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Saturday, May 28, 2005

{when I was 5 I only knew fingerpaints}

just before my sister's wedding. me, I'm in bridesmaid gear. my cousin's 5-year-old daughter, she's in full flowergirl mode.

Claire: I like your tattoos.
me: Thanks.
Claire: But are they going to SHOW?
me: Yep.
Claire: OK. But what does that one SAY?
me: Well, it doesn't say anything, it's um, like a picture.
Claire: What's it a picture OF?
me: Well, it's people, sort of, it's like a drawing of something...
Claire (interrupting me): OH, like abstract?
me (pause): Yes. Like abstract. I think we have to line up now. Here's your basket.

like ABSTRACT? what I should have said was I apologize for condescending. I am quite certain I didn't know what abstract art was until at least fifth grade. of course, I was also the kid who hated fingerpainting because it'd dry too fast for me to get it just right.

I have my first real vacation in probably a decade next week. very very exciting. Roger has the terrible task of flying directly from Jamaica to meet me in New Orleans. poor thing. that has nothing to do with this. oh well. here's the ABSTRACT tattoo:




Posted by Hello

Friday, May 27, 2005

{love, Brooklyn}

heard from a woman steps from my front door:

So I says to him, I says first and foreMOST, I don’t HAVE a man. Second, what HAPPENS between me and my man has nothing to DO with you and me and the baby.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

the rhythm of slippage etc.

dis/lo/ca/tion a turtle up a tree a trainload of bees

certain only I / wasn’t where I’ve been
and now back again am/stand somewhere between
nowhere and my right hand, bruised (ah the generalitiesies

all reports say I was there, wearing white

half or less me easy and in pieces / palimpsest.
:: rewritten to the point of / translucence.
a boat on its back, content. of a nothing

e-cho. I am in no phot-os. in the rest, teeth. heaps
of overlappeople, exhibit X or B. a good time had by all.

know]]] it’s the matter around atoms that binds us
:: the gggaps :: lock me in this body like recess
follows lunch for third graders bully me down

[horse into shoe [rock into rubber [here

Monday, May 23, 2005

the redemption of

tear down the moon and feed it to me
with garlic and bone-salt. tell me lies
like the sun is really a rutabaga
and you’re never going to leave me.
I want it all so deep no tweezers can reach,
so fast nobody will have time to tell me
shit. I love you. you’re a god down here
among men and men hate gods
who aren’t them. so they lock you up,
try to break your sweet mouth
to quiet. I know you could have
any woman you wanted if you were free
but here I am walking around and you
behind there and you love me. you do.
your words pull me through each day
like a good hymn or strong coffee.
I’m glad the warden reads your letters
before I get them. I wish everyone
in the damn world read them so they’d know
what kind of man I married. they can laugh
if they please. I know they think I’m a fool. folks
have stopped believing in what the love
of a good woman can do.

full moon as viewed from the window of an airplane attempts to explain a few things

it was nothing like the time she went
to Judy’s even though the dishes sat dirty
in the sink and no hot lunch ready
for tomorrow, laundry collapsed
all over the bedroom. it was beneath that,
and purpler. all the liquid in his gut
fouling, the wires in his arms
going static. when she screamed
another plate into the wall, its holocaust
of pieces each with at least one thumb-
sized rose, the pattern her mother insisted
was classier than the white he wanted, exploding
and he didn’t think the word holocaust at all, all
the letters congealing to a tumor the size
of Florida in his chest and he knew
this time he’d kill her. this time
there’d be no post-ER peas on the eye
in front of the TV mea culpa where that knot
in his chest unfisted into an older, more familiar
ache saying nothing you do is enough while she listed
again the reasons she should leave his sorry ass
while condensation from the peas marked trails
through her foundation and soaked the neck
of his old football jersey, the one she wore to say
she wasn’t going to leave him tonight, no tonight
the moon leaning through the window pushing
pieces of plate into some version of a planet
the man the woman the scream standing panting
in the kitchen the woman walking to the bedroom
starting a small fire with an old jersey for kindling
so he’d have to choose between them so she could walk
from the house a sharp piece of moon in her pocket
the scream lying naked in the kitchen take a taxi
to the airport buy a cheap ticket going one way
to somewhere now even the moon wouldn’t name.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

