have your easel and paints ready to see you through the winter? Paint me a story
22
CAKE
and I’ll write you a picture. Thousands of what its worth. A Shakespeare story on what Juliet would of done for Romeo besides death. My vision brought to life with the gift of your care. Paint a picture of us together, so you will remember that I will always be there. Need inspiration? Just creep inside my mind for a vacation; from reality, from your personal demons. You will see we are all the same.  I have as many foibles as you do. An artist without inspiration, is like a poet who has never been in love. Joyous tragedy! Shakespeare laughs as he tears apart love, with just a couple of paragraphs. Dead and gone. Not our fair Juliet. Just the results, if Romeo had just gone home instead, he would have turned into a moody poet and showed his artistry.
23
CHANGMING YUAN
Solitude
Just as the moonlight Separated Li Bai From his drunk shadow No other than his other self The only human figure Who could understand him So the darkness of last night Has compressed all the words And metaphors in my writing Into a single sheet of paper, which I can use to wrap my soul, flying it Into the morning glow Like a folded paper dart Towards the summer setting sun
24
ZANUBEA FLOWERS
Cuddle
I’m laid up, underneath your hairy itchy chin, I press my back against your muscular hard body... Your warmth warming my body on this cold winter December... I grab your hand and place it on my bare stomach. .tie my fingers between yours... Our love, our bright yellow aura runs and ties together our fingers... I love this electric feeling...I softly kiss your triceps... Lay my brown skin against it...you feel my body shivers... You rub my chest with you warm hand...love...what a strange feeling... I never knew my hands could shake, or butterflies eat away at my insides every time I glance into your eyes... I never knew such a warm embrace existed... I never knew I could even offer it... Never knew a feeling like this can grow from a cold hearted girl... A girl who heart is made of bricks and steel...frozen like ice... Didn’t know a man had a special knife to chisel the fear and hatred of men away... Never knew just a warm hug could let out a river of painful memories... That flushes out the past and brings in the new summer breeze... I felt his plump lips kissed my forehead...i tilt my head up wishing for a kiss... My body lifted, floating in the air...our lips touch...our tongue wrestle each other.... My body lifeless on top of his.... I cup his head in my little fingers...staring into his eyes reading his pupils... Telling me how much he loves me...I’m not use to it but I’m glad I have it... I rub my nose against his close my eyes and take in every breath he blew out. Inhaling a love that’s foreign to my body, my soul, and my heart... His temple holds my life...his heart hold my love...our love... Last forever
25
MICIOTTO JOHNSON
Soleil Hill
Sleepless windmill reposed on Soleil Hill Adorned in the golden robe of dawn Frost kissed tulips glisten in a sea of snow As the howling beasts fill the valley with fog Trumpeting geese commute in persimmon sky Soaring like an armada towards the horizon The Eastern wind whistles a harmonic melody Telling tenacious tulips stories of a moonlit shore -Miciotto Johnson II
26
MICIOTTO JOHNSON
Verdant Hearts
The heart is... A moss-covered hovel in a vibrant verdant forest. Oft brought to life by the steady beating of storm drain tears to a rolling stone or the fluttering of butterflies, dancing to the melody of love-struck maraca trees. Vines are entangled sinews lacing the exterior. Protecting the memory-filled encyclopedias that adorn the pollen-caked bookshelves and rotting oak wood tables of the hovel within. Awaiting freedom from cobweb prisons in remembrance. It is only natural for the heart to go through seasons. What wishful seeds sown in Spring bear fruit if there is no experience of Fall? How can the youthful ambitions of Summer be cherished if the necessary lessons of Winter aren’t understood at all? For without seasons, how can the heart truly grow? Grow thick like the evergreen trees. -Miciotto Johnson II
27
KENDRA N. BRYNAT
Artificial Light
28
KENDRA N. BRYNAT
Excerpt from “Remembering Amiri Baraka: Teaching Somebody Blew Up America I was talking to @drrema when—in the middle of our conversation— she reported Amiri Baraka’s death. My heart catapulted to my stomach floor. Real story. My heart catapulted to my stomach floor, & my mind immediately traveled back to about 2005 when I saw Amiri Baraka (for the second time— the first time I was a graduate student at Florida A&M University (FAMU), & our neighboring school, Florida State, invited him to lecture) at the Zora Neale Hurston Festival in Eatonville, Florida. Baraka claimed to remember me. & maybe he did remember me, for the audience in FSU’s auditorium barely filled the room. As a matter of fact, the audience was so small, that after his reading, Baraka stood at the stage’s edge & sold stapled copies of Somebody Blew Up America for under $5. He signed each poem that he sold—right there, leaning over the stage’s edge. I was so taken aback by the audacity of Baraka’s piece, as well as his apparent humility, that as the editor for the University of South Florida’s First Year Composition handbook (2010), I expressed my gratitude for his being by including “Somebody Blew Up America” in its anthology section. I (& my coeditor JMcKee) felt not including Amiri Baraka & his courageous work in our anthology would be remiss. I wanted the world to know Baraka, just as I had come to know him. & I don’t know when or how I became acquainted with Amiri Baraka. Perhaps another poet (of mine) mentioned him in their works. Nikki Giovanni? Maya Angelou? Sonia Sanchez? Maybe I read him in some out-side-ofschool anthology. Or maybe I saw his name mentioned in some Black Nationalist literature I use to read while a high school student. (Cause back in those days, I wanted to be that meaningful revolutionary that my daddy said I was not. & though changing my name to something that sounded more African— like altering “Kendra” to “Kenya”—never appealed to my revolutionary desires, I wasn’t at all opposed to wearing my hair braided, borrowing my mother’s beaded necklaces, & pen-paling an imprisoned Black Panther. & I sho nuff kept some Black author’s book clutched under my arms.) But Amiri Baraka was undoubtedly a revolutionary. A revolutionary with a BIG cause, & his enormity—his valiance—is why Mos Def, Kanye West, & The Roots do what they do. He’s why we know & remember Huey P. Newton & ‘em, Martin Luther King & ‘em, & them who suffered through the Civil Rights Movement & South African Apartheid &. He’s why Richard Blanco performed at Barack Obama’s Inauguration & why Barack Obama is president of the United States of America. 29
ASHLEY GRIFFIN
Photobucket
You haven’t left my mind since that day. Years have passed, and the pixels pay homage To memories made. And damn they don’t make them like this anymore. Behind cliché love quotes there goes my homeboy. Myspace days I remember this picture, It was my top eight. Had a few cheesy glittering hearts, even made the background fade. Had me change my profile around If they weren’t pics of us *click* erase. Instagram’s the new thing in town But where are my pictures now? No trace! Replaced those quotes for jokes, And those edits for memes. No more pictures of us, no more pictures of me. Your backgrounds not faded This picture of twos been adjusted. Caught myself flashing back All because I logged onto Photobucket. I am fed-up with your talk: speak into
30
WAYNE BURKE
talk, talk
the microphone please, and save your pats for someone else’s back. I want your grip on the fact of my existence; your hand to knead, fist to pump, lips to bleed me back to a life worth living. Mouth my suck and root: I am tired of your juiceless giving; your fruitless flowers; the hours of your dust; the dry cough as you swallow your guts.
