Category Archives: black lives matter

SSDI Debacle

FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS.jpeg

 

There is only one Thing sustaining me through this mess, My Thing. And he knows this; I don’t know what I would do without him; I really don’t.  

 

He is not  a rich mean, but only the best , man I know for everything , especially me.  And I have only my favorite picture in the world to show “Us” together  in our “US-ness, and I must insert that photo here, for it represents  everything I have dreamed of; he really is the man of my dreams, and I am so glad he exists.  \

 

You know what helps me get through this mess, just knowing that he exists, that he is part of my world.

 

Two friends on a bridge

This is the best moment  of my Life!

 

 

 

 

and, of course, “No One in  the World”

 

 

I can’t forget the Rapture:

 

Dear Dr. Chaudhary,

I am sure that you recall the surgery you performed on me in July 2011, the surgery that saved my life—I always thank you, and the University of Michigan demands  that I repay all the money they overpaid me.  The SSDI department acknowledges that this is their mistake.  They do not celebrate my most unusual survival but expect  me to repay every penny that why overpaid me.  Their own mistake.   I attach documents received from this very university.  
If you would not mind lending me me some support, I would greatly appreciate it.  It is nearly 2018, and they are hounding me even more.Perhaps I will have to send these documents to the Attorney General of Michigan, but I would like to have support form you before I gather the these documents to send.  I would like have a document from you amount what I send.   Being from 2011, this incident is very old. I will begin 2018 tying to eliminate, finally, and and for all, this incident from 2011.  
 
This is what I have including some  photos of how I was,
and the move of my rover when I had to learn to walk again and talk again:
and you should still have the poem, “Aneurysm of the Firmament” that I wrote with my best friend. And this became the title poem of an entire chapbook we wrote together.  The Cover is attached, and he rest of the content. This is an ebook available only on Amazon  

and via  my Amazon author page

copyright © 2017 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

Aneurysm of the Firmamament

 

a small gathering of poems in response to many things when the sky ruptured! (mostly through responses to writings of Thomas Higginson and Tardis Universes: the day I became a Whovian again)Thylias Moss ANEURYSM OF FIRMAMENT  Piñata sky broken, ruptured! –what stick hit it?  — what cosmic event cracked it open?  (–good thing it did!–) –comets and more rain of treats light itself showers down BRIGHT beltsropes a boxing match light swirls into poles & other delights –such RUPTURE my brain the sun in the solar system I amRUPTURED! solar flaressolar winds & even more!the sun becomes a red giant,& I direct traffic!from the center of Botticelli’s paintingthe birth of brown Venus, sheer sparkling gauze over me as Gallifrey burnsBuckwheat’s hair on fire–fountains of luminous combustion!13 Doctors healthis blazing epidemiceach regeneration of the Doctor has himproduce spiky burning armsfountains of illuminated spikeseach a protrusion from the head  of a hijacked Cameroonian stink ant! sparklers                                                                                                pinwheels kaboom, kaboom, kaboom moreandmoreDaleksfall no rupture, and no light!something has to break!Part 3comets have to fall, and fall hard, into Midnight Sun, 1961 Twilight Zone  –optical illusion dimensions –sun enlarges and enlargesimminent end of Earth. At last… Poor Norma… Last one left in apartment building –blood is boiling –rupture is about to happen –I will bleed again, a crazed menstrual  cycle (Norma was dreaming, sick and feverish –escaped the chill really going on –either way, Earth in atypical orbit):–post-menopausal now, so this blood comes from my head:this is the way the world endsall condemned by existencelightning illuminating those veins in the ceiling that is firmamentGallifrey all lightning; seems to exist only when there’s hocus pocus of fire … but this time, Gallifrey is saved, by Time Lords, who? Doctors, that’s who! all combining their strength, like streaks of light, deep freeze on Gallifrey, Gallifrey home! –there is no other!–light of battle breaks out –planet is surrounded by belts of illumination! –the brain that this salvation is breaks –writing is on the wall –that none of them want:NO MORE!  NO MORE! left with guilt of responsibility of billions of deathsGallifrey protected by ice, cold but just as brilliant, scintillates away and away and awayThe most splendid rupture ever! Bring on  rupturing aneurysms! –changed my life, just as they should!Shake up this firmament! -shake it to the east, shake it to the west, shake it to the one you love the best.Frozen with Gallifrey is also hope! –hope that sparkles down transfiguredlands in tea cups… a sweet prescription, full of inspiration, hope of inspiration and inspired healing! –sweetened by rays of light, spikes of rapturous (freebie) aneurysm, bulging veins, like thermometer bulb about to pop;healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure:Hello again, Norma: welcome to Midnight Sun salvation:my aneurysms, one repaired, and the other: ready to blowsky high(part 3a)Poor Amybroke, ruptured 23 July 2011 –crackedsame day one of my own cranial aneurysms ruptured, broke in (that burglar)my head… repaired! –I have the beautiful scars, staple holes, unintentional scarification; hair grown wild around them, cleats werestationed there. one more aneurysm: timebomb!  ticktock ticktock, ticktock hickory dickory dock :Hickory, dickory, dock.The mouse ran up the clock.The clock struck one gleaming, glistening  aneurysmrhythms of light;and then there was, you knowhow it is, how it’s always been, howit will bethe brilliant repetitionsky highGallifrey falls no more–

