Sunday, March 29, 2015

Hello FAM!

Hey Everyone!

Firstly, how are we doin'?

We eating?

If we haven't done any of these things stop reading and get to that ASAP.

I just got asked to join this blog and contribute to the strong souls and minds who grace the blogverse.

1. I am so honoured
2. I am scared shitless

I wanted to just tell everyone a little bit about myself so that we can all know what to sort of expect on this journey that we are about to embark on together.

I am Black.
I identify as a Womxn.
I am muslim.
I identify as femme.
I curse.
I drink.
I laugh- a lot

These are the things that are the most important to me at this time in my life. Living within white supremacy and trying to survive I am constantly diving into what this all means and how I can protect my mental and physical space in a world that demands that it be ripped apart and burned. I take solace in the story of my ancestors and the history of the blood that runs through my veins (My roots are in Ethiopia btw). While wearing crazy colours in my hair, telling folks to "take a seat, and watch greatness work" and having twerk pits with my chosen family in my living room, I am a ratchet revolutionary.

Wait what?

Yea, your read right.

I am a ratchet revolutionary.

I can listen to horrible trap music, wear black lipstick and break down the spiritual warfare that is happening on radicalized people while getting a fill in on my acrylic tips.

A Ratchet Revolutionary is someone who is not afraid to engage customs of black folk which are constantly appropriated by white mainstream media. They indulge in dirty south rap while catching a flight to Jah Cure. They remember those who are in the hood and use accessible language for everyone but know how to use the language of Neo-Liberalism to defy those actively questioning their existence.
They are black.
They are flawless.
They are intellectually capable of reads that scalp the likes of anyone who dares to fight their movements.
Not afraid to get knuck but always ready to theorize and explore the themes of post traumatic slave disorder.
They live within afro-futurism.
They believe in fully accessible physical, emotional and mental spaces.

This is who I am.

I am fucking awesome.

We are about to talk about real things and learn together.

Intersectionality (how our experiences overlap)
Racism (the fuckery that people of colour have to live within)
Misogony/ Misogynoir (The theory of hatred toward womxn/black womxn)
Anti-Black Racism (black folk get it the worst everywhere, basically)

and a lot more.

Sometimes it might Poetry.
Sometimes it might be essays.
Sometimes just a question.
Who knows- let's just go with it.

I just wanted to let you know who I am right now as I am always moving and growing so that you can know what to expect from me.

Alright- I'm out.

Till we meet in love,

Song of the day: 

So Fresh, So Clean 

Saturday, March 21, 2015


At first
I desired
a lover,
who spoke
my tongue
so we could
be closer.
But you
spoke to me
in a thousand
hidden tongues.
in silences,
in glances,
in touches,
in absence.
You taught me
of lovers
from the wake of dawn
in ways I will never speak
to anyone again.


Like broken glass she stood, shattered. Her presence spread across the room in smithereens, pieces big and small sharp, jagged and piercing ricocheting off the walls, no where to escape.
She stood, sobbing,heaving-yearning for kindness. Anything that resembled humanity. She stood, shoulders shaking, tears streaming and begging without actually holding her hands out. What is it about the pathetic-ness of a person that sometimes makes you hate them even more? Why is pity, sympathy and empathy replaced with a strange and unexpected response of repulsion, anger and agitation?
She used to be pristine. Smooth and shiny, Not a hair out of place, nor an unsightly sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times, she wore composure and dignity like a body contouring slip, custom made. Just for her.

Where did I go wrong? I put her in a box. I put her in a box and sent her on her way. No seat-belt, no cushioning or padding. No Styrofoam peanuts to protect her fragility. No sign that said: CAUTION: THIS SIDE UP. I sent her in the little dingy box with no armour and she shattered. 
She returned broken and glued together, roughly. She looked almost pristine. Not smooth, but shiny. All the different cracks, lines and paths that had drawn into her reflected off of her a thousand and one million lights. Each unimaginably brilliant. 
And so, I thought, she's returned broken. Broken, but healed. Broken, but better.
Hair out of place, her inner pain now reflected on the outside as the bruises, burns and cuts start to show as the sun sets and the brilliance of the lights dim. She is not wearing her composure or her dignity. She says she had misplaced it somewhere along her journey home. All she wears now are her bruises, burns and cuts. She complements it with pearly, saltine tears that can no longer stream straight down her broken face.  
And so she stands before me shattered. Begging for kindness. 
Only she has returned home where I too have shattered and feebly attempted to glue myself together. I reflect her as I always did. 
Pristine. Smooth. Shiny. Not a hair out of place. Nor a sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times. We wore composure and dignity like a body suit. Shattered. Broke. Shining. Bruised. Burnt. Cut. 
We no longer fit into each other like two puzzle pieces. Our jagged edges are a fracas; we disintegrate as we attempt to mash together into one. We crumble until we no longer recognize ourselves or each other. We are lost to each other and so, we are lost.
You are the soil.
You are the consequence/
Of a thousand broken before You/
Without You the crop that women grow would fail/
Without You the homes that women build would falter/
And yet men feel like they can spill all their toxic insides/
On Your surface, to saturate You without thinking that everything/
Everything whether it be Organic or Woman-built/
Would not even have a chance to exist without You/
Not even in the form of a mere flickering passing thought.

