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AnasAbdin
we're not kids anymore.
One Nice Bug Per Day
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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@malcolmfriendpoet
BECAUSE MOM DOESN’T SING EVERY SONG BY THE TEMPTATIONS Must be something bad in his blood. Did you feel it— his hands tugging at my scalp when Derek put you on the phone? Did your neck rubber…
I’ve got a new poem in the latest issue of The Boiler Journal!
On the news, / they say there was two seconds between police arriving / and their shooting the twelve-year-old boy. / Twenty-seven inches between them / and a man they’d shoot a year and a half later. / My life is a garden full of unturned rocks.
Check out Label Me Latina/o’s special issue on afrolatinidad. I’ve got a poet centered around Tite Curet Alonso in here!
Check out this collection of poems placed onto the map of Seattle. I’ve got a sonnet dedicated to Jamal Crawford on here, second from the bottom along Lake Washington (the eastern body of water)
Michelle Lin | Foundry
You can trip, flick a switch negative Break the circuit between us But electricity lingers In our fingers Oh you can burn every fuse and refuse Turn your positive minus Electricity lingers
Ode To Prince, or The Day Prince Dies I’m Reminded I Don’t Call Home Enough 1. I’m 12 years-old and Mom puts Purple Rain on repeat as we clean the house, something to get us dancing and dodging the dust as it rises from carpet and counters take these old objects and make them... Read More
I’ve got a new poem up in Perigee by Apogee Journal. Check it out!
I want to talk about white women. I want to talk about fifth grade & dominic jackson...
BOAAT Press is a publisher & builder of books, an online literary journal, a writing workshop & residency host, & a lit focused news source.
El Todopoderoso- La Sista ft. Hector Lavoe
Y’all, I got three new poems up on Winter Tangerine Review as part of their Lineage of Mirrors feature: “Bomba-Blues Dream Sequence,” “Bomba-Blues Noise Report,” and “The Bomba Man and The Blues Man Argue over Who Has to Bury Malcolm’s Body.” I’ve also got a short essay on Tato Laviera and his influence on my work, Julian Randall wrote an amazing Editor’s Note to accompany the poems.
Y’all, I got a new poem in City Arts Magazine. Check it out!
the salsa of bethesda fountain
by Tato Laviera the internal feelings we release when we dance salsa is the song of manu dibango screaming africa as if it were a night in el barrio when the congas are out the internal soul of salsa is like don quijote de la mancha classical because the roots are from long ago, the symbol of cer- vantes writing in pain of a lost right arm, and in society today, the cha-cha slow dance welfare the internal spirit of salsa is an out-bembé on sunday afternoons while felipe flipped his sides of the cuban based salsa which is also part of africa and a song of the caribbean the internal dance of salsa is of course plena and permit me to say these words in afro-spanish: la bomba y la plena puro són de Puerto Rico que ismael es el rey y es el juez meaning the same as marvin gaye singing spiritual social songs to black awareness a blackness in spanish a blackness in english mixture-met on jam sessions in central park, there were no differences in the sounds emerging from inside soul-salsa is universal meaning a rhythm of mixtures with world-wide bases did you say you want it stronger? well, okay, it is a root called africa in all of us. --La Carreta Made a U-turn, Arte Público, 1979
How America Loves Ferguson Tweets More than the City of Ferguson (or Any of the Eighty-Nine Other Municipalities in St. Louis)
by Jacqui Germain The camera-flash séance in the middle of West Florissant searches for ghosts in the street lamps, while black bodies mid-funeral, caped in tear gas contort into résumé bullet points. Our jaws broke open in grief make front page in an article that doesn't mention St. Louis, but will win an award for how the photo makes taxidermy of our trauma. Thank god for the internet, how we've taught ourselves to play mortician with each new name we are given, to pinpoint a single faulty organ, mistake it for the whole body, neglect to even ask the bones for a new name. Thank god for twitter, for the microphones and media equipment, for the scavengers' descent onto a single street, for how they ate our terror and vomited a news story, for the blossoming of our messy grief on television screens for a few weeks. --When the Ghosts Come Ashore, Exploding Pinecone Press, 2016
Regularization Plan for Foreigners, 1922
by Elizabeth Acevedo Trujillo says: I will fix this. And so the man digs the ditches. The dirt packs beneath his nails and when his wife kisses his fingers at night she tells him they smell of graves. He holds her close, his bella negra of accented Spanish, who does not think how a single word pronounced wilted could force him to dig a ditch for her. Some nights, he dreams of yellowed eyes. Of sweat-drenched dark brows. Bodies stacked like bricks building a wall that slices through the sky. Borders are not as messy as people think. They are clear, marked by ditches, by people face down, head-to-ankle skin-linked fences: Do Not Cross. Puedes ser nada disfrazado en piel y pelo? He's learned to turn his ears down like a donkey when the children of Haitians plead, Yo soy Dominicano. At best they're mules, El Jefe tells the dtich digger, who is glad he was born on this side of the flag. This remedy will continue, El Jefe says. And so the ditch digger repeats the instructions like a refrain for cutting cane: aim low, strike wide, look away as the open earth swallows them. --Beastgirl & Other Origin Myths, YesYes Books, 2016
Negrotopia #2
by Julian David Randall Is there anywhere/that does not wish us dead?/Is there anywhere that belongs to us/so completely/that we cannot be buried in it?/there wasn't/so we became the oasis/our damn selves/when the thirst for home/became overwhelming/held our lovers/and said nothing of the desert/except to touch their skin/the way sand sings/across itself/so we were the music too/which means/the silence belongs to us/in this dark fleshed nirvana/this Black place/this paradise/where nobody is ever lost/forever/we made it all/and kept it/every wound/became a returned lover/we gave each ghost a new name/and danced/in the music of it/until the stream of our bodies/grew so thick/we named it cousin/so the sun spilled gold/and we drunk off the horizon/faded off our own thunderous survival/and we did the work of storms/we became a raucous sky/a tapestry of dark clouds/to slake the thirst of the fields/said something will grow here/if nothing else/it will be us --Narrative Northeast, April 2016