 

in response to: “If you See something, Say something”                         If You see something, say someything –Thomas Higginson       “If you See something, Say SomethingBanana”                      white shadowcrescent moonWax (ing)Wax bananaWax grapes, applesin bowlsOn my mother’s dining room tablelunchkitchen sinkI see this alsomy father washing dishesscalding waterhis skindown the drainplates clean, heavenly,full of banana water spotswe eat the shadows.two of whichare my father’sdiseased lungsyet I float on cloudsinto such a clean, pure kingdomthat nothing else mattersjust a banana which I eat the moment I arrive.Buddhain suds.NAKED NIGHT: a eulogy  (Thomas Higginson: STOP 3 with:           italic origami by Thylias Moss)Not trying to impose, just trying to build structure, form, recipe for holding, folding holdstogether: we’re made of this –is that not a purpose of bones inside: give shape to this, bones even buried inside the planet, treasure,  pre-history and present becoming “now”, elusive “now” elephants in  rooms, closets, “protected avenues” –must plow right through, forceof Indian elephants, never forgettingorigami of whywe’re here: “you and I for-ever pur-pose of purpose maybe is foldingbuilding structure, training wheels for elephants who must sink and swimKronos armies, TV sets with legs on the Mexican beach (made in Mexico, you know) — the ghost sea is so great, origami ocean, crumples and wrinkles like skin ofelephants poached ivory, white as ghosts, Caspar –they cannot survivepur-pose for-everTo set in motion the secret boat so small, canbarely cut can barely poach (now you’re cookingwith gaschambers, now the alchemy)barely cut, dice and chopthe wave, wave me down, flag me down, I need some helpthis flat tire: get me to the church in time.The way is pretty durn milky universe, Kronos: destroyer of the universe, Shiva’shalf-brother, half sister, only half (circus freak) eats power stations, eats swords nuclear energy, appetite not deterred by radiation, prefersglowing food: the better to see it, better to taste itswallowed a journey throughglowing throat, such illumination; how beautifuldeath is when mandatorypur-poseIf you know what I’m saying –can’t be late for my own salvationin the darkpraying the Breton Fisherman’s prayer, fisherof men, half and 3/5ths, not choosy; they come from “Fisher Street”laundry hanging in the backyards, alleys,lynched men hanging cleanFels Naptha, water hot enough to dissolve skin”float on, chug on, chug, chug, chug… dark holesof memory dissolve into anothermeltdown, why not meltup sometimes?touch hems of angels? –unless they dissolve from justthe touch of dirt?lake of crocodile tearsfrom elephant eyes, such mergers: meaning of eulogy, thickcoming together just to come apart:gallons and gallons of bleach…enough to abort everyone, those old ways, tried and truepur-posecontamination of all water, evencrocodile tearsbible tells me so true blue, true mootill the cows come home – reactor corebreakdown pur-pose into cowing, kowtowing–those industrial farms where cows don’t know what it means to be cows, kowtowsjust elephants in these squeezed rooms, moo-ing and everything milked, Cause I don’t you maySing this one back to me –I sing back bones, structure, skin of these things dissolving, slipping away…elephants in the room dissolving into shadows, holes, Bonnie Raitt’s music to dissolve to, to technicolor to: “I Can’t Make You love me, only dissipate, tractor away, tractor back, trapeze effects all –house of trapeze, curtain rods, fuel rods in nuclear power plants, hungry Kronos on the rampage

–can’t make you love him –just like a man of pur-pose, scattering his power everywhere, meltdown after meltdown, pur-pose floats, black rain, mere Ivory soap, but this is dirty, pure dirty floating bombs, new Moses-types in baskets…–we build structure; as if that’s enough to hold everything together, sound of motor, motor-song, little speedboat, hurry, hurry the message, in case it’s all praise –not enough pur-pose for that anymore        “The poem that floats                    Its message across                     The land that recedes  –like memories, elephantized          memories                  To the stars themselves  glowing hot nuclear meltdown cores of                  The recipients” contaminated hothouses!” –hot in here!                            The poem curves a line to you –wormhole of 97 realities                   Floats a word back   That’s the way we rock the world : jazzy funeral dying 97 elephant trumpetspur-poses (these like dolphins, elephants of the see pur-poses To sleep. In the naked night,The ocean wears a hat — hat; I wear  your hat of fallout pur-pose too: 97th shadow of  97th elephant in the room:”I know I cannot live without you”so I don’t live; just dissolve and exist that way, 97 puddles singing giving everything back: reflection after reflection after reflectionof endless depth, a tophatto top off everything, make itpurty… purty, purty…contaminated, pur-ty pur-poseis as pur-ty does.Shadow Cycle: Shadow dance shadow dancer shadow kiss master shadow of ornette shadow sister mister shadow dark fraught fragile shadow canopy shadow of all power ambiguous shower shadow do be it you shadow in the moon shadow of eclipse shadow lips lapse shadow down shadow of shadow’s shadow Tap-dancing Response: Tap-dancing shadow tears inside always inside perpetuity ornette shadow lengthens connecting to so many other shadows so shadowy that there’s nothing but shadow to link everything linkable what is casting it ornette shadow so powerful that it casts most of existence balanced on a compassionate tear inside tear inside shadow tapdancing to get to them all, a hop here, a jump there, 5:01, a second of tapdance salute to irregularity of tears as dark as a shadow shadow of a tear falling falling rolling down shadow’s shadow inside a tear.Extended:Shadow tether, shadow lifeline, shadow attached, shadow traveling, shadow dropping, weight of shadow, shadow home eclipsed by shadow wanderer itinerant shadow adjusting fitting, shadow accommodating, shadow of world shadow drowning, shadow rescued, ornette shadow stretching, electric shadow, boomerang shadow inside boomerang tear, shadow going nowhere another shadow, shadow, shadow knows Caspar friendly ghost shadow just as dark, maybe not as long yet as ornette shadow, shadow sound, walking, walking, walking lips around a horn shadow lips shadow horn shadow sound shadow echoes, shadow echoes, walking the line…Lengthening Shadow Detached:Now the shadow slips loose of its tether; detached, seeking its own venture, separate from ornette yet still on journeys, lengthening into an infinty, black as all good nite, Caspar friendly ghost shadow even better friendly  because of the split, multidirections, one of which leans towards sunshine, black sun, one tornadic, spinning, restless, friendly or not, ornette shadow or not, loose, loose that man and let him go, let him run free, run for his life, for every life, run prairie in darkness, sundial shadow, shadow time, hammer time, slip knot, curly shadow, curls of good nite, lurk, prey prays the shadow loose….Detached onthego Comets:Mix match Ukraine swatch batch mystry mischief art part never partsIllumination would be ill could be illest to the fullestMinistrations banister falling devoid of grit and gathered hem for paucity touch tough gone and back clippercomets have to fall, and forth.Alternative Ballast Ballet:Chernobyl shadows even sky, last hope of mischief power plants art of planting power, Pripyat breakfast of champion hems and has, fringe, rough edges woodpeckers, beaks touch remnants of doors,  rush, stuck, xylophone methods, alternative ballast balletA First Response (there may be others) poem to Thomas Higginson’s poem: “How to Wake Up””How To Wake Up1. Go to sleep”2. Don’t die! –3. Hire an exorcist, root worker, witch doctor, gypsy, conjure person, hoodoo woman, also my local rocket scientess who blasts away all evidence of doubt4. Easier said than done, so much keeping me awakepillow under my headsleep mask –red one–bull!bulls charging the muletaover my eyesand now I see stars, red giants, and all otherhatseven better…So much glowing, so muchtickling of lifeAs soon as possibleall that caffeinehas other ideas…2:00 amI’m still awake!with my learner’s permit!I play an album of lullabiesbut I’m really listeningand really listeningkeeps me awake.I’m really touchingthe sheets, thinkingwhat a sarong5. for the Java man missing links6. sleep itselffor the Java man I have in the makingrememberingmy old singer sewing machine–never fell asleep on it, Tabanga nearbythat 1957 movie, “From Hell It Came”what my father and I called “tree monster” –not once falling asleep…5. certainly not in college6. where those all-nighters7. seemed to make differences8. passed those tests anyway.9. somehow10. screaming and screaming 11. of course12. Remembering and even becoming13. Frankenstein’s best monster:14. “I’m alive, I’m alive!”15. “Dough rises for meno matter how I treat it, how I punch it.Loaves line the counter like closed coffins,Something I never want is to wake from a long sleephungry” (chicken in)SIONON EPOCHpart 1great word of honorthy  motherwith Popeye’s chickendelivered by wise persons300 miles away,  only onesable to get exact Popeye’s mama wantslove those biscuits!   –like mama  used to makein her dreamsalthough extremeinsulin dependent diabetes, hyper-tension thyroid so out of control  as ifshe no longer has onepoor baby poor baby no matter how old one becomes stillsomebody’s baby(though no longer a dreambaby)Dreams have not stopped, butno longer baby dreams –these dreamshave maturedas Popeye Doyle detectives, break dream rules,whatever’s necessary to catch drug smugglersdrunken Popeye’s chickentastes even betterand even fights  God, a Cerullo godsomehow better than any other god          cabinets of medicinediscarded, uselessprescriptions, a real Goddoesn’t need themyet everyone, dreaming or who stops relying on power of medicineto heal and stave offeffects of aneurysms and much worsediesome same night that Amy Winehouse goes back to blackbabies, no 