31
DERRICK STANDIFER
A Poem on Lying
Do remember the first time you decided to lie when, where, to whom and why, did the truth even resonate on the inside and did your first lie become time after time after time and since time doesn’t end, your lies don’t either. Do your lies burn like Ether Did you turn all of your friends into non-believers? Did your lie make you some big achiever or did you just not do your homework and lied to your teacher? Do you feel wrong when you lie to the Imam or the preacher Christians say you can lie to yourself but you can’t lie to Jesus and he gone condemn you to hell and you can’t be hot about the situation because you lied to get there Did you know how many lies drug addicts tell not to get help, slaves told many lies not to get welts and if there is a gun pointed right at your face would you lie not to get killed? Money is on the line would you lie about the cards that’ve been dealt or would you take your loses, you would not believe how many lies are brought up during gossip Would you lie to your wife when you know you was cheating, Talking about you was at work coming home late every evening how many bad ass kids lies not to get beatings did you lie the first date or any time yall meet ladies did you tell him your hair was real when you know it was weave the truth we’ve all done it then when we get caught sat there and wondered should we lie to get out, should we lie to get clout, should I believe a word coming out your mouth Would you lie in the courtroom without the shadow of a doubt to some lying comes easy, to some lying makes them queasy, some people choose to lie just to get even but the question arises yea you lied but will you quit? how long will the listener of the lies continue to take it will they take your lies forever and lie to themselves to believe Have they become immune to the lies and deal with your lies with ease
32
CAKE
but this ain’t common I do believe, to many more lies and the listener of those lies will leave but be honest with yourself and be honest so people can believe because one thing that is not a lie the truth shall set you free.
33
YOLANDA FRANKLIN
Blemishes of a Vanity Affair
Carmen Jones as the usual suspect.
The headlight of my cigarette prowls smug shots of officers who interrogate, blemished fingers out of a line-up. Redrum lipstick pouts accusation, later printed as evidence. Nonchalant ashes flick black & white reels as truth hangs in the hem of my dress, it seems a hummingbird’s wings bat faster than lies corroborate reasons for ruined nylons: snagged by a fingernail, nicked by a stiletto’s heel or cut by a diamond’s jagged pejoratives. No two stilettos walk alike & this voice of red velvet’s silhouette only mimics chalk-outlined crime scenes.
34
YOLANDA FRANKLIN
Black Writer
Historically, it’s a partition created
by constitutions.
It’s been perceived that our persona eats multiple servings of well-seasoned turnip greens and that we receive welfare checks at the first of every month. Nevertheless, we like being identified as Black, as writers. Has this made it more difficult for us to publish? Rhetorically, so. But we can’t “get tired” until we publish in White Only magazines! When I visit the shanty shelves of the African American Literature section of the bookstore, how do I feel? I know that more of us write, write about more than just being that. Political scandals, intrepid divorces, dying parents;
35
YOLANDA FRANKLIN
I know Black readers too need to see their lives reflected on the page— (re)memory and vinyl; the fear of vanishing. The job of the artist is not to leave you where she found you: this art requires gentrification. Subsequently, you will start to feel like the rite of blanket clichés are all you’ll ever right in this world. And gradually, throughout the picketing for contentions coloring who you are you deflect it, it adumbrates you to write whiter, I mean righter, righter, and more righter.
36
BRANDON JORIF
Whose Timeline is it Anyway?
Face-to-face with Facebook finding fortune in foolishness on the Internet finding followers to waste time just as I’ve done This terrible trend trickling down my timeline Till I can’t refresh no more
37
BRANDON JORIF
140 Characters to Life
Going to jail now! Pushing keys and busting caps Late night Twitter Rant
38
EPHRAIM RIGGINS
Full For Now
There is a swelling emptiness in my stomach. It speaks to me like lions hold conversations with antelope. Who can satisfy the insatiable? Andrew Jackson offers his service. Cash in to the cashier get cash back. My bank accounts withers into a frown. A necessary evil. Flavors of deceitfully delicious cheese burgers are invited into my mouth. For the moment the beast sleeps but these bird naps are never enough to keep it at bay. I throw away my McDonalds bag awaiting the next battle that will spark itself into existence like electrical fires, hoping that I will continue to have the proper ammunition to douse the flame. -
39
CHANGMING YUAN
To a Tenant of My Heart
Wondering how all little cherry flowers Have changed into large hairy leaves In front of my residence, I felt bitten as if By a vicious viper in the shape of a Handsome human, like a tall mountain Of darkness collapsing, falling upon My slanting shoulders; no, more like A true snake never letting off its teeth On my body and soul, while trying its Very best to strangle me into a slow Death, here in the westside of Vancouver Where neither the 9-1-1 professionals Nor the tenancy arbitrators can, or Even will rescue me as a home owner
40
CHELSE COLLINS
A Letter of Lies
“Christina! I have got to tell you about this guy I met at my cousins wedding. I will call you right back when the reception is over.” Christina was my roommate; she and I have known each other since we were ten. I met her in elementary school. We have been inseparable ever since. I told her everything, especially when it came to men. It was know surprise to her, when I called her back at 2:00 am to tell her about Robert. “H-E-L-L-O” Christina answered in a raspy voice. “Girl are you sleep, wake up. I got to tell you about this fine ole chocolate man I just met.” “Okay, girl I’m up and he better be that damn fine for you to be waking me up this early and you know I have to work tomorrow.” “Yes, he is. Guess what? He is in the military too. He is twenty-five has no kids and did I mention he was 6’2 with beautiful smooth chocolate skin and more abs than I would know what to do with. O-H-H-H and guess what else girl he had large hands and big feet.’’ “Chile, you are so silly,” Christina chuckled. “He was one of the groom’s men in the wedding. We talked the whole night. He is so affectionate. My feet were hurting from dancing all night, and he gave me a foot rub while we were sitting on the bench waiting for valet to bring up our cars.” “Aliy, you have only known him five hours! Give him five weeks then call and tell me how affectionate he is.” Christina was right. I was horrible when it came to picking men. It seems like every guy I date always forgets to tell me some big secret. Like he has four kids, he is divorced and has a crazy ex-wife, or he doesn’t have a green card. “Well I guess you are right. I wont get my hopes up. But he said he would fly me back to Chicago anytime I need a break from my law books.” “That would be nice of him. If he actually does it.” “Yea, I know. Guys will always make a million promises to try and talk your panties down. Uhhhh! Am I ever going to meet a good guy? Okay, go to bed. I’m flying into LAX airport tomorrow. Don’t forget to pick me up.” “Sorry I didn’t call you back last night to tell you I made it home safe Rob. After Christina picked me up from the airport I reviewed some of my notes for class today and fell asleep.” “It’s okay sweetheart. I just can’t wait to see you again. I am being deployed to Iraq in a couple months, so it’s best if we see each other soon,” said Robert. 41
