Plankin'

It's not offensive, it's funny!!!!
like nooses hanging embarrassment in the closets of my ancestors
as long as we build those nooses out of ignorance
and claimed innocence we can be the jesters
of a history that has always been a joke
so lets laugh it up in black face wearing yarmulkes and big noses
eating watermelon in striped pajamas
with numbers replacing our names and stars on our clothing
chuckle as we play cowboys and Indians
and paint our clubhouses concentration camp red
call ourselves immigrants
wetbacks, niggas, problems
because we are a country built on humor
did you see that strange fruit hanging from that tree
wasn't it funny to watch a man die at our own hands?
didn't you laugh when Tyler Clementi's sex tape debuted across your computer screen
and even harder when his obituary appeared in your newspaper?
Yes! we are the laughter that gets stuck in lungs causing them to collapse
we are the gaps of breath that sneak into veins and stop hearts
funny how laughter tastes like overdoses on pain pills
how it smells like pools of emptied veins
how it sounds like guns cocking in mouths
how it looks like dead bodies stacked up not worthy of graves
how it feels like WANTING TO DIE!!!!!
its what makes us different
our laughter
the way we can use it to strip souls of their worth
the way it sneaks into our egos & silently birth desires to fade into it's echoes
to be forgotten when it ends
laughter has always been hatred's best friend
as they skip to the lou
hand in hand whistling tunes
that sound like the melody of crackling wood crosses
so forgive me if your caricatures of black people as monkeys don't tickle my funny bone
if i don;t chuckle at your stories of conquering lesbians with your penis
or your planking on balconies doesn't double me over in laughter
my sense humor has always been a bit dry
my smile a bit strained
my laughter laced with paranoia
wonder how many ha's it takes to get to center of pain
how do we build our laugh tolerance to learn to take things at face value
how do you convince a poet that words just are?
how do you convince a people that actions are meaningless
how we rip apart things that should be seamless
like emotion and laughter so that we can get the joke
learn to separate the fire from the smoke so that we can understand the fuel
never mind the blackened lungs and blistered hands
caused by pulling apart ourselves in order to understand
or maybe we should pull out our nooses and untwine the rope
stare in a mirror until we find ourselves in the joke
then we should be able to play our laughter in reverse
and recognize the muffled cries in out varying pitch
taste the death on our tongue before it rolls off our lips
feel the pain in our hands before we unclench our fists
or we can keep laughing through gnashed teeth and dead eyes
hiding beneath our bandwagons and lies
because as long as somebody can laugh
its not offensive!
it's funny!
RIGHT!?!?!?!?!

©, 2012, Tiffany "Spokenheart" Shack

Untitled

days like this look like addiction to me

they smell like answers we never know or secrets we keep

&& ur eyes have never looked greener

as corporate America tries to convince me my pockets must be leaner

if I dare to convince u of ur worth to me

but we both know what the power of money conceives

so.....I was thinking this father's day I would write

u a poem of all the words that kite

between us over the past decades

but then I realized it takes

alot more than a pen to translate for mutes

alot more than crushed trees to draw out the truth

we are dear voiceless beings blinded by chance

&& cursed with lame hands

wondering if at time it was ever more

than an exchange of money for sex behind closed doors

more than business that occurred on a motel room bed

dressed in cheap floral spreads

that reeked of heaven with price tags

that looked like the white lines hidden in cash

yes we wonder if life was lost or formed in that sweat

or if lips will continue to not be able to recall the regret

of not being able to forget

that we can’t leave everything behind on the trip

someone has to make use of the unclaimed baggage

we can’t all come wrapped in our neat little packages

&& no matter how vivid my imagination

you will never visit me in the narration

of the dad from Crooklyn with short bread & ice cream

with tall tales & bigger dreams

no, you will never be more than a session

of genes intertwined in domination and submission

we will always be grasping hands filled with space

while I dream conversations within which u will describe the taste

of cocaine and other men

or what it was like to be held so tightly by sin

did it remind you if visiting somewhere exotic like hell?

with a get out of jail

free card tucked neatly under the bills u negotiated as her worth

do you ever look at a condom and wonder what you may have birth

were you careful not to leave behind enough to search?

hoping black women would be smart enough to know dirt belongs under rugs or in closets

in pre frontal cortexes lodging

we are memories never meant to see flesh

&& u r a superhero at best

teaching me the value of invisibility

sometimes wishing I could teach others to see me

the way you do, not at all

or only when nostalgia stalls

you as you open your wallet to pay a bill

moments when life forces you to be still

&& wonder if money ever looks like more than dead men's faces

does it ever look like children that hold traces?

 of men they'll never meet

or like question marks that treat

them all too familiar like mutes

like blind pompous smirking clues

I even wonder if I sometimes catch ur scent in money

if our fingerprints are trapped in the same dollar bill, running

back and forth betwixt us daring us to make a connection

tempting me to start writing confessions

on every note that leaves my hand

Dear John letters bordering bills to the only man

I think would care not enough to read it

probably cursing some old man who would keep it

thinking his daughter was finally ready to forgive him

we are Morse code eyelids double taking at the living

wondering if that was us

or just

another dollar bill in emperor's clothing

you know, it’s kinda funny how u got me to loathing

my origin, always been a love-hate relationship with currency

&& honestly, I currently

hate it for being so obscure

for never holding the cure

for anything I ever saw others looking for in it

including the resolve to a story never finished

or maybe I should just accept it

a dollar bill is all I’ve ever have to represent

ur role in my existence

u were a man who met a woman without resistance

wooed with promises of nirvana && took a trip

then disappeared before she could slip

out of her trance

connect with land

&& reveal ur deepest secret

u left ur souvenir at the gift shop, && she decided to keep it

©,  2011, Tiffany Shack