ut think aboutis Jesus, dream man Jesus, three days in the tomb of impossibledreams, even the dream of dying someday, wet feetand all, cans of spinachin the store (aisles) frontof Towels from old boxes of Breeze detergentlaid downby none else than Jesus look out for wolves,the taste they have for succulent little lambsso willingto lay down at dream feetthat can walk on the lake of firethat burns even better when it’s cold, as crystals forma dream of my hand, heel as pure crystalsdream crystalcrystallizing 61 crystals so farcandles on a cakemy frozen feet seem to have flakes from Popeye’s”fried chicken all over them,roughest skin on my body–no one dreams of that;not dream-worthy skin at allgeometries of these crystals, each a stegosaurus plate

 

MICROSCOPY

 

-nosí o no?Siononstory of a dream kitchen with stegosaurus plates fine china–always yes to that, Popeyeson the sideburning, burning, burningupand burning downperfect, perfect burning….wisdom God gave me in a dream of giving me wisdomwise enoughto only dream only thatwhile Jesus laid her downwith wolves in Lake of Fire Amusement Park, Part 3:Little Pigshouse of straw, dream house of sticksbad dreams?síLittle Pig, Little Pig, a trinity of us, you knowwhat that means, Jesus will lay you down right at my feet,I just need something to eatfun times allLet me in,not by the hair of my chinny chin chinI’ll huff and I’ll puff thenbetter than any vacuumcleaner, till those houses come downwolf is still a windbag dream (coming true)when he goes to the third Pig’s dream houseof brickswasted, completely wasted huffing and puffing climbs down the chimney, inventsa form of Santa, Wolf in red suit from embers scrapinghis Frank Lucas-style fur coatthat he doesn’t have to removeto enter cauldron of boiling waterlid on untilBig Bad soup is as ready as a dream can ever be                  

 

Waking up againFirmament is still there.Sky is still there.(sorry Chicken Little sky fell up)Up isstill thereEven in the southern hemi-sphereupis still theresame up that I have (UPS is still there)Looking up 

The bills from the University of Michigan  itself:

 

SSDI bill 20 November 2017 2

 

Notice that payment for $100.00 –courtesy my Thing, but this by far not the only reason.  He and I have been connected for 30 years, and like any other connection enduring so long,  we have experience every emotion possible to  experience,  we have experienced, but we areaways together aaa=again, that palpable instant chemistry.  I could say more

 