CAKE
There it was. At least it didn’t take six months for me to figure out Robert’s big secret. He was being deployed and that meant I wouldn’t see him or probably talk to him for months at a time. I had to tell Christina I struck out again. For a month Robert and I talked and texted as often as we could. We counted down the days until my trip to visit him in Chicago and dreaded the short time he had before leaving for Iraq. “I just can’t wait to introduce you my family. I know they will love you. I can’t stop talking about you Aliy. You’re the perfect woman. You’re funny, beautiful, and smart. I never brought a woman home to meet my mother. My family has been waiting to meet a girlfriend of mine for a long time. You are just so perfect, I can’t wait for you to meet them,’’ Robert said. “O-h-h-h your mother?” “I told her we were dating; she is even going to make a big Sunday dinner for you when you come.” “Well if you insist. I can’t wait to meet her either. I guess.” “ I know you two will love each other. My mother never had a daughter; since I’m the oldest son she has been begging me to bring her home a daughter in-law.” “Meet his mother. Has he lost his mind? You have only known him a few weeks, and you two aren’t in a relationship,’’ said Christina. “He is moving so fast. I thought I made it clear that I wasn’t interested in a serious relationship until after I graduated from law school. I forgot the worst part. He told me he loved me!” “There is something strange about this man. I would be careful if I were you Aliy.” Christina was right. But I didn’t know what to say to Robert. I was scared if I said anything he would assume I wasn’t interested in him at all. Meeting his mother was a big step. I am all confused. Maybe I should view this as a privilege that he views me as a special woman and wants to share me with his family. But love me? How could Robert love me after one month? Well some people do fall in love at first sight, and maybe I was one of those lucky people. Three weeks later and two weeks before Robert had to go to Iraq I was in Chicago. Robert had taken me to every family members house he could think of. All of them greeted me with shocked faces, handshakes and grins of approval. “So you are the woman Roberts been talking so much about,” was the infamous line I heard from Roberts entire family every time I meet a new relative. I began to feel as if I was a part of a freak show, or a display in a museum. Robert was flaunting me around to his relatives; he spent hours 42
CAKE
bragging about how I was in law school. Besides from the basics Robert new nothing about who I was, what I wanted out of life or what my future planes were. Nor did he take the time to try and ask me. “Christina I don’t know if I can take another week of this. I thought I would be spending quality time with Robert. Maybe go out to dinner, or at least cuddle and watch a movie. He seems more concerned with making sure I meet all, and I mean all of his relatives. And when we are alone he doesn’t pay me any attention. All he wants to do is talk about how much his family loves me.” “Stop complaining. Just enjoy your trip. Just tell me this, is it true what they say about guys with big hands and feet?” “Girl I wouldn’t know. Robert hasn’t even tried to kiss me on the cheek yet. At night when we finally do spend a little time together he rolls over and falls straight to sleep.’’ “He is probably just trying to be a gentleman.” It was rare that Christina would stick up for any man, so I assumed she was right. So, I brushed off my uncertainty once again. A few days later it was time for me to go back to LA. Robert and I never got the quality time I was expecting. Before I left, I never brought up that I thought he may be moving too fast, or the fact that I didn’t think it was a good idea to for me to meet his entire family since he and I had not spent more then five hours alone. I didn’t bring up any of my concerns. I knew going to Iraq for months was stressful and I didn’t want to burden him with more issues. Before grabbing my bags and making my way into the airport, Robert held my soft delicate face in the palm of his rough oversized hand and planted his wet voluptuous lips in the center of my cheek. “Thank you so much for coming to see me Aliy. You don’t know how much this means to me. Every time I get deployed I can’t help but think whether I will make it back or not. I am happy I was able to give my family what they have been wanting for so long. They wanted me to bring home a girlfriend. My mom thinks its time for me to settle down. I’m sorry if things were overwhelming for you over the past two weeks, but I just can’t thank you enough.” “It’s okay Robert. I had a fabulous time with you and your family. I will call you when I get to LA.” As I walked into the airport, I couldn’t help but imagine what things would have been like if Robert had kissed me on the lips. I wondered if a kiss would have gave me that connection I had been yearning for from him. I felt more disconnected from Robert than before I came to visit him. “Hello,” “I have some bad news Aliy, are you at home?” Chathy said. 43
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“Yes! What is it Chathy?” “Joe called and said he got news that Robert was found dead this morning. He asked me to tell you. I am so sorry Aliy. Joe said they found a sealed letter addressed to “The love of My Life” Joe is going to make sure they mail it to you. They haven’t figured out any funeral arrangements yet, but I will keep you posted.” “Oh-My-God! I really don’t know what to say. This is so unexpected. How is his family holding up?” “I am not sure all Joe said is that the family would keep you posted. His mom knew how much Robert cared about you. I patiently waited for the letter in the mail. Although I had written Robert several times over the three months he was in Iraq he never wrote me back. I tried not to take it personal. I figured he was busy saving the world, or at least that’s what I tried to convince myself. I was clueless and confused. Everyday since I found out about Robert’s death, I sat on my front porch and anticipated the arrival of the mailman. “Good afternoon Aliy. I think your letter is finally here,” the mailman said. Before I thanked him for handing me the letter I ripped open the envelope, unfolded the thin sheet of lined paper and began reading. Dear Mike, Words can’t express how much I miss your delicate touch, soft lips and warm affection. All I do is think about you. I miss you so much. I know you want to meet my family when I return to Chicago, but now is not a good time. We need to wait a little longer. My family will not understand the love that we have for each other. I know how you feel when you say you dream about the day you can meet my family. Sometimes I dream about brining you to my mom’s house and her cooking you a big dinner with fired chicken, collard greens and fresh sweet potato pie, which I know is your favorite. I have to prepare my family to meet you. I know you don’t understand, but my family is southern and Baptist. They are old school. They think my loving another man is a sin. Trust me Mike once I get back from Iraq I will work on telling them more about you. Don’t worry and don’t be in such a rush. We have the rest of our lives to share together. You are my soul mate. Lover, Your military sweetheart, Robert.