the dead who do not make the news

rebel. a half-heaven, not enough.
try to rip off the wings, never mind
the sting, nothing to what the old bodies
knew. yes, they remember some. no,
they don’t want to talk about it. not
who are these dead? to you. dead reporters
what do they want? have no pull, we want
a front page spread, photoshopped lipstick, hot
like new blood. like a gunshot
what could they do to get it?
in a small town, not a rifle, not a squirrel
on the highway, not a back alley job gone wrong
nobody anybody make it her voice, give us
her words
gave a shit about anyway
but a full-on somebody loved me somebody
was there with a flashbulb and steno pad
somebody wrote it down someone remembers
there are stranger things in heaven
than this
it’s about the alley’s anonymity
from jump. that nobody even heard me fall.
what is the larger question here? the day I went,
seventy women in California notion: acceptable losses
blinked up at men with death scaling their teeth
through risk assessment you can evaluate the losses (human
lives or material value) expected within a pre-defined return period of
for the last time. and of us one, just one, scored more
where is she? than the page eight police blotter. I don’t
begrudge her. good for somebody
to get it. but I’m putting in for a return.
dig
the return’s a tricky thing. never sure where
or what you’ll end up. hope it’s somebody with pull,
somebody who’s somebody if you know
what I mean. but maybe you just end up
a girl again, maybe worse off than you were
is “girl” a strong enough word? is that what
we mean? whore?
before. new scars
don’t make you new, to whom
are we interchangeable? you know. but this
half-way house heaven’s worse than a slap,
worse than a slow wound refusing to heal
put your hand here. feel it pulse? no doubt
put us here out of pity, I know
I wasn’t pure. wasn’t close to good but here
I’m bored as hell.
where do we go from here? maybe make me
a dog. something that gets hugged
regularly, gets to run. gets petted
what does this have to do
with romance novels?
and fed, live in some
uptown brownstone with kids and a yard. not so small
I’d get kicked, not so big they’d make me work. just right,
whom can we (legimitately) blame?
some love and three meals a day. that’s a life.

Monday, May 09, 2005

{alternate title: in trying to write a poem for my sister's wedding I instead return to the seemingly confessional style from which I have attempted to refrain of late}

after all of this, fire

even in love, or sleep, when it seems
fingerprints could mesh, geese
in a V, undifferentiated, the way touch
is unrecorded, almost every time

bless the skin that keeps us separate, witheld,
all organs wobbling in place, a kind
of concert, locusts in the trees, a hymn

should we learn from the swans to mate
for life, wind our two necks in the pond,
so many bendable straws, learn ferocious
defense, the disarming guise of purity?

life is long, we have no wings and little
but our stains to recommend us --

let us not be pure or whole but flagrant
and honest, tragic when need be, laughing,
approaching each other our flawed palms open
knowing it is this distance that binds us

2

knowing it's this distance that binds us
what might we swallow, a dancer
on fire, stagelights descending, the photo
of your mother's great-grandfather standing
in a field, the scar on my shin
from pulling the doberman off that cat
in 1992, years after you'd severed
that engagement to the woman (no joke)
named Temper who threw dishes
with regularity, months
before I first slept with a man I didn't love
on purpose, first practiced the indifference
that would make us, eventually, possible

3

at first blush, we're not possible, a story problem
gone sideways: if train X travels at 27 miles per hour
and train Y has a locomotive of bees, what happens
in Pittsburgh does not stay between borrowed sheets
but inches outward one denial at a time

if A befriends B whose best-
intentioned gift of apples arrives bruised
to the verge of rotten, where does love
leave its toothbrush

if B replies with a crate
of spent fireworks can truce be called
and the valley again grow fertile

which is to say, not all apologies are audible

4

if scent is the strongest sense memory
why is it always the faces (the lips)

never give a mirror as a gift

5

call it gluttony that keeps us here,
a last appetite for the ache that whiskey
doesn't fix, a wound-hunger
no one bed can sate

but we arrow toward center again
and again, bless the edges but hold
to this spot-on love that doesn't worship
the moon for her changeable shape

but for the stone behind, solid
despite all appearances / we think the moon
kisses stars behind clouds and at each

eclipse, their smaller lights
searing new craters which the sun
with her big fire / can forgive.