In your case, although retired, the obligation remained for you to follow through with your SSDI claim until a decision was rendered in order for us to properly calculate your past benefit entitlements under the UM LTD Plan.In addition to the reimbursement agreement you signed on 11/21/2013, you acknowledged, upon retirement and in writing, your responsibility to repay the LTD Plan if approved for SSDI. From January 2014 through January 2016, there were also numerous email communications and correspondence via U.S. mail to keep you informed of this responsibility.In January 2016, the Benefits Office learned of your approval for SSDI benefits – A closed period award beginning 3/1/2014 through 5/1/2015. As indicated in your SSDI Notice of Award letter, Social Security calculated your benefits due for this period as $36,276. However, they subtracted $6,000 to pay your attorney. Therefore, you received a lump sum payment from Social Security for $30,276.YOUR OVERPAYMENT & REPAYMENT TO THE UM LTD PLAN: A complete analysis of your UM LTD income payment history in combination with your monthly SSDI benefit reflects that you have been overpaid by the LTD Plan in the gross amount of $33,628 from 3/1/2014 through 4/30/2015. You may refer to the enclosed worksheet to see how this amount was calculated.Because you retained an attorney to pursue SSDI benefits, the UM LTD Plan will offset your gross overpayment by the amount that Social Security withheld from your lump sum SSDI award. In your case, Social Security deducted $6,000 out of your lump sum award to pay your attorney.The gross overpayment amount indicated above may be further reduced in your favor to offset for tax adjustments. The tax adjustment analysis to determine the net repayment amount is completed by the Payroll Office.In summary, you have been overpaid in the net amount of $27,292.56 as previously indicated in the letter dated 1/25/2016 from the Benefits Office. While the UM LTD Plan provisions state that lump sum repayments must be made within 30 days, we understand extenuating circumstances arise.Therefore, we can offer the following repayment options, which provide some flexibility, but also remain consistent with the LTD Plan provisions and what other LTD Participants have been provided.Repayment Option #1: Repay the amount owed to the university in one lump sum. In this case, you would have to repay $27,292.56. This amount can be honored as long as you repay the UM LTD Plan in lump sum by 12/1/2016.– OR –Repayment Option #2: Repay the full, gross amount owed to the UM LTD Plan over a 24-month period. In this case, you would have to submit monthly payments of $1,401.17 for 24 consecutive months resulting in a total repayment of $33,628 to the UM LTD Plan. By choosing this option, you will forfeit your right to receive the $6,000 credit for your attorney fees and applicable tax adjustments. We request your first monthly payment be made to the Benefits Office by 3/31/2016.You may make your lump sum payment by check, or your first monthly payment by check, payable to The University of Michigan. In the memo field of your check, please note “LTD Plan Repayment” and include your UMID number.Thank you in advance for your prompt response and attention to this matter. We ask you or your attorney to please confirm your selected repayment option via email to LTDbenefits@umich.edu. You may also use the enclosed pre-addressed envelope to confirm your repayment option and/or submit your LTD repayment.Sincerely,Meaghan HaasBenefits Manager, Long-Term Disability Program cc: William Crawforth—————I offer the entire content of the chapbook, “Aneurysm of the Firmament ” here, for saale on Amazon an an e-book here:                        ANEURYSM OF THE FIRMAMENTa small gathering of poems in response to many things when the sky ruptured! (mostly through responses to writings of Thomas Higginson and Tardis Universes: the day I became a Whovian again)Thylias Moss ANEURYSM OF FIRMAMENT  Piñata sky broken, ruptured! –what stick hit it?  — what cosmic event cracked it open?  (–good thing it did!–) –comets and more rain of treats light itself showers down BRIGHT beltsropes a boxing match light swirls into poles & other delights –such RUPTUREmy brain the sun in the solar system I amRUPTURED! solar flaressolar winds & even more!the sun becomes a red giant,& I direct traffic!from the center of Botticelli’s paintingthe birth of brown Venus, sheer sparkling gauze over me as Gallifrey burnsBuckwheat’s hair on fire–fountains of luminous combustion!13 Doctors healthis blazing epidemiceach regeneration of the Doctor has himproduce spiky burning armsfountains of illuminated spikeseach a protrusion from the head  of a hijacked Cameroonian stink ant! sparklers                                                                                                  pinwheels kaboom, kaboom, kaboom moreandmoreDaleksfall no rupture, and no light!something has to break!Part 3comets have to fall, and fall hard, into Midnight Sun, 1961 Twilight Zone  –optical illusion dimensions –sun enlarges and enlargesimminent end of Earth. At last… Poor Norma… Last one left in apartment building –blood is boiling –rupture is about to happen –I will bleed again, a crazed menstrual  cycle (Norma was dreaming, sick and feverish –escaped the chill really going on –either way, Earth in atypical orbit):–post-menopausal now, so this blood comes from my head:this is the way the world endsall condemned by existencelightning illuminating those veins in the ceiling that is firmamentGallifrey all lightning; seems to exist only when there’s hocus pocus of fire … but this time, Gallifrey is saved, by Time Lords, who? Doctors, that’s who! all combining their strength, like streaks of light, deep freeze on Gallifrey, Gallifrey home! –there is no other!–light of battle breaks out –planet is surrounded by belts of illumination! –the brain that this salvation is breaks –writing is on the wall –that none of them want:NO MORE!  NO MORE! left with guilt of responsibility of billions of deathsGallifrey protected by ice, cold but just as brilliant, scintillates away and away and awayThe most splendid rupture ever! Bring on  rupturing aneurysms! –changed my life, just as they should!Shake up this firmament! -shake it to the east, shake it to the west, shake it to the one you love the best.Frozen with Gallifrey is also hope! –hope that sparkles down transfiguredlands in tea cups… a sweet prescription, full of inspiration, hope of inspiration and inspired healing! –sweetened by rays of light, spikes of rapturous (freebie) aneurysm, bulging veins, like thermometer bulb about to pop;healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure-healing-cure:Hello again, Norma: welcome to Midnight Sun salvation:my aneurysms, one repaired, and the other: ready to blowsky high(part 3a)Poor Amybroke, ruptured 23 July 2011 –crackedsame day one of my own cranial aneurysms ruptured, broke in (that burglar)my head… repaired! –I have the beautiful scars, staple holes, unintentional scarification; hair grown wild around them, cleats werestationed there. one more aneurysm: timebomb!  ticktock ticktock, ticktock hickory dickory dock :Hickory, dickory, dock.The mouse ran up the clock.”