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AHIMSA TIMOTEO BODHRÁN
Dark Room burnmarks, bleachstains, n things that block the sun
for the men who lovingly, who loving me, came after
section one: burnmarks eric
i hope i never see u again i do not want u dead but i am not happy u r alive i am not happy
eric it has taken me a long time ta move on ta forgive (bcuz i cannot forget)
u for raping me
that night in january 13 months ago in my dorm room it has taken me that long ta write about it it took me 5 months before i could speak again before i could tell anyone anything about this this memory u have burned inta my skin the same skin u touched so many times as my boyfriend n for the last time as my rapist i didn’t write about it i didn’t speak about it for 13 n 5 months 45
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i didn’t forget about it i didn’t forget about it n i can’t forget about it i can’t forget but i can forgive i can forgive n i can move on now n bcuz i can i will i’ll do what i can which is almost everything but forgetting u n that night in january n the memories u left
burned inta my skin
section two: bleachstains bleeding still bleeding i am still bleeding eric still bleeding now across these white pages n then across those white sheets haven’t even begun ta clot yet gone n used up all my band-aids cuz this wound too big
stitches don’t hold staples neither
went out n bought a mop for all the blood but it can only hold so much 46
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like a sponge it already saturated n my bucket full there r things that stain deeper than clothes u a stubborn stain feel kinda crazy sometimes like that macbeth lady u a stubborn stain permanent ink easier ta take out n less poisonness my skin pink n raw from scrubbin from standin day after day in the same goddamn shower water hot almost scalding it do no good the flesh begin ta peel a bit tear n wad up like used tissue paper crumple n fold in upon itself there r things stained deeper than clothes the memory of u stubborn like a toothache no aspirin gonna ease this pain no suicide neither section three: things that block the sun baby?
i’m sorry baby didn’t mean ta jump like that 47
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forgot it wuz u for a moment
what? naw there ain’t no one else baby u know that no really just just bad memories that’s all u know the kinda clouds that stick with u after a storm even tho it sunny out? yeah that kind the kind that block the sun yeah baby?
aw nuthin never mind just come back over here n hold me for a while
just not like that okay? yeah i’ll b alright.
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CHRISTOPHER WATSON
Drugs
I have seen the other side of golden roses and white picket fences, A world that’s compared to cracked mirrors Somewhere in an alternate universe is a glass, Paused by the hands of time, Reflecting the life of a drug addict. No family support, as if I was stuck within the same glass Cracked into little problems that nobody wants to step on. Shattered, is simply an adjective to describe my life Drugs change people, like an unwanted puberty From Christians to demons From family to strangers Reality is no longer a factor. Lost between going to work, and finding that fix Memories are what I wish I had. Life is something I won’t get back.
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CHRISTOPHER WATSON
The Homeless Man
As I sit and watch the stumbling drunks on broad way Barely able to recite their names, last name first Curiously I wonder, how crazy could they be Damn bums wasting time, begging Eating all that is thrown at their face Finally realizing their mistakes, once satisfied with a full stomach God must not have had any answers. Hateful thoughts run through the minds of lifeless souls Instantly turning an already bad day into a night in hell. Jumping nerves gather forming reasons to survive Keeping in mind that time waits for absolutely no one Leaving some lost without direction, Making simple minded mistakes like Never checking their progression from the bottom of life’s pyramid Only checking dark allies for illusions of red houses with white picket fences. People; never want to accept their defeat Questioning everything but themselves Rarely taking time to figure out ways to become human again Secretly giving up on moving forward Trusting the voices of the abyss Unfortunately, no one ever makes it out to see achievement Very few make it out to see reality Without any hope we watch as woman and men Xterminate themselves from life’s equation Yet leaving people like me to find people like them Zipped
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PEPPER SMITH
The Pile
Outside smells like crap; Inside smells like sewage two weeks after Katrina. We wear masks and keep moving to the pile lining the yards of Bayou Circle, the pile of things that can’t be salvaged, the pile Dad guards with a waterlogged rifle. Every time I add an item his mouth trembles. He wants to say something but doesn’t. I can tell he’s angry at my hurry, but the volunteers will all be leaving Thursday. I take a break in the driveway beside duct-taped refrigerators. He’s sitting on the Igloo cooler filled with iced wine and Red Cross water staring at his high school annual opened to the only page not smeared, Class of 1961 Most Beautiful, the inscription written in curlicue letters. I rush back through the threshold to smash kitchen cabinets with a flat-jack grabbing as much as I can to toss on the pile and walk straight back not yet finished, knowing full well after I’ve gone he’ll go through it all to see what I threw away I shouldn’t of.