Friday, May 06, 2005

my friend Cherie forwarded this to me, and to this I say: yes, what he said.

Excuses, excuses:

How the Right rationalizes racial inequality in America
(part I)

By Tim Wise

As published in The Black Commentator
Issue 137 May 5, 2005

Whenever I write an article about racism, or give a speech concerning the
ongoing reality of discrimination in the labor market, I am assailed by
those who refuse to believe what virtually any study done in the past two
decades confirms: namely, that people of color are not seeing things, nor
crazy when they suggest that racial bias is very much a modern-day
phenomenon.

These assaults typically arrive in my e-mail inbox, within hours of an
article going out over the web, as if pre-prepared long before, and as if
their authors were simply waiting for an opportunity to pick an electronic
fight.

Sometimes their retorts are little more than racist rants about how blacks
and Latinos are lazy, or how American Indians are all drunk. But oftentimes
the denial comes wrapped in far more sophisticated garb than that,
occasionally bordering on the scholarly, in fact.

While some of the conservatives who regale me with their rationalizations
for racial inequality manage to quote a gaggle of right wing "experts" to
help make their case, the claims they forward are hardly the stronger for
it.

For example, the argument that racial wage gaps merely reflect different
levels of experience and qualifications between whites and blacks is simply
untenable, when one examines the data.

Fact is, earnings gaps persist at all levels of education. According to
Census data, whites with high school diplomas, college degrees or Master's
Degrees all earn approximately twenty percent more than their black
counterparts. Even more striking, whites with professional degrees (such as
medicine or law) earn, on average, thirty-one percent more than similar
blacks and fifty-two percent more than similar Latinos.

Even when levels of work experience are the same between blacks and whites,
the racial wage gap remains between 10-20 percent.

Looking at whites and blacks of similar age, doing the same work, earnings
gaps remain significant. Among 25-34 year olds, white lawyers, computer
programmers, and carpenters earn, on average, about one-fourth more than
comparable blacks; white doctors and accountants earn, on average, one-third
more than comparable blacks; and even white janitors earn sixteen percent
more, on average, than comparable blacks.

Although these gaps do not necessarily reflect overt discrimination by
employers - in fact, they mostly reflect the segmented labor market, whereby
whites have greater access to more lucrative clients and companies - the
effect is the same: whites continue to receive advantages in the labor
market over equally qualified blacks.

And contrary to the claims of some, differences in black and white wages are
not the result of different cognitive abilities or IQ scores. The results of
over thirty studies confirm that test scores and other academic achievement
differences can account for no more than three percent of the wage gaps
between whites and blacks.

The two most common excuses for racial wage inequity are age and geography:
excuses popularized by black conservatives like Thomas Sowell, and repeated
ad infinitum by white reactionaries like Abigail and Stephen Thernstrom.

Since blacks are, on average, younger than whites they will earn less, so
the argument goes; and since blacks disproportionately live in the South - a
lower-wage region of the country - they will earn less, even if there were
no racism operating in labor markets.

Regarding age, though the median age among whites is about nine years older
than the median for blacks, and although persons who are older typically
earn more than those who are younger, this fact does not explain differences
between white and black earnings, and even to the extent it is a factor, it
cannot be separated from the issue of racism.

First, even when whites and blacks of comparable age are compared, wage gaps
remain substantial. Black men with college degrees earn, on average, 20-25
percent less than comparable white men, even when they are the same age.