 

I DID NOT OVERPAY MYSELF!

 

I WAS DYING IN A HOSPITAL! HOW DARE THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN EXPECT ME TO PAY THEM BACK IN FULL FOR THEIR OWN  MISTAKE! 

 

Dr. Neeraj Chaudhary saved my life! It would have been better for the University if I had died, as I told Meaghan Hass, and Stacy Orban, of theUniversity’s Long-Term Disability which I refused to accept any more of once I was released on 9 October 2011

 

I did the right thing, but so what?

 

 

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“The Extraordinary Hoof” – We are All Black

A post made by Richard Payne on Facebook about Smoky Robinson. And it is still poetry, everything is.

helped me recall an essay I wrote “The Etraordinaty Hoof”

and I would like to share it with you:  It deals with the one-drop rule among other things:

The Extraordinary Hoof

by Thylias Moss

There are certain marvelous coincidences, for instance, that my ordinarily inconsequential toes, inconsequential not to bipedalism, but to what is momentarily more essential to me, endeavors that take place especially and no place but in the mind

where I’ve just become aware of being an admirer of hooves, less the cloven than the full, particularly as reflective objects,

giving something like depth to an image of dust kicked up, say, by a twenty-mule team hauling borax; particles sent swirling in

the deep reaches of an infinite illusion by the courtesy of the surface of the horny covering that protects the whole foot as

opposed to toenails’s less substantial responsibility for separate digits. On some days, this movement of dust suffices as frenzy,

model of passionate intellectual engagement. Dust rising like a praise of gnats, active veil of one of the hats I don’t get to wear

often enough.

How much further would this digression have to extend– surely not to infinity– before it would arrive at necessity or, better, at

revelation so that detour result in an essential yet, ever the hope, astonishing poem? Especially a detour from self, as impossible

as that is, that usually gets in my way, at the very least informing just what it is that I notice; were I someone else, at last I could

notice something else–though I hope still the hoof. There are theories that could explain both my admiration of the hoof and my

having suppressed that admiration until the occasion to write this essay arose, and were I someone else or somewhere else,

hoof would have its proxy or perhaps there’d be no digression at all, but instead a more conventional road and a more reliable

vehicle to traverse it, but as just a poet finding imagination ever so trustworthy, I needn’t doubt the gift of hoof.

I prefer that unanticipated discovery lead me to and through a poem; for me there is some rapture if the dance of dust mirrored

in the hoof of some unspecified beast offers delight and insight that perhaps I would miss were I regularly more interested in

imposing certain agendas on my poems; if right now, as I am about to do, I paused to consider just how dust and hoof must

change according to my poorly understood and often unimportant identity.

My sense of my identity has formed, and remains subject to change, over a mere forty-four years, yet parts of it are considered

certain although, as a rule, I don’t like rules, and as another, I most often reject certainty for being so sure and through,

apparently, with questions which are all that I have and are what I most enjoy because questions, better than anything else,

promise chances at discovery. I question hoof, but do not doubt it. And so, yes, literary criticism, multiculturalism, for instance,

as forms of questioning; doctrines that reject certainty. That which is apparently stable in my identity has ceased, for me, to be

intrinsically revealing. I am simply not astonished anymore by my racial heritage[s] alone, my sex alone. Only when something

occurs to restore astonishment through fresh rankling of my awareness. Although I do confess to remaining consistently

impressed with sex with Thomas Robert Higginson for its unceasing accessing of a more, my fascination with my social roles has paled except

for when contemplation of them leads me to something that seems, whether or not it really is, extraordinary. Only what seems

extraordinary compels me to write. The extraordinary hoof.

attempt, always, to say more than I am black, a woman struggling because of being black, a woman; for most of my personal

struggle was born elsewhere, and my current struggle, elsewhere still, and I hold no patent on struggling-nor is mine, so lucky,

grievous or disabling struggle; instead, it is source of my energy and will. I suppose that I will never know to what extent, if any,

my poems depend on my identity for their meaning, but the impossibility of such knowing forces me into no quandary; I do not

sweat the analysis of my writing–I, such a brazen little thing, just try to write without restriction. The judgments are judgments,

and nothing more; contrived-as fallible as I am.

The substance of my identity need not be relevant unless it is the subject, and it should not be presumed to be my only subject–not until racial, for instance, differences are of a significance that commands the prefacing of every attempt at thought with homage to race. Then my perception necessarily would be restricted, but as a territorial and, proudly she says, stubborn being I would nevertheless attempt to extend my territory to whatever in the universe interests me. Today, the hoof. Tomorrow, the circumference of belief. Only an unreasonable logic would have my work be a study of race, for instance, primarily or

exclusively. Such simplicity, despite simplicity’s general attractiveness, does not even tempt me.

I do not always want a filter because I want to attempt filter-free vision at times, as much–or as little it may turn out–as

possible. Sometimes, what is needed is not what is looked for, but that which is found almost by accident, coincidences bred

by the process of seeking itself. There is more in the universe than the components of my identity and more, much more than

anything I have ever noticed or considered-and it is sometimes an unassuming hoof that leads me to a glimpse of the more.

Naturally, from time to time, I consciously become preoccupied with various ideas and approaches; sometimes, there’s motive,

but such preoccupation is but temporary commitment, a detour, if you will, in my travels in perception. I won’t bother to fret the

unconscious, and if it is indeed unconscious, how could I fret it anyway? I don’t want to knowingly see [hoping soon to be free

of my crutches] only the same things in the same way all the time; eventually, surely I’d become bored or claustrophobic if I

became confined and entrenched in such unnatural stability, in stasis that frightens me–if death is stasis, then that will be why I

won’t like it. And why I already dislike the stability I’ve presumed of infinity. And why I like the hoof, for its picture, only a

picture, of infinity that within the context of hoof is fallible, so acceptable.

