A sweetie pie with fire in her eyes
I never used to dream until I met you Your beaming optimism slowly broke through I didn't like to smile until I saw your face
Sunna Eris' Golden Veins
The saxophone rages in cigarette smoke with a furious melody battling the singer’s scatting. Grey eyes and chocolate skinned woman struts across the room in meek confidence. She observes the scene of falsified debauchery pretends no one can see them in their acts. Carefully careening the room and she sits up staring at the white-haired woman staring at her. White haired and olive skinned with a smile built with mischief stands with her small bosom pointed up at the ceiling and dances her way to the grey eyed woman. As her white hair caresses the booth’s table like the smoke in the room, she announces “The name’s Sunna Eris and yours?”; grey eyes seemed intrigued and extends her hand to say, “You can call me Kailani”.
I’m getting tired of my dreams
I’m getting tired of my dreams; strangling me It’s torture when I sleep, destroying me Wrapped in ambitions, hearts tryna listen
The sounds of the strokes of a keyboard create a cacophony of deferred dreams amongst my colleagues. I hear the shouts that have become an inaudible blur to my mind. It is 9 a.m. and I am questioning my life’s purpose; like we all do. However, I see my superior skipping his way towards me as if he is swinging a bat and ready to strike at me like usual.
Racial tensions are high in a society that promises equality to all shades of human kind. The small eyes in the mirror have always loved the red in the skin that surrounds it in the summer and how yellow it becomes in the winter; a pride of color but never supremacistic about it. Racial identification has become a highlighted necessity amongst the small minded stuck on over labeling. Within the last few weeks I was physically challenged by a Black male who called me on the slant which honestly surprised me and pissed me off simultaneously. Later only to attract a White Supremacist who chose me to sit next to and discuss how I Black Women should die. Later I was approached by my apparently “Latino” Papa in the street who insisted on calling me Mija in public for his assistance; he was also upset I was speaking Spanglish. I helped him to his location nonetheless. I was also judged for not being “Black” enough by someone else’s definition as if my skin color changes based on my lifestyle and personality I was also reminded that I cannot relate to others because I am only Black and nothing more to invalidate my strange experiences; only becoming another unnecessary experience.
Opening panel: news caster reporting the news of a dismembered Vietnamese man. The reporter is talking about how the man was found in the trunk of his own car.
The Unwanted Epiphany
Change. The unwanted epiphany. The glossing over past choices of what could I and what I didn’t I? It is the breaking of the soul.
Gravid with winsome intentions Not realizing how puerile The deepest of the graves I watch him as he fell Deeper into the zones of all he never knew