“My Blues Love Affair,” page 20
In the 70s divorced and on my own, I danced at the discoes, dug on Black Sabbath, David Bowie, and Alice Cooper; I interviewed Bob Marley (Catch a Fire) on three occasions and made the St. Patrick’s Day Riots at Elks Hall when New Wave stormed Los Angeles . . . yet I began wearing the grooves off my Bobby “Blue” Bland. Taj Mahal, and Otis Redding LPs . . . I was a devotee of Herbie Hancock (Hornets), thrice catching him crosstown at Dough Weston’s Troubadour . . . While listening, I am able to visualize fingering, particularly piano and guitar, instruments I’ve studied.
“Angela’s Big Night,” pages 46–47
Los Angeles Free Press, LA’s controversial 60’s underground newspaper, gave me my first official freelance reporting assignment: covering a legal defense fundraiser for the then-incarcerated Black Power Movement heroine Angela Davis . . . As a result of my report, I would be secretly boycotted from journalism for the next ten years.
“Primal Orb Density,” page 55
Here I am. I prize myself greatly I want the world to enjoy me and my art but something’s undeniably wrong, I’ve come to regard myself as a living, breathing statistic governed not by my individual will, but by forces outside myself.
“Primal Orb Density,” page 65
My delicious dilemma is language. How I structure it. How the fiction of history structures me. And as I’ve become more and more shattered, my tongue has become tangled . . . I am glassed in by language as well as by the barriers of my dark skin and financial embarrassment.
“Looking for it: An interview,” page 77
My parents were petit bourgeoisie. My mother was a domestic—she came to California from Oklahoma when World War II started and jobs opened up for Blacks here. She worked in movie stars’ homes, and in fact worked a year for Ronald Reagan when he was married to Jane Wyman—she quit when he wouldn’t give her a raise! [Laughs.]
“Looking for It: An Interview,” page 91
My anger knows no bounds—it’s unlimited. I’m a big lady, I can stand up in front of almost any man and cuss him out and have no fear—you know what I’m sayin’? Because I will go to blows.
“Looking for It: An Interview,” page 93
I’m not about shock; if any shock is present it’s the shock of recognition . . . or the shock of understanding . . . But I’m not deliberately out to just shock people. I’m not about being sensationalistic . . . I want freedom when I write, I want the freedom to use any kind of language—whatever I feel is appropriate to get the point across.
“Coulda Shoulda Woulda: A Song Flung Up to Heaven by Maya Angelou,” page 137
I vented my bias against celebrity autobiographies at the outset of a favorable review of Angelou’s All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes (book review, August 13, 1986), in which I stated that I usually find them “self-aggrandizements and/or flushed-out elaborations of scanty press packets.” Relieved, I summarized Shoes as “a thoroughly enjoyable segment from the life of a celebrity!” No can do with Song.
“Black on Black: Fear & Reviewing in Los Angeles,” page 141
The night of the NBA [National Book Award] ceremony, it felt strange to hear my name (I was poetry finalist) called out from the podium by Steve Martin . . . I had devoted my best writing life to the financial wasteland of poetry, working pink-collar jobs to feed my children . . .
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revisions & Reconsiderations,” page 171
There are moments when I’m inclined to believe that trying to define poetry is as fruitless as trying to define love. It simply can’t be gotten right.
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revision & Reconsiderations,” page 180
My memory of the specifics is vague, but in 1972 I attended Diane Wakoski’s poetry workshop at California Technical Institute in Pasadena. I had met John Martin, the publisher of Black Sparrow Press, in March of that year, and he had strongly recommended I study with his “superstar” poet, author of Motorcycle Betrayal Poems . . . Diane Wakoski took me steps further toward enlightenment, as I kicked and ranted unable to fully articulate my point of view, stubborn in my stance but absorbing as much information as she could supply . . . Not least of the benefits of participating in Wakowski’s workshop was my friendship with poet Sylvia Rosen.
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revision & Reconsiderations,” page 205
Buying books was a great luxury in those days. What I couldn’t borrow and return or obtain from the public library, I read straight off bookstore shelves.