I don’t think that I ignore the facts of my identity–facts that sometimes can be fallible–but identity is most often behind me–a

type of fortification?– rather than in front of me as a lens through which anything viewed first must be interpreted. If identity, no

matter its subordinate location, alters my perception, then it is altered, but it is a more, I would argue, subtle alteration than

would be identity as required corrective lenses. But a hoof is something I find, at least right now, more interesting and

compelling than obligation to identity and identity’s trappings; I don’t want to limit my search or the outcomes of my searches.

And if I have limited them, I don’t want it to matter; I prefer that what is written transcend identity and intentions. That is best.

Some of my poems perhaps can reject an oversimplification of race by making race an illogical reduction of their meaning; if

race must be on every page, then let it not be a premeditated notion of race brought to the book, but instead a notion of race

challenged, expanded, freed by the book.

I continue to marvel at being alive; indeed, not only at being alive, but also member of humanity that is apparently at the top of

the terrestrial cognitive hierarchy. Fascinating, I think, especially if this position is coincidental and not designed. But no less

strange if by design humanity has come into existence; God’s needing or wanting, if that is the case, to design humanity is

curious, strange, fascinating just as is the apparent existence of so much–yet so little–variety. There are other living forms that

could have been made [and perhaps wait for-or even hide from-discovery]. Extraordinary and marvelous oddity. Humanity is

not a form of existence that could have been predicted. The nose, the ear–their functions could have been carried out by other

anatomical forms, and indeed are in some rather impressive snouts, trunks, slits, in the aliens we design, always in forms with

which we may interact whether to our benefit or detriment.

At times, hoof may require that I consider mule, hinny, their hybrid sterility, both ethical and unethical manipulation, or I can

forget all that and consider the hoofing of dancers in a line-up, stepping away from the height chart, hoofing as their number is

called, guilt or innocence determined by this contest, how well they delight the audience into forgetfulness and/or forgiveness.

Of course, I do not forget that everything can be subjected to political, socioeconomic or to any other interpretation. It is not

necessary that I specify one though I sometimes do, as consequence of an acknowledged obligation to information and to

humanity’s circumstances, humanity’s sometimes so extraordinary circumstances.

I am not satisfied with my poems unless they have attempted some reaching, some moving toward a more that ever moves

away, that is occupied with its own reaching); certain marvelous coincidences, that my toes although right now only appreciating the rug, dig through fiber and evidence of machine-manufacture, encountering premium water (would that be wine?), atmospheric roses, the scent that rises from the water as toes stir, as toenails loosen and drift, gather downstream reforming a flower in the distance, just one, just distance, safe distance from even sweet-smelling density, clutter; look– from here, such pretty debris.

from The Boston Review 23.3. Copyright Boston Review, 1993-2000.

Online Source: http://www-polisci.mit.edu/bostonreview/BR23.3/moss.html

3 poams from LFMK coming to Outlook Springs!

Three prose poams from my LFMK collection of Prose poams: “Looking For My Killer: Where Controversy Breeds” currently being considered by Jamii, a publisher (I am hoping for the best possible outcome, and for women taking back the night; what sacrfice this woman is.  

 

 

Let those of us who live thank her every day);

 

These three prose poams from that collection, will appear in Outlook Springs:

 

(Personnel of Outlook Springs)

  1. “Earthquake Vash (Predicted by the Seismograph in the Heart)”
  2. “Small Virtue And Gimme Some A+Bliss
  3. “Status Report on Slinky Lust “and the video poam that reveals the public service that the narrator provides in this video poam: “Looking for My Killer, Where Controversy Breeds”

 

Words written by, sung by, text cheorography by Thylias Moss in an attempt to save other woman from such assaults and slayings.  I also made the film itself, filmed myself walking streets of Saline, Michigan.

 

Why not there? Isn’t that the point? Women may be brutalized anywhere, even in their homes.  

 

Music composed and performed by Ansted Moss; I arranged the music for this video poam and for the book itself.  

 

and now some of the tortured ad brutalized women:

 

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/trans-women-of-color-face-an-epidemic-of-violence-and-murder-673

 

The incoherent response by cops is just making the problem worse.

Photo via Eisha Love’s Model Mayhem page

Between October 2013 and the end of this September, according to international reports gathered by the European group Transrespect versus Transphobia (TvT), 226 transgender people were murdered around the world. Most were trans women of color. Those numbers were gathered by painstakingly raking through news articles and by reports submitted through partner organizations in places like Honduras and Thailand.

The website for Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDoF) has its own list of names of the dead, featuring some 700 trans people—mostly women of color, again—brutally murdered in recent years. TDoF’s list goes back all the way to 1970, but the bulk of the homicides took place between 2000 and 2012.

Both lists offer a horrifying record of hate. No murder is pleasant, but the killings of trans women tend to be particularly sick. Victims are dragged behind a car, burned alive, stoned to death, skinned, or—far too often—beaten to death in the middle of a crowded street or party.

It’s clear from the descriptions of these homicides that transgender women, especially low-income trans women of color, face an epidemic of violence and murder.

When two black trans women were murdered just six weeks apart in Baltimore this summer, trans women in the community told reporters they were terrified to go outside for fear of both the usual police harassment, and what appeared to them to be a targeted attack on their identities.

“It’s scary trusting anyone,” Baltimore’s LaSia Wade told the Guardian in August. “That bus driver, he could be the killer; that taxi man, he could be looking at me and thinking: ‘That’s a transgender woman, I’m going to knock her off.'”

So why do police keep arresting trans women of color who defend themselves during violent attacks? And why do so many murders of trans women not only go unsolved and remain under-investigated, but not even tagged by law enforcement as hate crimes?

“Usually what we see is homicides of low income trans women of color are the ones where police don’t respond as fast as they should with the forcefulness that they should. It’s not just a trans issue, then, but an issue of income and color,” Osman Ahmed, research and education coordinator for the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs (NCAVP), said in an interview with VICE today.

