Saturday, July 18, 2009

"... I like to think that for that moment, they were stretched out to become a painting, a poem, something for me to design and be and focus on as the world is shaped not by my fingers but by my hopes and I become so deeply embedded I merely forget I am working, reading, eating,..." Disjointed memories in Malik Wilson's first memoir are captured with poetic grace and artisitc mastery. Chronology has little place in teh recounting of bit and pieces of dialogue. Every paragraph is like a correctly answered question by a classmate that you knew, but were hesitant about raising your hand. Malik gets the credit for describing ever day epiphanies and descriptions of love.
With aloof intimacy, Malik uses the physical body to describe teh ways in which humanity digests very day joy and pain.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

You really wanna know how i feel about this book? Your book. About that, you should know it's a love affair. It started with a bottle of Rioja and a bowl of store-bought, no butter popcorn. I moved to the back porch and to the front stoop, to my bed and back to the couch. And cried.
It's the moments you pull perfectly from that mess of a kitchen drawer, finding a double A battery among old rolls of tape and loose paper clips, years-old sharpened pencils and magnets with pictures of your face- an older version of a younger you.
It makes me say, yea, I may love you and maybe we'll be married in ten years but then you'll come home on a SUnday afternoon, sweaty from a weekly bike ride with a bike group, like an adult fraternity yielding instant friends. I'll be making coffee for you and have a psychological moment with the pause of real time, moves so slow because my whole world just crashed around me. (and that's the scariest thing in the world)
To put it in other words, i read some of your book and listened to a child play a Steinway Brothers piano. Beginner's hesitance. That lingering, unsure sound of a note played. Am I actually hearing what I hear, the shadows of a note made me want to die, made me think of memories, fading in frozen time.
And now, after all this, I have heartburn from my turkey sausage decision at the Hollywood Diner on 6th Ave. I wa s a vegeatarian once but now I chose the Number 2 for it's patriotic promise. Or greasy ease, Easy like Sunday Morning, like that song you put on Michal's Greatest Hits, Vol. 1. The mix I listened to on the floor, rugburns and red pillows. I shaved my legs every day to be smooth for you. But you were late and that's OK. Because I don't bother with razors much these days. Fuck American freedom, I want French liberation in every strand of hair. Because the woman who wants romance, had it once before. Whimsical and unsafe, uncertain, as frustrating as realizing a perfect reunion was just a dream. My bed was once made of rose pedals and soft goodbye kisses at dawn. My wrist was a charm bracelet of dancing moons and, shit, I loved you so damn much.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

I met her when I was a vegan
Her brown skin and black hair told me she liked the water
Her towel gave it away and she swam to me
Heart pouring over cafeteria salad bar crunch
In awe of her honesty
And purity
And open arms
Like an older sister I wanted to hold your hand
And do backflips and the breast-stroke

Sunday, July 12, 2009

falling asleep to music like i did when i was traveling. it makes you forget the inconveniences of a night spent alone...

Friday, July 10, 2009

James,
A name
strong enough
for The Fathers Of...
Like the Father of Soul,
And you, Father of the Block.
Father Of A First Family
Family of Firsts
With unquenching thrist
For Corner Liqueor
But sounds of your watchguard eyes
Chaperone a sober scripture
Louder than the sound of sirens and stereos
You walk
We know ...??????

Friday, July 3, 2009

things you can't tell the difference between with your eyes closed and your rational mind drifting to sleep:
the sound of a lawnmower somewhere outside
and
a swarm of bees flying towards you

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

beads of sweat
like rain on a rooftop
chimneys closed fro the season
rown of red brick stacks remind me of mary poppins
im thinking of an old love
when the new is slow coming
ill think of you, thinking of me
or her, the one
against her ill never compare
against your chest
your heart will beat for a past love
our breath aligning, our hearts out of sync
adn im thinking of moving back to this muggy city
amidst all these memories of curly black chest hair
stuck to me in the summers heat