I found a better way to support black authors.
A few weeks ago, I started to gather a list of black authors. After a few days of gathering names, I realized, I was doing readers a disservice. There were some benefits to building this list so let’s start there.
First thing I noticed when I started building my list, was that my algorithm changed. I was fascinated at how many black authors started to pop up on my feed! I was excited and felt like that was exactly what I wanted. …
She wanes in a way that apples wane from hungry snackers. She lays around sleepy hoping for some asteroid to hit the parking lot outside her window. Well, less of an asteroid, more like an artistic explosion. All she has to do is look in the mirror, there’s enough there to birth a generation. Alas, she finds herself sprawled naked on the sofa thinking up all the reasons as to why her sex his fizzled out and why her mind could care less. Was it some false purity idea or am I just uninterested? She pops up and decides…
She paces toward the bathroom. Her loafer slippers drag against the floorboards to the beat of the music. The bedroom is cool but the rest of the house is a thousand degrees. “It’s never ok to hurt someone, not physically or any other way.”
Hell wouldn’t have a bedroom to cool off in, she’s lucky. She’s a lucky girl to have such pleasures in this life. The clock on wall ticks but she can’t hear it even when she gets in its face. She feels her chest begin to sweat.
Back to the bedroom.
The house is full of her…
For the conscious writer
“We are agents of beginnings.” -Art as Existence by Gabriele Guercio.
When I first started writing, I wanted to hide behind my creations. I wanted to be an anonymous figure that created something powerful. For me, there was a sense of humility in creating a profound piece of art while living in secret without all the reviews and rewards. Living a private life, hidden from the world is something I do treasure. So this seemed like a marvelous path. But there’s a problem with this mindset. First, let’s talk about our new beginnings.
“Who am I?”
Sitting swaying like a wild dog
Ah I’ve stepped off the curb.
and now I’m predicting
or is it remembering?
Is it John the saint
on an island?
a saint? A Saint.
(He was a prophet.)
(He was an apostle.)
-lets run through the fields
where’s Adam? I’m Eve.
“She is me” like a twin
Lover of the seas and
all things beneathes
Jesus -did you know,
goes beneath goes below
to gather the keys
A writer and sensitive realist who takes risks with the intention of progress