#eboni hogan

[trustlife2day]

Eboni Hogan’s embroidery 2020(IG: the_wreckshop)

Nottoway Plantation in White Castle, Louisiana 2025

Art imitates life- Life imitates art.

[victusinveritas]

May Nottoway Plantation's ashes always be soaked in piss.

And nothing of value was lost. Literally. Not a damn thing. You can't walk anywhere in the South without tripping over one of these Italianate monstrosities devoted entirely to people who owned people and now used as wedding venues for people interested in 'White Southern Heritage.'

[luvmesumus]

[aloneforeverwithoutyou]

Eboni Hogan

[lifeinpoetry]

Too much soft brutality, too much bathtub depression.

— Eboni Hogan, from “Cardi B Tells Me about Myself,” published in Poetry

[therisingfog]

Cardi B Tells Me about Myself

By Eboni Hogan

Dear Frustrated in Flatbush, Gurl, just go on ahead then. You waiting for your Daddy to give you the thumbs up? Do what you like. Do what makes your ass happy. They gon’ call you all makes and sizes of hoe anyway. That’s how this thing been set up. But just cuz they name a thing a thing, don’t mean it ain’t still named God in some other language. Your fortune cookie say you poppin’. You a full spread of good shit. Your rotten wisdom tooth. Your pockmarked shoulders. Those eyelashes ain’t come here to talk about the weather. You the hottest day in July and every fire hydrant in this city is written out to your name. Whatchu dead fish for? Whatchu call that stroke? Drowning? Baptism? Gurl, you betta lick that collection plate clean and stop pretending you just got off the first canoe from Heaven. You ain’t nothin but a big bowl of sweat rice. You wring your left thigh, they call you Vintage JuJu. They like, “This some kind of nightmare?” And it’s just you, smoking a blunt in the dark, cackling like rain. Like your grandmama at her ain’t-shit husband’s funeral. Bitch, you been a woman. This ain’t new skin. Slap some Lycra on it and call yourself a predicament. You ain’t just somebody’s meal plan. Pull back your hair and eat. And look at this muhfukka, sittin across the table, lookin like he wanna bite you. Tonight is tonight and tomorrow might be somewhere else, serenading some lesser bitch. Throw his ass a bone and stop worrying about your credit score. You stay banging your tambourine to the wrong hymnal. I’m sure they had names and inescapable mouths but what your ex gotta do with this? Why you still got his body in your linen closet? That’s nasty. Bitch, keep your house clean. You crying over spilled dick. Gurl buh-bye. Getchu a free refill. You too black for indie film housewife. You too naked for conversation like this. Too much soft brutality, too much bathtub depression. Why you always got your neck swung open? Free throat don’t pay for your boy’s sneakers. You already know I don’t even sigh for free. Shit, I stroke a shallow strobe light, inchworm down 4 feet of greasy pole, and I still don’t feel like any less than a miracle.

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Cardi B Tells Me about Myself --Eboni Hogan

Dear Frustrated in Flatbush, Gurl, just go on ahead then. You waiting for your Daddy to give you the thumbs up? Do what you like. Do what makes your ass happy. They gon’ call you all makes and sizes of hoe anyway. That’s how this thing been set up. But just cuz they name a thing a thing, don’t mean it ain’t still named God in some other language.

Your fortune cookie say you poppin’. You a full spread of good shit. Your rotten wisdom tooth. Your pockmarked shoulders. Those eyelashes ain’t come here to talk about the weather. You the hottest day in July and every fire hydrant in this city is written out to your name.

Whatchu dead fish for? Whatchu call that stroke? Drowning? Baptism? Gurl, you betta lick that collection plate clean and stop pretending you just got off the first canoe from Heaven. You ain’t nothin but a big bowl of sweat rice. You wring your left thigh, they call you Vintage JuJu. They like, “This some kind of nightmare?”

And it’s just you, smoking a blunt in the dark, cackling like rain. Like your grandmama at her ain’t-shit husband’s funeral. Bitch, you been a woman. This ain’t new skin. Slap some Lycra on it and call yourself a predicament. You ain’t just somebody’s meal plan. Pull back your hair and eat.

And look at this muhfukka, sittin across the table, lookin like he wanna bite you. Tonight is tonight and tomorrow might be somewhere else, serenading some lesser bitch. Throw his ass a bone and stop worrying about your credit score.

You stay banging your tambourine to the wrong hymnal. I’m sure they had names and inescapable mouths but what your ex gotta do with this? Why you still got his body in your linen closet? That’s nasty. Bitch, keep your house clean. You crying over spilled dick. Gurl buh-bye. Getchu a free refill.

You too black for indie film housewife. You too naked for conversation like this. Too much soft brutality, too much bathtub depression. Why you always got your neck swung open? Free throat don’t pay for your boy’s sneakers. You already know I don’t even sigh for free. Shit, I stroke a shallow strobe light, inchworm down 4 feet of greasy pole, and I still don’t feel like any less than a miracle.

[therisingfog]

They gon’ call you all makes and sizes of hoe anyway. That’s how this thing been set up. But just cuz they name a thing a thing, don’t mean it ain’t still named God in some other language.

Cardi B Tells Me about Myself

by Eboni Hogan