-For the women 

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Tell me,
She says,
You’re a poet
But I am not sure
Words are a weaker medium
Than bodies
Or sounds
Or night
The way you recount
Your day to me
Slowly rebraiding my hair
Carefully rolling cigarettes
Or how whispers find
Their way into 
The inner chambers
What do I tell you jaan
I am learning about poems
From you and Neruda
And the protective eyes of waitresses
Yes, learning all over again
Love takes time
So I put in time
With these poems
And poems
And time

Are great dance partners

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

I learned to read poems

I learned to read poems
Before books
Like I learned to drink milk
Before water

Things like milk
From a mother
And poems 
From a father
Will teach you richness

Before endurance 

Monday, March 16, 2015


This is not masterly
These are margin notes
Of a girl 
Sitting in class
Not being able to pay 
Too much attention
Because she would rather
Spend her time
Thinking of you
And indulging 
In her memories
The fluttering cursive
Of an almost woman
A basic brown girl
Noting her introduction
To ishq, 

To love. 

Sunday, March 15, 2015


It is a soft darkness
It is a sheath
Of silk

My sadness is like
It is soft
And noble
Oddly warm
And takes time
To drape

It is not effortless 

Saturday, March 14, 2015

If you don’t learn
From the stories
Of others
You are unwise
But have your face caved in 
One too many times
And you will become wise

I am wise enough 
To ask you
To loan me
Your wisdom
Like borrowing an umbrella
Before getting soaked


Is expensive 

Friday, March 13, 2015


But I am a crypt
Sealed from myself
These poems are my chest
They are how I emerge 
They are how I emerge 
From the locks
And darkness  
And the darkness
And the darkness

But I feel sensitive to light,
It has been dark for 

A while. 

Thursday, March 12, 2015

My grandmother is a vendor
Like her friend next door whose
Friend next door is also a vendor
My grandmother does not sell
My grandmother sells jars
with ghosts
faces without eyeballs
a cold gust of air
Her maid tells us she wants to die
but the sheikh said she wont die
Until she sells her jars
Neighbours are intrigued
Say that this ghost looks like
Fulano this and fulano that
But they never buy
My grandmother’s jars
Her maid says that you can’t sell
Your own ghosts anyway
Says she wishes grandmother
Could get rid of them some other way
Her maid says that you should
Never agree to hold someone’s ghost
Not even for a minute
Because nobody is ever going to take a ghost back

-on rickshaws tumbling with history

To be in love
And spend all your time
Just doing
In love
With love
Isn’t she lovely?
I don’t have to ask,
Excellence is divine 
As is balance.

-- mera piya ghar aaya, sanu allah milaaya

Wednesday, March 11, 2015


There are two prayers I have made
And then a third – 
There are the ones I see answered
This is where I look for fireflies
For moments where under trees
After maghrib
After mama yells come in the house
Because good souls shouldn’t be out in the vulnerable moment of dusk
Fireflies, lighting for a moment,
Letting you know 
of their presence

So I made a prayer and then I was sent the fireflies
Or maybe I made the prayer because I can see them
Not everyone can see them I am learning
Not everyone sees the threads that connect us
Or understands that effect is the child of cause 

First I asked for sisters
I have a mother
But then a father and 2 blood brothers
Arhum the fair one 
Yusuf the beautiful one
And then more with some blood or no blood
Or just light
And these men shaped me
In their performance
Of protection
Of humility 

But I didn’t see that then,
Just that I didn’t have sisters
Who know about what it takes
To have a soft heart
And men don’t often see fireflies 