White families headed by persons of every age group are far better off than
comparable blacks, and indeed a black family headed by a 45-54 year old is
3.5 times more likely to be poor than a comparable white family, and twenty
percent more likely to be poor than a white family headed by someone who is
twenty years younger!

Secondly, the older median age for whites is due to a larger number of
elderly citizens, which is the result of longer life expectancy. But of
course, life expectancy itself is related to racism, so age gaps between
whites and blacks hardly qualify as an independent variable to explain
income inequality.

As a number of studies have documented, blacks routinely have less access to
high-quality health care, and also suffer from discriminatory treatment at
the hands of doctors. Even when health care is available, doctors are less
likely to order a full range of diagnostic tests and treatments for black
patients than for whites, even when these patients' finances and insurance
coverage are comparable to their white counterparts.

Even when comparing blacks and whites of comparable age, sex, severity of
disease, geographic location, and other factors that could influence the
quality of medical treatment, blacks are sixty percent less likely to
receive a coronary angioplasty or bypass surgery to relieve a serious heart
condition.

As one study found, doctors presented with identical patient histories and
symptoms overwhelmingly refer whites for more advanced treatment. According
to the study, which presented doctors with videotaped patient interviews
(actually actors trained to pose as patients with identical medical
histories and symptoms), doctors were far less likely to refer black women
for aggressive treatment of cardiac symptoms than white women.

When asked to give their impression of the actors (whom they believed to be
real patients), doctors routinely said they perceived the black "patients"
as less intelligent, less likely to follow doctor's recommendations and thus
cooperate with a treatment regimen, and more likely to miss appointments:
this, despite the fact that the actors had made identical comments and had
presented identical symptoms.

So, if whites have a longer life expectancy, and if this is due in part to
racially disparate provision of health care, it is absurd to claim that the
younger average age of the black community explains racial earnings gaps,
independent of racism, since the age gaps and racism are intimately related.

Even racism experienced outside the realm of health care is correlated with
negative health outcomes. After all, the biggest killer of African Americans
is high blood pressure leading to stroke, heart disease and kidney failure;
and high blood pressure has been shown to be associated with experiences
with racism.

Additionally, there is a significant reason why median ages for whites and
blacks, despite their disparity, would have virtually no actual impact on
median wages for either group, and thus would be incapable of explaining
racial earnings gaps: namely, the younger median age for blacks is caused by
a disproportionate number of youth in the black community relative to
whites. But neither the elderly whites who skew white average ages upward,
nor black youth who skew black average ages downward, have an effect on
median earnings for either group. This should be obvious since neither white
elderly or black children are generally in the labor force, and thus are
incapable of affecting the earnings of those between the ages of 15-65 who
are.

The only real issue of importance in terms of relative white or black ages,
and how those might affect earnings, is the relative ages of whites and
blacks who are actually in the labor force, or potential labor force, which
will generally mean those between 15-65.

If anything, white workers are probably a bit younger on average than black
workers, for two reasons. First, white teens are more likely to be working
or looking for work thanks to greater job opportunities. Indeed, there is a
persistent 15-20 percentage point gap between white and black teen
unemployment rates. While whites are only sixty-five percent of persons
15-17, they are seventy-six percent of such persons with a job (thereby
affecting wage rates). Likewise, blacks are fifteen percent of 15-17 year
olds, but less than eight percent of such persons with a job.

Secondly, blacks are more likely to work longer into their older years,
thanks to having less accumulated capital and thus being unable to retire as
early as whites. So, if anything, the median age of those in the workforce
would likely be higher for blacks than whites, which means that using
conservative logic, the older average black workforce should earn more than
its younger white counterpart.

According to Census data, 66.5 percent of whites and sixty-six percent of
blacks are between the ages of 15-64: the years of typical labor market
eligibility; sixteen percent of whites and sixteen percent of blacks are
35-44 and fifteen percent of whites and a little more than twelve percent of
blacks are 45-54, the peak earning years for those in the American labor
market.

