The New Oral History at Hand

And so we transition

Back to oral histories

Until our fingers forget symbols.

We will listen

And share

And never mind the others

And their stories;

Their truths.

We will close ourselves in chambers that echo into soundbites.

Taps of repetition

On your frontal cortex

Until the pains are those you feel comfortable managing.


Do you hear the story

In your hand?

Truth is in an algorithm

And a skip.


Damaged Skin

Damaged skin


Like the color of your voice the first time it danced my name.

Strung on time and tales

Lost in a far off place.

Damaged skin

Not far from my mother’s

lonely coat.

Torn apart and put together again.

Patches in her sleeve taught me

there was nothing left to cope.

Damaged skin

A rage of vibrations cast a thunderous applause

For the damaged skin you left me in

When you left me in the dark.

A Moment

Forgive me.

I left chocolate ice cream stains beneath your chin.

I wanted to indulge in your young soul for a moment more than socially appropriate.

A precious memory to be sewn into my long term and yours for the time being.

Over time you have retreated; waning your womanly characteristics into the child your mother must have known.

In a bittersweet, didactic daydream, I connect with your mother. I washed your hands and cleaned your face with the napkin.

At this moment I know I have exactly four minutes to collect.

To learn the fast facts of your history, ancestory, and memories, before the reset button functions without fail.

One moment to use the tongue your mother bestowed because you forgot the one handed to you in school. Tell me of the mallet that whipped a whisper.

Lend me one moment to tell me of the time you left your future husband on his knees for weeks, begging for your hand to please.

And let me steal a moment to remember when you found religion at the bottom of a sack of carrot seeds; hands blistered by the weeds and threw care to the breeze.

Lend me a moment more to collect these memories so that I may be a record for the family of the grandmother who lived in the moment

Because that’s all that ever existed.

Days like These

Days like these

We worship.

We worship it,

Not for its perfection,

But for all the moments we wish we could have taken back.

For all the words we should have inhaled instead of spewed.

Days like these

We sit on our thrones alone

Because power comes at a mighty lonely price.

We practice our goodness but never quite get to genuine.

It’s days like these that remind us where we are.

Who has come before us

And how we will pave the way for the others.

Days that are long,

And slow.

But worth every hustling minute.

We will remember the glory of these days

Not for its perfection

But for its purity.


I saw you crying once. 

Outside of the bedroom late at night.
We had washed up after a party and dragged in the same old, bitter fight. 

Who was I to you? Why couldn’t you show?

So here we are:
You on the livingroom floor.
Me, peering through a crack in the bedroom I wished wasn’t ours. A hallway of mirrors fall between us and we cannot reach each other through our own reflection.
We would only see ourselves.

Manipulative Man

He brushes his hair with the rough palm of his hand as he surveys the room over the brim of his glasses.

With one raise of an eyebrow, he unbuckles his jaw and lightly licks his bottom lip.

Surveillance is his key to survival. We are all pawns to his purpose — and believe me, he has control.

His survival instincts are different than yours or mine. 

He can never be sure who is a threat. He doesnt know you yet, 

but he will. 

He subjects himself to submission just to facilitate the flow. Unwinds the bait and reels in your ego. Keep your enemies close.

Keep them wanting more.


Roots thick as blood

Tied to the vows of the womb we shared

A woman’s bond coiled in cold intentions.

Suffocate a moon-time flow of a new direction.

Heartbeat in the background Tells us of the time we do not have.

Regressed by a memory. 

Drowned by a dream.

Is my psyche playing tricks on me? 

Blood and memory  – 

The foundation of the altercation.

You. My legacy’s contention.