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revision & Reconsiderations,” page 206
I dared and mailed my painfully retyped manuscript to Black Sparrow Press. In March 1972, the manuscript was returned. Responding to my eagerness to learn, publisher John Martin steered me first to Wakoski and months later, to Clayton Eshleman. In the meantime I had become a Bukowski fan, trying to imitate his style, going to his readings, and hanging out at the infamous Bukowski parties . . . But it didn’t take too long to realize that my approach to language was, at root, radically different from Bukowski’s . . . Bukowski was tone deaf. And I loved the musical lyricism of writers like Neruda, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Brother Antoninus (a/k/a William Everson, who would eventually displace Bukowski as my favorite). I was also enthralled with the plays and poetry of Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones).
“Wearing My Maturity,” page 239
The characteristics many attribute to the supernatural have always been a natural/given part of how I am in the world. My intelligence. I have grown more comfortable with this as I’ve aged.
“The Riot Inside Me,” page 256
In 1991, following the death of my father, I took a major risk and quit my “slave” as medical secretary, encouraged by my third husband of ten years. The pull of my gift could no longer be denied. I had to write—regardless. I was in my mid-forties. Other than temporary layoffs, it was the first time since 1972 that I had been without a regular paycheck. Ahead lay disaster—spun from the ever-complex machinations of race . . . On April 29 1992, as I left a late morning meeting at the Department of Cultural Affairs, the verdict by the Simi Valley jury in the Rodney King beating case was announced . . . By the time I arrived home the city was again in flames . . .
“The Riot Inside Me,” page 258
What does a poet do when poetry is the most under-appreciated art in the nation—even considered subversive . . . Being who I am, I can’t not make note of the ironies—of the arrogance governing our nation’s rhetoric . . . I decided I had to get out of the house and drive out to the cemetery. I had not visited my father’s grave in over a year. I did as usual: took grass clippers, a rag, and bottled water, got down on my knees and tidied up, asking as I always do, the unanswerable.
Wicked Enchantment
Wanda in Worryland
i get scared sometimes
and have to go look in to the closet to see if his clothes
are still there
i have been known to imagine a situation
and then get involved in it, upset, angry and
cry hot tears
i have gone after people
with guns
once i tried to hang myself and got terribly ashamed
afterwards because i was really faking it
i have gone after people
with rocks
i have cursed out old white lady cart pushers in
supermarkets who block the aisles in slow motion
i have gone after people
with my fists
i have walked out on pavlovian trainers who mistook me
for a dog
i go to sleep and have dreams about falling
and can’t stand the suspense so i sweat it out
and land on my feet
i have gone after people
with poems
i get scared sometimes
and have to go look into the mirror to see if i’m
still here
D
oing Battle with the Wolf
1.
i drip blood
on my way to and from work
i drip blood
down the aisles while shopping at the supermarket
i drip blood
standing in line at the bank
filling my tank at the gas station
visiting my man in prison
buying money orders at the post office
driving the kids to school
walking to bed at night
i drip blood
an occasional transfusion arrives in the mail
or i find plasma in the streets
an occasional vampire flashes my way
but they don’t take much
my enemy is the wolf
who eats even the mind
the wolf will come for me sooner or later
i know this
the wolf makes no sexual distinctions
i am the right color
he has a fetish for black meat and
frequently hunts with his mate along side him
he follows my trail of blood
i drip blood for hours
go to the bathroom and apply bandages
i’ve bled enough
it’s my monthly bleeding of poison
getting it out of my system
watching it as it flows from the
open sore of my body into the toilet stool
making a red ring
so pretty
flushing it away—red swirls
a precious painful price i pay
my man cannot protect me
the wolf has devoured most of my friends
i watched them die horribly
saw the
raw hunks of meat skin bone
swallowed
watched as full, the wolf crept away
to sleep
2.
the wolf has a beautiful coat
it is white and shimmers in moonlight/a coat of diamonds
his jaws are power
teeth sharp as guns glisten against his red tongue
down around his feet the fur is dirty with the caked blood of my friends
i smile
i never thought it would come to this
scratching
scratching at my door
scratching to get in
howls howls howls
my children are afraid
i send them to hide in the bedroom
scratch scratch scratch
the door strains
howl howl howl
cries of my children “mama! mama! who is it?”
