poem 2 of 30
photo by: kwesi abbensetts
It betnot be no
White boys at my funeral
Don’t tell them I died
Draped: A Haiku For Those Who’ve Killed Black Boys (White and Not)
05/03/2012 at 5:06 am (Uncategorized)
Imagined Lives : poem 1 of 30
05/02/2012 at 6:28 am (Uncategorized)
photo by: kwesi abbensetts
imagined lives told by those with no imagination whatsoever
when we tell stories we leave out birds, bees and how to tie head scarves just right so the hair doesn’t look too crazy or there’s no line across the forehead
those imagined lives across the restaurant talking over plates of the only thing they’d eat from who they believe are still orientals
those lives of women who stopped loving those men years ago and gave what was left to the kids
there is never enough leftover for him to get seconds so he eats elsewhere and pretends to want to sit at the table with the woman who lies worlds apart from him at night
this is imagined and pretend
for all i know they could be lovers with no tongues and no grasp for the english language and staring at the well lit artwork at the chinese buffet is how they communicate
these lives
The Sexy Revolution
04/09/2012 at 8:47 pm (Uncategorized)
The conversation began with words describing the ass of my boy’s girlfriend’s roommate. Not so interesting topic, right? Now close your eyes and imagine she’s white. The conversation soon ventured down a dark road no one seems to want to discuss: those counterrevolutionary hoodie wearers. Those who claim to have the fire, but blow smoke only.
Yes. We must keep fighting for Trayvon’s case because what happened was wrong. But the so-called “multitasking generation,” coined by me I think, aren’t able to fight for those who haven’t popped up on their facebook newsfeed. And while I do feel a win for Trayvon may equate to a win for us all, I still feel as though we need to fight for us all.
While cars began filling up to head to Sanford to rally around a house, or a statue or on a street, there were teens being killed just two blocks over. But those murders did not pop up on the newsfeed. We can talk about Ervin Jefferson whose name I’ve only seen twice on twitter. We can talk about David Robinson. But we aren’t. That’s not sexy, is it? If their murders don’t increase my own followership, why talk about them? Why defend a dead boy with no airtime? Especially a dead black boy, no matter the circumstances of the case.
If I hadn’t been in Florida, I wouldn’t have gone to Sanford. I could have easily made trouble for the Charlottesville Police Department for shooting a black boy in his back. I did. But it’s easy to type righteousness about a town 850 miles away in a limited box. Why shit where you eat, right?
And I’m remind of one of my favorite Nikki Giovanni poems. I want to meet up with those taking the half-naked photos in fitted hoodies with sexy backdrops and hoop earrings (all in the name of Trayvon), and start the seduction. And without seeing anything wrong with self, they’d look at me and ask “But Darnell, isn’t this counterrevolutionary?”
The revolution is not meant to be sexy.
The Worst Of My Tomorrows
02/17/2012 at 5:51 pm (Uncategorized)
Tags: darnell lamont walker, friends, happy birthday
I welcomed it with a toast to myself, and to the friends I made just 15 minutes before midnight. 15 minutes beyond the birth of this new age, I was home over analyzing Jay Z’s “Young Forever.” I’m one of those people who can’t keep a straight face when walking naked by the mirror. I laughed to myself, and thought of how great this song is. “May the best of your todays be the worst of your tomorrows” has made its way into my dinner toasts, wedding cheers and a few of my blogs and tweets blogs. “My name shall be passed down to generations while debating up in barbershops.” There is a scene in the film Troy, when Achilles goes to his mother and asks for her advice about going to fight in Troy. Thetis, his mother, says:
“If you stay in Larissa, you will find peace. You will find a wonderful woman, and you will have sons and daughters, who will have children. And they’ll all love you and remember your name. But when your children are dead, and their children after them, your name will be forgotten… If you go to Troy, glory will be yours. They will write stories about your victories in thousands of years! And the world will remember your name. But if you go to Troy, you will never come back…for your glory walks hand-in-hand with your doom. And I shall never see you again.”
I’m fighting in Troy. I’m building up, and creating legacies. That’s what I’ve done. I fear old age as I fear death; I don’t. What I have done with my life up to now is matched only by a small population of people with whom I surround myself. I did not get this far walking with losers. We fight. My mother, like Achilles’s mother, introduced me to the comforts and beauties of home, but gave me the option to fall in love with the rest of the world, knowing I knew nothing about it, but believing she did a well enough job supplying me with the weapons to become a man they are going to write about for generations. Each degree I have will hang on her wall, every book I’ve written and will write will be placed on her bookshelf, my son and every child that will follow will one day sit on her lap. This is what she’s earned because she let me go off and fight.
I’ve fallen in love with the one million people I’ve met since birth. I am the sum total of them all. Of you all. Thank you. Imagine, I’m sitting here smiling, typing this to you, drinking a McDonald’s sweet tea, holding my paycheck, laughing at a joke I shared with a friend last night, and thinking about the unknown, unplanned, but very soon-to-be memorable weekend ahead of me. This is the worst day of my life. The worst of my tomorrow.
“Let us die young, or let us live forever” – Alphaville