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PEPPER SMITH
TWO WEEKS AFTER KATRINA: THE PILE
Inside smells like crap; outside smells like sewage. Anything eight foot three inch or under has been whitewashed with brackish water from the Gulf through the bayou, and the city’s water treatment facility. Power is out and no estimate of when it’s returning. Cell phones still not working. It’s too quiet without radio, wireless, or television... a chainsaw burrs in the distance. A few families are on the golf course living in nice tents. Anyone who can afford it lives north of I-10. There’s a rumor for awhile that FEMA is coming, but nobody’s seen them. Tomorrow the volunteers are leaving, so we wear masks and like bad santas carry black bags swollen with rotten drywall to add to the pile of things that can’t be salvaged, the pile lining the front yards of Bayou Circle, the pile Dad sits beside with a waterlogged rifle. He’s the only one not moving. His eyes are like a water moccasin still so long you’re not sure if it’s living. Every time I add something his mouth trembles. He wants to speak, but doesn’t. I take a break at the end of the driveway beside duct-taped refrigerators. He’s sitting on an Igloo cooler filled with boxed wine and Red Cross water staring at his high school annual opened to the only page not smeared, Class of 1961 Most Beautiful, the inscription written in curlicue letters. I go back through the threshold
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to smash kitchen cabinets with a flat-jack grabbing as much as I can to toss on the pile and walk straight back not yet finished, knowing full well after I’ve gone he’ll go through it all to see what I threw away I shouldn’t of.
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WAYNE BURKE
Tears
Tears in my eyes for some reason, leaking not weeping, a subterraneous seeping from somewhere in the bowels or the hollows of he heart, stuff stoppered up along the way from cradle to this grave of a room in an apartment filled with useless books, sunlight, and dust.
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DRULE MEDINA
A 5 Year Old’s Bedtime Story
Upon the sun’s decent, I lay frightened in the obsidian room. In the hidden full moon night, I shiver, shrouded in darkness. I see, through the black curtain, shadows that waltz around me. I observe with pounding heart creatures only I can see. Ripper must have visited my room for my dolls bare gruesome distortions. Favorite toys and softest fabrics bring forth my nightmare before sunrise. Upon a warm September night, I hear silent cries booming in my mind. I feel their eyes watching me so I dare make neither move nor sound. I feel the warmth all around me, but I feel an arctic chill in my limbs. I feel the cold running down my spine, but I remain buried under my soft shield. Gripping fear. Doubt. Feeling trapped. I am paralyzed in my death bed. To do or not to do? A die, die decision, So I will at least put up a fight. Breath in and out. Count 1 to 10. A trembling warrior preparing for battle, praying for speed to face outside
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Bloody Barbie and the Bear Bandit. A flash of movement. White drowns black. The monsters are gone. I look in the mirror And I glimpse in my eyes The bottomless pit of fear.
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DRULE MEDINA
Kissing the Coke
Glistening drops of bronze liquid slipping down through the trench, through the dark recess of the shining material. Light on the edges. Glowing all over. Or not. Amongst the beauty and the brightness, one unique form stands out. Left, right. Observed from all sides. The form remains unhindered. A black hole. An endless pit. A dark gaping mouth. Inside, a fleeting light, A ray of hope to appease the darkness. “How about a kiss?” Not inviting, but we all do it. It’s a silent agreement: a kiss for some sweetness flowing down our throat, to sooth our dried up souls.
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BRANDON JORIF
Don’t Hit Snooze
I think he hates me He appreciates my honesty and is perturbed by my punctuality He looks at me with disgust as if my dialogue was a waste of time to him I give him my all A helping hand to whoever wants to keep their head up in the right direction Instead of up in the clouds that he rather rest in I’m afraid of the day he meets my cousin I try give him warning like sirens do on open waters of an approaching hurricane Yelling only so that he hears the promptness in my declarations He tries to reason, pushes my buttons and argues that I’m too fast He uses me as an outlet for reasons why he can’t accomplish his task Accuses me of cheating I have no patience for his antics He makes me crazy, or it’s just a tick I believe he can accomplish more if he was more productive That’s mainly the reason why I got into management But I didn’t sign up for the abuse The back hand off the nightstand And leaves me on the ground with his dirty laundry But pulls me closer in the morning If only he knew my worth He’d treat me better
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BREAUNA ROACH
Housekeeping
They protect the paid for things. Couch seats wrapped in plastic turkey platters atop the cabinets tea kettles polished yearly, placed safely behind frail glass doors. They magically repair broken chair arms. Mother cradles antique vases by the neck mends weakened table legs with tape. The haughty drawers of the mahogany chest do not open welcomingly like father. He greases the sides; sands it down to a smooth texture shows it off when friends come to visit. My brother and tiptoe around our house like burglars. We tie dry-rotted rope to the oak trees and swing in tires from their branches. Their arms openly shield us from the singe of the sun. We whisper our wishes in slow winds and press our ears to the roots for advice. We are children of the trees, who react to our presence seemingly thankful that we are there. Glad to see us come with our sweaty bodies to sit underneath. Faces turned upward, relieved with the toil it takes to protects us. Looming overhead like a parent we are sure they won’t shoo us away when company comes. All year they save what they can. Turkey bones for the collards, root of rudebaker for mustards, pennies for pots of black eyes. But my brother and I, we save ourselves.
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We bandage each other’s bruises break citronella leaves and spread the pulp on each others’ backs, arms, and legs. At sunset every summer day we wait silently under the tree prepared to tiptoe home. Listening with reckless hope for some call of beckoning.
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BREAUNA ROACH
Keeping House
At our dining room table there are four placemats. Four slightly rusted sets of cutlery, four saucers for handmade soup, and four dingy cloth napkins in various shapes in the seats of our chairs. My brother, mother and I wash our hands in the sink at the same time to save water. Things have been harder since my father left. “I’m going to get a gallon of milk” he said on his way out the door. But we’ve been drinking powdered milk for 3 years now and the newspaper he’d read in the bathroom that morning still lays sun-faded in the window sill, open to the real-estate section. I try to remember the last time there was food on that fourth plate. We only wash dishes once a week, and the pile of plates atop his placemat is always spotless. Once, my brother tried to sit n his chair and my mother threw a fit. “You know ya daddy can’t stand for y’all to be playin ‘round in his chair”. “It’s not like he’s coming home to catch me doing it”. She pushed my brother from the chair so hard she broke its leg and now it leans on its remaining three against the wall, waiting to be fixed. Waiting to be filled. Waiting for a gallon of real milk.