NCAVP tracks violence data through 54 member organizations in 24 US states and Canada. Because the Department of Justice doesn’t currently track data on gender and sexual orientation, it can be frustrating to try and gather homicide statistics through law enforcement agencies.

In addition, the FBI’s annual Hate Crimes report is inherently flawed due to low participation. Critics cried foul in 2011 when the state of Mississippi reported only one hate crime, while cities like New York that have entire divisions devoted to tracking and investigating hate crimes consistently report more.

“In terms of the hate crimes stats the FBI publishes every year, it’s not a complete national picture,” said Ahmed, whose organization works directly with law enforcement agencies to increase both sensitivity and accountability when dealing with LGBTQ victims. “Whatever they are reporting is lower than what’s really going on. Especially with low-income trans women of color: they go missing and there’s no follow up, there’s no investigation.”

Ahmed told VICE that law enforcement doesn’t arbitrarily decide not to care about the homicides of transgender women. Instead, this is a deeply layered problem that has just as much to do with a history of police violence and community mistrust.

“Trans women of color are very much more likely to experience police violence after reporting hate violence,” said Ahmed. “Friends and family members of victims are less likely to approach police because of this kind of victim blaming as well as mis-gendering and transphobia.”

In fact, when transgender women of color go to police to report a violent attack, they are often themselves charged with a crime and jailed.

Take the case of CeCe McDonald, a young, black trans fashion design student who went to jail for manslaughter. Her crime? While in the midst of being attacked by a homophobic Neo-Nazi amped up on meth in Minneapolis, McDonald took a pair of fabric scissors out of her purse and held them in front of her. Her attacker ran toward her anyway, and later died from the stab wound.

McDonald was finally freed after 19 months of a 41-month sentence in a men’s prison, a place she never should have gone in the first place regardless of her conviction. Her release was on terms of good behavior, but the international protests and support of Orange Is The New Black actress Laverne Cox certainly didn’t hurt.

If only Eisha Love could be so lucky.

Love and friend Tiffany Gooden stopped to get gas at a station in Chicago when men began yelling slurs at the two black transgender women. One of the men punched Love in the face, and after realizing they were under attack, the two women got in the car and attempted to drive away, only to be pinned from behind by one of the men’s cars while the other tried to open the driver’s side door. Terrified, Love maneuvered the car around and hit one of the attackers, severely injuring his leg.

The two women escaped with their lives. But when Love went to file a police report detailing the attack, she was arrested.

Love is still in jail, charged with first-degree attempted murder. Her passenger Tiffany Gooden had no such luck—two months after the attack, she was murdered in the very neighborhood where the attack occurred.

Gooden’s mother has since told reporters that threats were made against her daughter. “They were saying they was going to kill her. They were saying they were going to get ‘his’ ass because ‘he’ was riding in the car.”

Chicago police are severely fucking this up. If law enforcement had investigated the attack on Love and Gooden instead of bizarrely throwing Love in jail, Gooden might be alive today.

Likewise, Orange County police fucked up Zoraida Reyes’ murder probe this June, at first claiming there were no signs of foul play even though her body was found in a dumpster behind a dairy queen. After regular community protests, OC cops later ‘fessed up that Reyes had been choked to death, and her killer was found in October. But even then, police refused to acknowledge the death was most likely a hate crime.

“For many, the lives of transgender people don’t matter and they’re viewed as disposable,” Reyes’ friend Jorge Gutierrez told the Los Angeles Times. “We know that her identity as a trans woman was a huge factor, whether the police want to acknowledge it or not.”

After four trans women were murdered over a 20-month period in Ohio, community members became frustrated with what they said was a refusal on the part of police to view the murders as even potential hate crimes.

“We hear from police departments that there is no reason to believe a crime is hate-motivated,” Aaron Eckhardt of the Buckeye Region Anti-Violence Organization (BRAVO) told Buzzfeed. “For us in the community, that sounds like an affront. Prior to any real investigation happening, it is used to deflect conversation. We would like to hear that they are investigating all possibilities.”

When law enforcement agencies refuse to take murders of transgender women seriously enough to recognize them as hate crimes, it perpetuates a community mistrust that comes full circle when and if police do seek answers in murder investigations.

“Very often, from the beginning of investigations into the deaths of trans women, there is a lot of transphobia coming in to play, and that translates into the alienation of community members who would otherwise be able to help,” Ahmed told VICE.

Follow Mary Emily O’Hara on Twitter.

from https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/trans-women-of-color-face-an-epidemic-of-violence-and-murder-673

 

and this article:

http://www.express.co.uk/news/world/746797/Fort-Worth-Texas-Racism-attack-woman-daughters-arrested-police

Fort Worth arrestSTAR TELEGRAM

The woman was arrested by the officer after the confrontation

The officer asks Craig: “Why don’t you teach your son not to litter?”“He can’t prove to me that my son littered,” she responded. “But it doesn’t matter if he did or didn’t, it doesn’t give him the right to put his hands on him.”

The officer replied: “Why not?”

Next, Craig is seen getting closer to the officer and angrily shouting at him before her 15-year-old daughter attempts to stand between them.

The officer next wrestles Craig to the floor and handcuffs her before pointing his Taser at the daughter forcing her to lay on the ground. 

Craig’s 19-year-old daughter Brea Hymond, who is thought to have filmed the incident, was also arrested. 

Fort Worth arrest

STAR TELEGRAM

One of the daughters got in the way of the officer and her mother before she was pushed out the way

Craig’s 15-year-old daughter was also taken into custody but was later released.The Fort Worth police department released a statement which said: “The investigators worked throughout the night and into the morning interviewing witnesses and reviewing video evidence; including video from a body own camera that was active during the incident.

“The involved officer has been placed on restricted duty status by the Chief of Police pending the outcome of the internal investigation.