In other words, the median age differences for the cohorts whose potential
presence in the labor market might actually affect wages are not capable of
explaining the substantial wage differentials between blacks and whites.

Finally, some dismiss claims of discrimination as central to the earnings
gap, by claiming that disparities are largely a function of geography. In
other words, because blacks are concentrated in the south and because the
south is a lower-wage region, naturally blacks will have lower median
earnings.

But where blacks live is hardly a variable that is independent of racism:
after all, blacks are heavily concentrated in the south due to a history of
slavery and sharecropping that was disproportionately concentrated in the
southern states. As such, to whatever extent geography plays a role in lower
black wages, it is impossible to disentangle this reality from the history
of racial oppression.

Secondly, although there are earnings differences between families living in
different regions, these differences are far smaller than the observed
racial gaps. The region with the least blacks, for example, only outstrips
the south in terms of median earnings by about a thousand dollars annually.

This is far below the typical racial gap between white and black families,
which is over $15,000 a year.

In truth, black median incomes in every region are lower than median incomes
for whites, so that even if one controls for location of residence and only
compares like families, racial disparities remain.

As a parent, I have learned how readily children will offer virtually any
excuse for their own misbehaviors, some of which can be quite creative, even
comical. While such prevarication can be endearing when practiced by a four
year old, it becomes quite a bit less amusing when practiced by so-called
social scientists out to debunk what all rational persons realize, and what
all the best evidence demonstrates: namely, that racism is far from a thing
of the past, and that whites continue to receive substantial privileges and
preferences in the American labor market.

Tim Wise is the author of two recently published books: White Like Me:
Reflections on Race from a Privileged Son (Soft Skull Press) and Affirmative
Action: Racial Preference in Black and White (Routledge). His website is
www.timwise.org and he can be reached at timjwise@msn.com.

You are encouraged to write to Mr. Wise for footnotes to this article.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

do not let this universe regret you.

Monday, May 02, 2005

{revision revision revision}

is this for her? or for me? does it work? I'm so plagued. is it totally inappropriate to give this to a 3-month-old?

gratitude (a blessing)
for Foercia Molloy

to be both-legged, spry. pleased
to know plaid from damask. laughing
a little at the ad for sugarwater and cognac,
the train tunnel smelling entirely of sweat
and fish. give us this day. thirsty for metal,
the face which is the face you've earned.
both-armed, releasing. to kiss until the kissing’s a cavern
you can paint your name in, light a small fire and sleep.
to spring rhythm in nightclubs and defer all advances.
to whistle at streetlights until they flicker
with recognition:: it is all body: it is all body.
to give yourself Christmas on consecutive Saturday mornings
to be certain enough about one thing to be hated / you have
no stones. your glass house is a temple built entirely
of acrylic where you worship the medium-sized gods
governing the quotidian, just enough toothpaste, a new
camouflage t-shirt, dust. to be dumb lucky enough to have
enough. to be molecularly sound but know nothing
of neutrinos though they skim through your bones and the Empire State
with near-equal alacrity. to know only vaguely that dark matter not only
surrounds us but proves all currently accepted principles of physics
wrong. to trust gravity regardless to rope you to the planet
like a couch to the roof of a Chevy or a toddler flat asleep
on the shoulder of a woman leaving the train late
on a Tuesday / to be sighted, even if bifocal. to be touched
awake, to be hectored into believing touch is more
than mythology pretending to skin, to grieve. to leave
and return new-palmed, to heal. to paint mustaches
on the monsters in the closets in your dreams, to swear
that rustling in the next room is only the building
settling around you like skirts and not today’s newsprint
front page / to be alone. often.
watching your breath blossom like fog over the pier
as the sun drowns to rise again like a saviour
in a fable / to be a redhead
if you want to. to have work,
be it the breeding of penguins
or sewing the last bow on every kite-tail
in the factory / to know the number of seconds
between lightning and thunder drop approximates its distance
and hold to that / wounded and rebounded as we all live, to beat
vivid, to know hum of asphalt, refuge and you steady
headed towards it.