I asked for softness
Because I sat in the masjid
And saw my mother cry for me
And I could not shed a tear for anyone
Because I did not understand
How love could be so unconditional was given sisters
And I was given softness

And now I make the third prayer
But how I can I ask for so much
Sisters that taught me how to love myself
That I deserve more
And that gold is always in
And that will do my hair
And pray for me 
And sisters who see fireflies
After the brothers did not

And I became soft
And fluid
And was given a pen
And a voice
And the blessing and curse
That sometimes when I say things
People might listen to me
And that I can cry in prayer 
At least for my grandmothers

So now I ask 
For resilience 
I ask I stay this way
That I remain protected as I always have been
That I thrive while being tested
That I strive towards my liberation
That my liberation is always based
In the cleansing of my soul

There are two prayers I have made
And then a third – 
First for sisters, 
Then for softness
And now for resilience
And this is the firefly 
And you are all fireflies 
And maghrib has passed
And we are in this home
And you are bound to me 

Beautifully, beautifully bound to me. 

Tuesday, March 10, 2015


I may end up with white hair
But not past 30

I do not think about kids
Or money
I think I will be fine
I think ill have pleny
I hope I am wrong about my predications
But these are the things I believe for protection

10 more years isn’t a long time,
I am only 20
And this is 2015
I had to make a decision
To relinquish my life vision
To not make incisions
Only decision
That will help me breath

To not make incisions only decisions
To let the ones in my heart heal

I need to stiches to heal
Heed as I stitch my life together
Bear witness to a momentary phoenix
In a tired state of smolder
After the torching of the fire
Bear witness to a fresh page
Bear witness as I testify my oath

I swear to never forget I am mortal
To never test that mortality myself
I swear to endure the forces of this life
And like a glass blower to make art out of grit
To make sense out of senseless shit
So that we harness the fire now
And only in this life and not the next

I swear I will learn how to breathe
To let oxygen fuel fire to be a meteor 
Burn like Audre
Burn the poison from my body and sweat words

So that words pour out of my pores
So that my hardness is refined and melted
For gold
Capping teeth 
Tying knots
Filling cracks in the hearts wells

I pray these words linger just long enough to help you find
The courage I never had
And for the universe
To nod 
And say
You are protected 

Let my words pour
Let them pour like light
I want to be light
I want to be light

I want to be light
My mother is trapped in my lungs
Sometimes You can hear her screaming

And mistake her voice and rage for mine

Monday, March 9, 2015

1 month ago --

[written in the moments after finding out]
[after a vigil, sitting alone]

I am proud of myself in many ways, but at the same time I fear for myself. The killings make me fear for myself and for my family, be it blood or otherwise. 

I am waiting for Isa to come back. I wish she hadn’t gone to that place, I don’t think its worth it; her love is worth more than that. 

Taj knows everything. This is how I know she is my sister. That it is fair for me to consider her family. I let her see things about me, and I let myself be honest with myself around her. It is the only thing that Taj demands of me, is that I be honest. Her password is “I am enough 786!” and that is why I love her. Of course it is her password, of course she is good enough, and look, look how we have more than enough. 


-- chapel hill night



We are lucky
That we forget
Pain so
And emerge
Golden so 
And absorb noor
Like it is our purpose.

Verily it must be
Our purpose
To find noor
And put it in the wells
In our souls
To light the way, 
verily, verily. 


Their path through
This earth


on Sundays 
They leave

In desperation 

Wishing they made

It to Friday


Salaam, I'm new. 
Thank you for having me. 

HAK xx


You told me you have memories
 to keep you warm.
I have memories too, 
They too keep me warm.

Warmth is a miracle. 
Sparks catching fire, miracles,
Flames, miracles,
Smoke, a miracle.

It is grey and bleak outside,
We went outside for a cigarette,
And the artist said,
Look even the wind isn’t blwoing.
We said,
Look it is purgatory.

But I don’t have to believe in purgatory
When youc an say
Such things

So we joke
About spring

We joke about
How there will be
A freak warm day
And we will go to
Hungarian and
Eat a croissant outside
And try to time our arrival
With cheese puffs
Coming out of the oven
While shying away
From waitresses

I am warm with you
In your apartment
The miracle of warmth
Of warmth in a cold place
These moments replay
I watch
Indulge myself
In reliving them
By pen
To take the visceral
And for a moment
Make it tangible
So I can keep it
In my bag 

Or my pocket

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Never fill Yourself
Up with the
Presence of

-Reflections on emptiness