i am ready
—armed with my spear inherited from my father as he
from his mother (who was psychic) as she from her father
(who was a runaway slave) as he from his mother (who
married the tribal witch doctor)—me—african warrior
imprisoned inside my female form
determined
i open the door
a snarl
he lunges
the spear
against his head
he falls back
to prepare for second siege
i wait
the door will not close
i do not see the wolf
my children scream
i wait
look down
am wounded
drip blood
cannot move
or apply bandages
must wait
wolf howls and the roar of police sirens
They Came Knocking on My Door at 7 a.m.
they had a warrant out for my arrest
“what’s your name? where’s your identification”
i was half naked so they didn’t come inside,
figuring they’d caught me mid-fuck
they were right
coitus interruptus LAPD is a drag
i showed ’em alias #3
they said “oh, well where is she?”
i said, “man, she was staying here, but she
hooked up with some niggah and split”
“ok. ok.”
they left
i went back into the bedroom
you were naked and still hungry, curious
“what was that all about”
“nothing”
i laughed, took off the rag i was wearing
eased into the sheets next to you
we started fucking again
but things had changed
Sessions
doctor asked me if i had any sexual fantasies. i told him i had none
my fantasies could not be spoken. they would not be well received
and he might try to kill me
reality: him cruising by in his cadillac
me at the bus stop on my way home to hubby and the kid
he smiles and doubles back, ready as spring
i slide in next to the singer. at the motel
he plays hollywood to my watts
the doctor asked me who i loved most, my father or my mother. and i
said i loved them both the same, but differently. father understood
one side of my personality and mother, the other
reality: him slipping the ring off my pinky
unnoticed, then pretending to help me look for it
he smiles and tells me he’s ready
i slide in under him, unaware that this is
just another movie scene
doctor asked me what i thought about the face that curved along
the paper. was it male or female. i saw a woman there and said so.
he told me it could be either. i didn’t understand the significance
of that particular test
reality: me showing up on his job
the blistering anger/anguish of summer. i want
him to take me and the child away from my man
i want him to stake a claim. not ready at all
he avoids my eyes, cries about his wife and
her suicidal tendencies
the doctor asks me what i am. i say, a non sequitur. he is suddenly
afraid as i spew out my hatred. across the rug stamping angrily at
my absence from the nation’s tomes. he shifts his glasses uncomfortably
hands me a tissue for my tears, tells me he does not want me as a
patient. walks out. it’s cold on the leather
reality: me running into him a couple of
years later, after his nervous breakdown and my
divorce. lust like yesterday cops a feel of
my ass, and it’s to the motel for one of the good
old days. he’s trying to make it back to the top
and it’s my turn to do a fade
the apartment a fist closing round me. i go back to the streets, call on
a few friends and assure them i’m okay and no longer courting death.
didn’t
really need a doctor after all, now that i’ve finally found a decent job
The Woman and Her Thang
she kept it in a black green felt-lined box
liked to bring it out to show people, especially the men
she was sexually involved with
it was a creature she loved
sometimes when she was alone, she’d take it from its box
caress it gently, lay it on the bed, watch
it glide easily over the blanket
frequently she would feed it a mouse or small rabbit and watch
for days, until the lump in its torso dissolved
it was more than a pet
of course, she never saw herself in it
she felt she had so many more dimensions
she was warm and it was cold
people loved her but they were afraid of it
the only thing they shared was a blackness of skin
and a certain rhythmic motion
one day she was showing
it to this man
a very special man
a man she wanted to fall in love with who
seemed to be able to love her, a man different from
the other black men she had known
and so she opened the black green felt box
reached in and took it out
gently she carried it over to the bed
where he lay naked and waiting
she showed it to him proudly
he was appalled, shocked, frightened
he jumped. he scared it.
it took a long time for that lump to go away
many times since she has considered getting rid of it
but after having invested so much time in the thang
she couldn’t bear to throw it away
a friend suggested she sell it
she’s into that process now.
Beaches. Why I Don’t Care for Them
associations: years of being ashamed/my sometimes
fat, ordinary body. years later shame passed
left a sad aftertaste. mama threatening to beat me if i got
my hair wet. curses as she brushes the sand out, “it’s gonna
break it off—it’s gonna ruin your scalp.”
Wicked Enchantment Page 2