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INTERVIEW WITH
L. LAMAR WILSON BY ELIZABETH TOMLINSON
L. Lamar Wilson is a graduate of Florida A&M University’s School of Journalism and Graphic Communication. He received an MFA in creative writing from Virginia Tech. Wilson has received fellowships from the Cave Canem Foundation, the Callaloo Workshops, the Alfred E. Knobler Scholarship Fund, and the Arts and Sciences Foundation at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he’s pursuing a doctorate in African American and multiethnic American poetics. Wilson has poems in or forthcoming in African American Review, Los Angeles Review, jubilat, The 100 Best African American Poems, The New Sound, Black Gay Genius, and other journals and anthologies. Sacrilegion, his first collection, was selected by Lee Ann Brown for the Carolina Wren Press Poetry Series. Individual poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and won the 2011 Beau Boudreaux Poetry Prize. L. Lamar Wilson was interviewed by Elizabeth Tomlinson, an English major and CaKe staff. They discussed the inspiration for his poetry and what guides and inspires him when he writes. ET: At what age did you start writing? LW: I’ve been making up stories since I could form sentences, but I began putting them to paper in elementary school, and I “published” my first short story, “The Mysterious Shadow,” in seventh or eighth grade. ET: What inspired you to write? LW: There’s no greater freedom, then or now, for me than in the company of my own words and my singular imagination. ET: How did your family life affect your writing? LW: My first collection of poetry, Sacrilegion, is largely made of personal and family narratives, those that are photographic in my memory 62
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bank and those that have become mythic and required more imaginative leaps. I continue to excavate from memories that which I can translate in poems that illuminate some truths about love and pain. What I’ve always been careful about doing is not exploiting my family. ET: When did you know writing is something you wanted to do beyond a hobby; a career? LW: I still wonder if I’ll be able to make a career of writing, if I’ll be a onebook wonder. I’m growing to understand how much in publishing now is about the relationships one cultivates. I remain hopeful that my work will continue to resonate with editors and find homes. I’ve had mentors and models who affirm what is possible. ET: Is there anything or anyone that made you realize that poetry was for you? LW: At Virginia Tech, where I earned my MFA, I was blessed to have Nikki Giovanni, who urged me to come there, Bob Hicok, Erika Meitner, Ed Falco, Fred D’Aguiar, and others as mentors and teachers. They’ve all had varied, decades-long careers, and they tell me I have what it takes to do the same. Vievee Francis, a teacher I met at a Callaloo workshop, also sends me encouraging messages when she senses I need them most. ET: Do you consider your writing racy, if so, why do you write it? LW: I consider my work artful but emotionally honest, and sometimes that honesty manifests in language and imagery some might consider racy, but I cannot edit myself for an imaginary audience. I must let, especially in the first draft, what emerges from that emotionally honest space be, and then the editing begins. Then, I pray, the poems emerge. ET: What poet/poets were your biggest inspirations in writing poetry? LW: I have so many; I’m loath to name any, rather than leave any out, but if you Google, you’ll see I’ve named before -- and still hold dear -- the oeuvre of Lucille Clifton. Lately, I’ve been revisiting, as I work on my dissertation, the 63
work of Phillis Wheatley, Alice Ruth Moore Dunbar Nelson, Helene Johnson, Natasha Trethewey, Fenton Johnson, and a few others are on my mind daily. I love Marilyn Nelson’s work, especially The Homeplace and Mama’s Promises. Rita Dove’s Mother Love still instructs me. Ai still instructs me. Sharon Olds and Dorianne Laux, who I met recently, still instruct me. I’m also loving the timelessness of Jake Adam York’s poetics. He left too soon, but it’s clear he wrote with a sense of what he wanted his legacy to be. That kind of intensity, clarity and focus on the page instructs me. But growing up, I only knew the work of the famous black poets: Langston Hughes and Nikki Giovanni, chief among them. What I’ve learned is that they are who they are because their work reaches across the years to any person at any level of understanding. That’s a gift, a rare gift that few writers have. ET: How important is the title of your works, to you? LW: They set the tone for, and sometimes, even begin the poems themselves. The words in them are as important as any others in the poems. ET: How long did it take you to write “Resurrection Sunday”? Describe the research you conducted prior to writing or during your process of writing “Resurrection Sunday.” LW: That poem has lived in me for years, probably since I encountered The Anatomy of a Lynching as a teenager, but I began the drafting process my last semester at Virginia Tech in 2010. It evolved over the next two years, even after it was published in Vinyl the following year and in the first printing of Sacrilegion in January 2013. The latest printing, which emerged this spring, has a few edits, too. The research is largely from Anatomy and from my interrogation of my interiority. I had to take a long, hard look at how I’d processed the trauma of learning what had happened in my hometown less than a century ago as well as how I’d tried to learn to love my own body. So many black gay men live with body dysmorphia, but when you have a physical difference because of congenital injury, it exacerbates everything. ET: What was your real message in “Resurrection Sunday”? LW: That’s hard to distill because there are many messages in it. One looming one is: If I’m sacrilegious, because I’ve experienced same-gender love, I’m 64
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not alone. There are legions of us. Another is that much of contemporary pornography is rooted in the same fetishization of black flesh that fueled the lynching culture in this country, especially the Deep South, so it’s no surprise that gay pornography in particular is viewed in an inordinate amount still in this mythically homophobic region and that those who benefit the most from it are white men and those who profit the least are the young, often barely legal, black men who populate the films. Finally, the poem -- like the book -- is reaching for love of the self, of the broken and scarred body, in a world that eschews, ignores, and sometimes actively hates it. My parents taught me something that I guess, too, is underneath it all: Everybody is a mirror, and a mirror is a terrible thing to waste. Cake: In “Times Like These: Marianna, Florida” some may think you were addressing a specific time whether metaphorically or figuratively there were hardships, what time were you regarding? LW: That poem really is an amalgamation of black Southern folklore and its idioms. It really is a meditation on the plight of black farmers, of which my father is one. Cake: In “Times Like These” you quoted a verse from Revelations, what does that verse truly mean to you? Use an example. LW: There are literally three poems in the book, including that one, that deal with the notion of an impending “woe,” or curse. Two subsequent ones have it in their titles. Cake: In “We Do Not Know Her Name,” you mentioned your ancestry; did you ever trace your own? LW: I began writing down my family ancestry, as it was recalled by my grandmother, who lived to be 106, as a tween at least a decade before the Internet and Ancestry.com. I went to the courthouse and examined the property records of my white ancestor, Felix Long and his wife, Emily, searching for clues about his believed lover, Martha, and their presumed sons, Austin and Thompson Long. I searched for marriage and death records, anything I could find. Ancestry.com has made that process much easier to navigate, but I still enjoy speaking time in the court’s basement records. I’m now trying to trace my 65
Native American ancestry, which is very difficult, an issue explored in “We Do Not Know Her Name” in Sacrilegion. ET: In “Finding Fault,” you thank God multiple times after the preachers’ comments and even you own questions, doubts, and loathing, do you still thank him? Explain why or why not. LW: My faith in God is at the center of everything I write. Every poem in Sacrilegion, whether it’s transparent or not, is a prayer of some kind. ET: How was it like to be in the “Carolina Wren Press Poetry Series”? LW: It is a great honor. Evie Shockley, Minnie Bruce Pratt, and Jaki Shelton Green are just three amazing poets who have paved the way in the series for my own work. ET: Are there any other genres, formats, etc. for writing poetry that you would like to do? LW: I write fiction, and I’m working on a choreopoem version of Sacrilegion that will be performed in Miami on August 30 [2014] as the culminating event at the Reading Queer festival. I have a play and screenplay that need nursing, too. It’s hard since I work full time in journalism, but summers are important to getting the work done.
