The line of demarcation

separating the creative forces and all the things not supposed to be said

no filter or blurry edges searching for a place to belong

no belonging feels more comfortable to not brush up against spaces of misunderstanding

pushing down a rumbling that doesn’t want to comply at set against enmeshment and possession

this is how i lost you

at hello when all advice tried to keep us in line under the surface of spinning lobes

never thought I could anyway and be an upside down quark of independence

salty sweet

sexy shrew

shy confident

rigid in a flow pushing out one spot of spontaneous luster

deep yet shallow that insecurity will be satisfied by underground

no filter holding energy down with screens and screams to go beyond while staying contained

to meet you

acceptable

affible

peeking quietly at a sense of normalization which appeals to resistance that can be rebelled from

affected

inflicted

allowing

no filter to best its own creation pushing it farther away

setting confusion aside all lanes competing and compiling enough

exposed isolation

struggling to filter out the noise of judgement

at the end

did you get backstage

swim with the sharks

trek through the jungle

or meet your idle

at the end

have you shared all your love

hugged enough babies

or smell every rose

at the end

what city was your favorite

which food was the best

and how much fun did you have

at the end

did you work too much

have no time for your kids

or race through your life

at the end

who was by your side

what will you leave behind

and is there a smile on your face

Not my boo

No feelings here

Like my outfit

Or what’s under there

Let’s have some fun

No strings attached

Grown ups can

And will

make a fun time match

No need for strife

Or jealousy

Just a good night out

and your sexy bod

On

Me

I got carried away with the scissors. My gaze stunned into the mirror at the buzz cut with the fades on the side of my perfectly oval head. There was no other remedy. The only place that could put those stranglers out of their misery was the barbershop. A delightful experience in which I got to glimpse into the alternate world in which men are free to be silly and childlike while still maintaining a most appealing sense of masculinity. I arrived there a bit sheepish but desperate to salvage the few hairs I had left poking off my scalp all at different lengths and some in curls and some bone straight. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised I thought, as I squeezed the last bit of gel out of the tube; that I would come out looking like a 16 year old boy; but the massaging elegance of the clippers, soothing relaxation of the old school RnB and the cathartic small talk of each others gripes left me numb to giving any female directives or questioning the artist with the array of different razor blades laid out on his proud station.

Its not the first time in my life that I had a ‘boy doo” but that was back when I was 11 years old and my matted afro; in which the round ball of frizz, was the bane of my existence but had a social life of it’s own. One to which every onlooker seemed to need to pet in order to see if their fingers would not get cut up and bloodied, “It’s so soft…., we just can’t believe it… how interesting??”. My “puffball” “burning bush” and “brillo” wouldn’t have stood out to anyone in a typical ethnic neighborhood especially during the mid eighties, before hair extensions and reverse perms were mandatory for a black girl and most importantly a light skin “mixed” senorita; Where I came from the closes to normal for an atypical girl was the unfortunate curly haired brunettes’. The ones embarrassed by the need to ask me for advice and who had to shop off the diversity shelf at the CVS. At that age I decided in order to survive and most importantly not draw attention to myself, I would need to take the high road and pretend that I wasn’t superficial and that I could care less that mine would never make a pony tail swing just by walking or that being mistaken for my twin-in-face- older brother, by adults, didn’t bother me.

My face is a bit older now and the grey’s can’t be hidden especially at first unrecognizable glance at my door reflection but true to form, the mind went right back to it’s defense response. Pretending to be not superficial and to maturely and boldly decide that a proud black lady refuses to hide who she is or wear a hat! So I choose to not leave the house for the next month as a fair trade off. The shame is not the same intensity as so long ago when I was under the microscope of unforgiving boys; when I wanted desperately to feel girly and participate within feminine attributes that came in the form of mom putting my hair into a French braid. Not the two sided one pressed neatly behind each ear, but the long mane one sitting perfectly down the back of the head. How I longed for those straight as an arrow white scalp lines, drawn with the little black comb along each plait and just a wisps of hair poking out the bottom of the elastic swooped up in a feathers whoosh. Today I could honestly say that I no longer wish for hair like a “white girl” and I am even appreciative of this wild bushy mess I used to have, but as I wait for to re-emerge and I sit in the boyish outlines from my other chromosome, I still long for the feminine essence of my middle aged body to let the 11 year old flashback know that it will all grow back and until then it is ok to wear a hat.

I am that Ferris wheel buying my ticket and standing in line to catch a view up high and away from a world hopped up on ice cream and cotton candy.

I admit to crazy at crazy makers hand blaming you for rocking the cart when both are kicking the feet.

A performance of man hater scripted by a patriarch using me as punching bag before language understood what it was.

I played the part and used you as leading player perfect in laying the scene.

My dark humor tempted to get ahead of it with flashy lights and secret jabs to an apparition stuck in the same seat.

I am that Ferris wheel caught up in a game of who can care less and dodge the bullet that fate created with nobody to win and stuck at the top until maintenance spot us there.

Round and round each thinking the other is the fault but the ride comes to an end whether a truce be told.

A new line takes passage to play out their specific role in the carnival of who hates who more.

The crazy or the crazy maker

Until we remember that it is all just a ride for kids to entertain the crowd while mommy holds the bags and daddy gets the car.