obama

he got me up
and helped me to believe in
change.
I rallied and rose to his call.

now he says goodbye.
and I weep

believe in my ability to change.

that's all he asks of me.

What's the Queen Bey gonna do about it?

Miss Bee, Queen Bey
I found you today.
locked and loaded and got down into the grit of your lexicon
liked it,
loved it
and loosened my tongue.

I shaped the fingers around the light
spun and swatted at the power left behind
rocked the beauty and the badness and the bold
the art of mud and might takes hold.

You may consider me a white girl appropriating, who the fuck is she, kind of priveleged pony hopping part and piece and particle of snow
but here's what I want you to know
i know something about
that face in the footprint, end of the rope hopelessness
betrayed by my own shimmer
and bound by my own honor
to crawl, skinless, through a savage goddess empty briar
singing and screaming.

I saw my father called nigger with a fistful of sand
and I twisted in a tangle of confusion about who I should save in that moment.
when the moment before my father was a searing lash of rage struck at my own dumb brilliance, an emboldened inferno set loose on my paper soul.
I know the knowing of labyrinths with no escape.

I've been loved and left and betrayed and lied to and connived against and folded and discarded and abandoned and neglected and forgotten and disassembled and reassembled and disassembled and reassembled just for sport by women and men alike. I know cruelty. I know the outside. I know the wander without ground. I know how to bite bullets and pull shrapnel from my own skin. I know the art of self surgery without anesthesia. I know how to wield a sword and reclaim my own birthright.

You know it. or you wouldn't be able to write about it. sing about. pull the Goddess herself in so fiercely and let Her dance you. You know it.

You are a voice that sounds the alarm to all the sleeping...She is back. Be ready and Be fierce.
You are forgetting someone important. Something vital and so full of Her that you yourself run the risk of smoldering if you turn your cheek on this one.
The helpless. The voiceless. The teachers of us all. The ones who remind us of who we are. The animals.
They are the muses for you when you roll and rage as you dance and connect to everyone who is your fan. They feel and see the animals through you.  Through you they return to the wilderness. The wildness. The true nature of being alive and human.
And, yet, you participate in their pain and turn the terror on them for your beauty parade. Your exotic shoes made from endangered animals; their suffering is your branding. You are no better than a slave owner, permitting, condoning, celebrating and ignoring the wholesale exploitation of somebodies that you think of as nobodies. They are, in fact, a thousand times more powerful and wise than you. A thousand times more important than you. Or me. We are nothing without them. We are lost. When they suffer, we suffer. It goes on and on.
They hold the reminder of our own souls.
You are in a position to change this paradigm. To stand for the exploited. To bring them to the light and advocate for their rights to life without suffering or cruelty or slavery or imprisonment. You can be that voice.

Do it, fierce woman, do it.
or else, you are nothing but a shadow of bullshit.
The Goddess will find someone fiercer than you.