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LEVANDER N. THOMAS
For the Trumpet Player
It must have been something in those old magnolia trees. A hushed whisper among the blooms while the breeze carried The sweetest sound of reminiscence to the muse that danced many moons and moonshines ago. There he was. There he goes. Gliding by on the tips of his toes, This man was no musician. He was honey to the bumblebee – pouring out the symphonious sounds of Summertime and fine wine. Enough to slow a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Exalted. Play on, music man! He was sunshine – A brilliant, brass-laden light. Riddling the rising stars, for there was no nighttime with this jazz. It was the Savoy in 1968. The rhythm in his left foot, and the blues in her right. The Dizzy ice in my Arnold Palmer. And the shade from those old magnolia trees. Play on, trumpet man. Play on.
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Introspective of indifference. part #1
It’s like they forgot I existed. Vowed to never forget, I guess they missed it. Flip through pictures in kitchens, But picture, my own reality of someone’s fantasy Life at a university, images of a vanity… Look in the mirror at the image of self, I’m the person nobody helps, and no feelings are felt, Emotions, they run cold, from dimensions of soul My heart is darker than coal, no flame, electric stove. The same story is told, from the girl I like the most, To her, I am a ghost, to me, she is the toast, Of the town, congratulations and hearing the sounds Too bad I let it fall to the ground……. She faded away just like the sunshine rays in the winter time. Tell myself over again that it be many times, Pain through them other rhymes, still I don’t feel it though 25, 20 degrees, still I don’t I don’t wear a coat. So let the grace fall down through precipitation Started from conversation, escalate anticipation Withdrawn from the situations people facing, Closer to graduation, unsure of the steps you taking. And how I’m supposed to feel? I ain’t a mind reader. She say she fell in love, how I’m supposed to treat her? Plus my friends upstate, while I move away, Something like across the world, call it an escape. Hope it don’t fall apart while I’m gone away Before I even say goodbye, they beg me stay I guess you can’t please everybody right? They learned the hard way when I left in the night. New city, new area code, changed my identity I’m chasing around no-name girls, what’s gotten into me? Huh, call it a crisis, but still I laugh They mad, I live in one day journeys, upon a path... 69
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Introspective of indifference part #2
(They mad, I live in one day journeys, upon a path.......) ...To seize, and hope to achieve something they never thought Not mentioned, material things people came and bought Like buying the flyest shoes, that was cool up in high school Now, how they gone help when the tuition and rent’s due? English professor got 9 pages for you to do, You focused on the party, and finally tasting the blue juice? And you’re so occupied concealing the person that hurts inside Crocodile tears are cried, and still facing the dark Conflicts within the soul, and second guessing your heart She say if she stop caring, all the hurt will go away But still, that not caring hurts others, a couple ways. Your people will lose faith, to the point there’s no feelings Concerns will fade away The closest, no longer willing To take you for who you are The cause is still the same 20 times over running All different from situations, and still we coming from it With nothing, we can’t believe it, it’s so hard to stomach And labeled the same thing, with the intentions to punish...
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Introspective of indifference. part #3
(and labeled the same thing, with the intention to punish.....) Hard enough just being yourself, but nothing helps Enduring the after effects of the way she felt. Relationship is a game, and play the cards that you’re dealt, But, how are you supposed to win, when she keep the cards to herself? All heard from a different one, maybe even the same, All guys are either lame, immature, or don’t contain The qualities that are needed, considered to make it last Or simply, he might just hurt me like the guys from the past Complaints begin to add, left hopeless, Expression from spoken words upon the lines when I wrote this, Shrugged shoulders , society less than perfect, Regrets and then rewards through everything make it worth it, Maybe might even notice me, maybe remember my name, I’ll steal her heart, like an award, put it up on a frame. Behold a lady like the song say, My sun on a stormed day, Considered stability on a long day But that’s a dream, and I just woke up Despise the speculation, when the times show tough Look to the sky in hopes for a new dream, destiny, Maybe she’s across the room, or sitting next me. Theme is the specialty, conflict is overrated, So many fighting to the point where they never made it To tell about the experiences, and the lessons learned, We always want the awards, but yet it’s never earned, But we’ll get over it, eventual in time. Always shine through criticism, and indifference of mind.
