Supposing we could just go on and on as two
voracious in the days apart as well as when
we side by side (the many ways we do
that) well! I would consider then
perfection possible, or else worthwhile
to think about. Which is to say
I guess the costs of long term tend to pile
up, block and complicate, erase away
the accidental, temporary, near
thing/pulsebeat promises one makes
because the chance, the easy new, is there
in front of you. But still, perfection takes
some sacrifice of falling stars for rare.
And there are stars, but none of you, to spare. 

June Jordan
”Directed By Desire: The Collected Poems Of June Jordan”
p. 207 

But if I tell you how my heart swings wide
enough to motivate flirtations with the trees
or how the happiness of passion freaks inside
me, will you then believe the faithful, yearning freeze
on random, fast explosions that I place
upon my lust? Or must I say the streets are bare
unless it is your door I face
unless they are your eyes that, rare
as tulips on a cold night, trick my mind
to oranges and yellow flames around a seed
as deep as anyone may find
in magic? What do you need?

I’ll give you that, I hope, and more
But don’t you be the one to choose me: poor. 

June Jordan
”Directed By Desire: The Collected Poems Of June Jordan”
pp. 206 - 207

Infinity doesn’t interest me

not altogether
anymore

I crawl and kneel and grub about
I beg and listen for

what can go away
                            (as easily as love)
or perish
like the children
running
hard on oneway streets/infinity
doesn’t interest me

not anymore

not even
repetition your/my/eye-
lid or the colorings of sunrise
or all the sky excitement
added up

is not enough

to satisfy this lusting adulation that I feel
for
your brown arm before it
moves

MOVES
CHANGES UP

the temporary sacred
tales ago
first bikeride around the house
when you first saw a squat
opossum
carry babies on her back
opossum up
in the persimmon tree
you reeling toward
that natural
first
absurdity 
with so much wonder still
it shakes your voice
                               the temporary is the sacred
                               takes me out

and even the stars and even the snow and even
the rain
do not amount to much
unless these things submit to some disturbance
some derangement such
as when i yield myself/belonging
to your unmistaken
body

and let the powerful lock up the canyon/mountain
peaks the
hidden rivers/ waterfalls the
deepdown minerals/the coalfields/goldfields/
diamond mines close by the whoring ore
hot
at the center of the earth

spinning fast as numbers
I cannot imagine

let the world blot
obliterate remove so-
called
magnificence
so-called
almighty/fathomless and everlasting/
treasures/
wealth
(whatever that may be)

it is this time
that matters

it is this history
I care about

the one we make together
awkward
inconsistent
as a lame cat on the loose
or quick as kids freed by the bell
or else as strictly
once
as only life must mean
a once upon a time

I have rejected propaganda teaching me
about the beautiful
the truly rare

(supposedly
the soft push of the ocean at the hushpoint of the shore
supposedly
the soft push of the ocean at the hushpoint of the shore
is beautiful
for instane)
but
the truly rare can stay out there

I have rejected that
abstraction that enormity
unless I see a dog walk on the beach/
a bird sieze sandflies
or yourself
approach me
laughing out a sound to spoil
the pretty picture
make an uncontrolled
heartbeating memory
instead

I read the papers preaching on
that oil and oxygen
that redwoods and the evergreens
that trees the waters and the atmosphere
compile a final listing of the world in
short supply

but all alive and all the lives
persist perpetual
in jeopardy
persist
as scarce as every one of us
as difficult to find
or keep
as irreplaceable
as frail
as every one of us

and
as I watch your arm/ your
brown arm
just
before it moves

I know

all things are dear
that dissapear

all things are dear
that disappear  

June Jordan
”Directed By Desire: The Collected Poems of June Jordan”
pp. 203 - 206

(via newmodelminority)

i haveta turn my television down sometimes cuz
i cant stand to have white people/ shout at me/
sometimes i turn it off
cuz i cant look at em in my bedroom either/
being so white
that’s why i like/ greens/
they cdnt even smell you/ wdnt know what you taste like
without sneakin/ got no
idea you shd be tingled wit hot sauce & showered wit vinegar
yr pot liquor spread on hot rolls

i gotta turn the tv off cuz the white people
keep playing games/ & followin presidents on vacation at the war
there’s too much of a odor problem on the tv too/ which
brings me back to greens

i remember my grandma at the market pickin turnips
collards kale & mustards/ to mix-em up/ drop a ½ a strick a lean
in there wit some ham hock & oh my whatta life/
i lived in her kitchen/ wit greens i cd recollect
yes the very root of myself
        the dirt & lil bugs i looked for in the fresh collards/
        turnin each leaf way so slow/ under the spicket/ watchin
        lil mounds of dirt fall down the drain
i done a good job
grandma tol me/ got them greens just ready for the pot
& you know/ wdnt no white man on the tv/
talkin loud n formal make no sense of the miracle
a good pot a greens on a friday nite cd make to me
that’s the only reason i turn em off the tv
cant stand they gossipin abt the news/ sides they dont
never like the criminals & enemies i like anyway
that’s why i like GREENS/ i know how to cook em
& i sure can dream gd/ soppin up the pot liquor
& them peppers/

ntozake shange
’A Daughter’s Geography’
pp. 59-60 

Why I became a pacifist
and then
How I became a warrior again:

Because nothing I could do or say
turned out okay
I figured I should just sit
still and chill
except to maybe mumble
“Baby, Baby:
Stop!”
AND
Because turning that other cheek
        holding my tongue
        refusing to retaliate when the deal
        got ugly
And because not throwing whoever calls me bitch 
        out the goddamn window
And because swallowing my pride
         saying I’m sorry when whoever don’t like
         one single thing
         about me and don’t never take a break from
         counting up the 65,899 ways I talk wrong
         I act wrong
And because sitting on my fist
         neglecting to enumerate every incoherent
         rigid/raggedy-ass/disrespectful/killer cold
         and self-infatuated crime against love
         committed by some loudmouth don’t know
         nothing about it takes 2 to fuck and
         it takes 2 to fuck things up
And because making apologies that nobody give a shit
    about

and because failing to sing my song

finally
finally

          got on my absolute last nerve

I pick up my sword
I lift up my shield
And I stay ready for war
Because now I live ready for a whole lot more

than that 

June Jordan
”Directed by Desire: The Collected Poems of June Jordan”
pp. 477-478