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indifference of reality. 3/6/11
Who knows what might happen when you start from a dream. Meanwhile was crying rivers, but progressed to a stream, Get over the slightest flaws, and maybe thoughts of a scheme, New Recollection of self, not stress the littlest things. When it rained, seemed like it poured, all night and forever, Through storms of bad days, and hours of sad weather. Fake friends is on the rise, the pain comes with the lies, Could have sworn y’all were related, now can’t even recognize, Each other, was like a sister, and he, was like a brother. Now they treat me like I’m nothing, or even a distant cousin. It hurts your soul to even come to admit, That person you held close, you might have to forget. No regrets up in the evening, apologize in mourning They’ll realize what they had before the warning Make up sessions is boring, constantly in remission, Consider the individuals opposite of position Who long for same attention, that others taking for granted, Lingering in the darkness of self, but still they standing Strong, right through the long nights, and struggles of long days Lies from the same people who love them the wrong ways Like the girl who had a baby at 15, Balances conflicts, heartbroken with bent dreams, Referred to the latter cause they bent, but they never broken Constantly negative, yet positive, forever hoping So well spoken, continuously singled out, She’s never chosen, erasing every single doubt, Unlike the boy who dates 15 different girls, Does a new hurt to these 15 different worlds. Or 15 different pearls, they all so delicate. Distinguished in personality, inspired to be elegant. Yet, these elements are complicated constantly
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CAKE
New feelings of a newfound love, and a response from me? So premature, so many are unsure Of thoughts of future love, all based from a hug? Stop gaming, life of fairy tale that you claiming? Still saying he ain’t meeting the standards of what you aiming Hearing them all complaining, reflection from the background. Hate to say that I warned you, of the way that you act now. They so offended when they all hear the truth, Conspire to take me over, assemble all types of groups. That’s why I had to retire in the first place, Left them hanging the worst way, Re-introduced up on my birthday, (today) So let me leave, no singing, in peace Never appreciate till it’s gone A prime example of me.
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CONTRIBUTORS Kendra N. Bryant, a FAMU alumn, is an Assistant Professor of English in the Department of English & Modern Languages. For amusement & meditation, she paints, writes poetry, & blogs. Follow her at drknbryant. com. Wayne F. Burke’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Bluestem, Red Savina, Bottle Rockets, Crack the Spine, Dead Flowers, Black Wire, Visions With Voices, Versewrights, and elsewhere. His book of poems WORDS THAT BURN is published by Bareback Press (2013). Anitra Ellison is a graduate of Florida A&M University with a B.S. in Journalism. She has written for the Columbus Ledger-Enquirer, The Capitol Outlook, Tallahassee Magazine, Journey Magazine, CLUTCH Magazine, CaKe and VOICES. She currently resides in Douglasville, GA. Aaliyah C. Franklin, (also known as Aaliyah Chanel) born and raised in Palm Beach, is a young singer and musician well versed in the styles of jazz, classical, neo-soul, gospel, R&B and pop music. An avid songwriter, she naturally picked up a habit of writing poetry to express her deepest thoughts and feelings. She explores personal hurts as well as love, political issues, ancient egyptian culture, and everyday life. In between constantly perfecting her musical craft, Aaliyah finds reading and writing poetry to be a great mental release. Yolanda J. Franklin is a doctoral candidate at Florida State University. Her poems have appeared in journals such as the forthcoming issue of African American Review, the current issues of PMS:poemmemoirstory and Sugarhouse Review, and Crab Orchard Review’s American South Issue. She has been awarded several scholarships to write and study at Cave Canem, Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Indiana Writer’s Week, and Colrain Poetry Manuscript Workshop. She is a third generation, north Florida native born in my state’s capital— Tallahassee. In her free time, she enjoys Salsa dancing, food tasting and makeup artistry. Lamar Garnes is a Tampa native and FSU graduate who chases dragons full time, and in his downtime, he teaches students the fundamentals of word sorcery at Florida A&M University.
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Ashley Griffin is a 22-year-old senior psychology student at Florida A&M University, from Staten Island, N.Y. Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 26 countries, he edits 7 poetry sites. Authors websitehttp://poetryman.mysite.com/ He has over 69 poetry videos on YouTube. Miciotto Johnson grew up oversees living in Germany and Belgium. He is an English major and International Relations minor at Florida A&M University where he also is an editor for CaKe, a journal of poetry & art. Miciotto hopes to continue writing poetry and editing CaKe and plans on working at NATO upon his matriculation. Sergio Ortiz’s poems have been published in Atlas Poetica, LYNX, Touch, The Journal of Healing, Letralia, and other journals and anthologies. His chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009) was published by Flutter Press. He is the recipient of two Pushcart Nominations, and a four-time recipient of a Best of the Web Nomination. Breauna Roach is a poet from Detroit Michigan. She received her undergraduate degree from Florida A&M University where she majored in English. She is the founding member of Voices, FAMU’s first and only poetry group. Her poetry has been published in The New Jersey Live Poet’s Anthology Fall 2009 Anthology, Inside of Me, and Revelry Literary Magazine.She has been the editor of CaKe, a journal of poetry and art in some form since 2009. In the fall, Breauna will be attending Emerson College where she garnered a full fellowship into the MFA program. Breauna is also a Cave Canem Fellow. LeVander N. Thomas is a Florida A&M public relations student from Arlington, GA who believes in sunshine, laughter, and self-love. She is the creator of becauseofBadu, a blog dedicated to natural hair, and is heavily involved on campus and in the community with the Public Relations Student Society of America, The BEETtv, and CaKe. An earlier work of hers, Elements of Transition[ing], was published in FAMU’s literary journal CaKe, a journal of poetry and art in 2013.
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CONTRIBUTORS
Changming Yuan, 7-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in rural China but currently tutors in Vancouver, where he co-publishes Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan and operates PP Press. With a PhD in English, Yuan has most recently been interviewed by [PANK] and World Poetry (CFRO100.5FM), and had poetry appear in Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and 809 other literary journals/anthologies across 28 countries.
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Caress
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Donovan Blot Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrรกn Kendra N. Brynat Way D Donovan Blot Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrรกn Kendra N. Brynat Wayne Burke Chelse Collins Robert D. Young-Drake Zanubea Flowers Yolanda Franklin Kevina Fullwood Lamar Garnes Ashley Griffin Michael Lee Johnson Miciotto Johnson II Brandon Joris Drule Medina Na Ephraim Riggins Breauna Roach Pepper Smith Derrick Standifer Levander N. Thomas Elizabeth Tomlinson Christopher Watson Alfred Williams L. Lamar Wilson Changming Yuan
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