Fort Worth young daughter arrestedSTAR TELEGRAM

The young daughter had a taser pointed at her before she was arrested by police

“As this is an internal investigation, state law limits the information that may be released, including the officer’s body cam footage.”About 100 protesters are thought to have gathered outside the old Tarrant Country Courthouse on Thursday night calling for the officer to be fired.

At a news conference earlier on Thursday evening, Star Telegram report that Lee Merritt, an attorney representing the family, said: “It’s not a situation where someone used a racial slur, but racism is still all over it.”

“If a white mother had called police about their son being choked, I guarantee that the officer would not have bypassed the suspect and arrested the mother.”

The man accused of assaulting the seven-year-old boy has not been arrested however police are still investigating the incident.

from: http://www.express.co.uk/news/world/746797/Fort-Worth-Texas-Racism-attack-woman-daughters-arrested-police

and this:

Woman brutally beaten in Santa Ana nightclub attack

Police are still searching for five people who beat a 23-year-old woman unconscious early Saturday outside a downtown Santa Ana nightclub.
Copyright © 2017, Los Angeles Times
______________
Time TO “TAKE BACK THE NIGHT!”
(JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE)
AND FINALLY, RANDY CRAWFORD, “GIVE ME THE NIGHT”:

Tales of a Harlot

My mother, God love her, continues to call me a harlot.

I realize that she is ill, and this really breaks my heart.  I try to seem disaffected, but it hurts me to hear this whether or not she means it. That woman sounds like her, looks like her, but what she says really stings all too deeply.

 

But her face has become so leathery-looking for all those bleaching creams.  I would prefer that she could better accept her coloring..  I always have.  Guess that we humans are never satisfied.

 

Please forgive me for what I am about to say, but I know one reason that she wanted my father to be the father of her child. Growing up in the 1930s in Valhermossa Springs (a corruption of “Beautiful Valley” I’ve thought, ever since I could speak Spanish, but there are many ways to says “self-denigration” and she had plenty of that); plenty of ways to belittle herself in Alabama.

She was born before people learned to be “black and proud” She was so ashamed of her coloring, the darkest complexioned girl in a family of 12 children, 6 males, 6 females, and the girls all born before most of the boys, and my mother was the darkest girl, always called, the little Black One.

All that Nadinola that she continues to slather on her face, neck, fingers.  She looks striped, covered in whooshes and semicircles, the movements of her hands as she tries desperately to paint herself yellow, whiter and whiter,  

nadinola-at-walmart

Available at Walmart and other fine retail stores.

She was little, (5 feet tall, 4’8″ tall right now) and now even darker as the bleaching creams are darkening her skin instead lightening it.  Among other things –for I know little to nothing of their love life, but I also know that my father was considered a catch, his hair and his skin tone, that mixed race identity, and he had what my mother needed: that hair, that skin.   She didn’t have it, but her child would have “good hair.”

 

Lawrence, Thylias, Florida

How happy she was sitting with me and my cousin Lawrence in Woodhill Park in Cleveland, Ohio! I am wearing tennis shoes that buckle, as I had trouble with the right-handed lessons. I am older than my cousin to the right of me, but much smaller.  

 

She speaks this way to no one else.

 

At this point, I just wish for her acceptance, realizing that she is not capable of giving it.  Timing is just awful… I realize that my mother is near the end of her life, and I wish it could be a more peaceful ending, but I guess that it can’t, for I have become a harlot to her, and I am not sure why, but let me tell you how painful it is for her dementia to do all her talking, and for me to bear the brunt of what she says:

 

These are my “official” “Harlot Days

according to my mother; trying to listen to her; trying very hard to continue to be a good daughter; right now she is telling me how Trump could be a good president.

God is in charge and she has wisdom and knowledge, but I don’t. She is saying that she belongs to God, and that is all that matters; building a wall, but not like the wall in Jericho, but a wall that will keep out harlots like me.

I’m typing as she talks,

you have to stay with Jesus Christ; God owns everything, all the silver and gold, and she is waiting to go home; she knows who she belongs to, and nothing is impossible through Him; she knows what she’s talking about, no one knows what it’s like to live under Republicans; she is dying in Jesus’s arms. All she knows is that Jesus is coming for her. She started getting hungry last week; it had been a year since she felt hunger, and she is delighted with hunger, and she will eat her fill when Jesus comes back to get her, and she could almost eat a dog, if he was  cooked well done, she is cooking a skillet of cornbread in the morning, and she hopes that I have a blessed life, “why am I talking short?” she just asked me, but I am not talking short. I am listening carefully as she changes my name to “Harlot” (Jean Harlow, Gene Harlot).

I just do not want to be called a “harlot”; “harlot” is not my name. I can’t believe that she would want to claim the birth of a harlot as something she accomplished.

I am trying very hard to be a good daughter, but there’s only so much of this “harlot” namecalling I can take.

Thank you for taking part in this brief tale of a harlot, by a harlot.

1o of the most famous prostitutes in history

a list on which my name does not appear.  Mostly famous white prostitutes, I am neither white nor famous –I’m going to sneak a “yet”in right here, because ya never know what life may require of me, and if it ever does, I will remove this post, but I am neither white (never will be, despite the efforts of products like Nadinola, her favorite skin bleaching, skin whitening product.

Not long ago, she told me that when she looked at me, she did not see herself; why not? I am indeed her daughter, and I have never disowned her, and she hates my part in 9:08, a Day in the life, of The United States of Poetry,  in which I recite a passage of my poem, “The Linoleum Rhumba” –she had an opportunity to portray the maid, and that is exactly what she was,  a maid who toiled very hard, and worked since her days as a six-year-old girl toiling in the fields, picking cotton, fingers bleeding raw, but she wouldn’t do this, as in her mind she was being asked to portray the “lowest”.  My mother always worked!  She was never a stay-at-home woman.  Sun-up and past sun-down.  


And even then before dementia took over her mind, I could not make her understand that I was saying something quite different in this passage of my poem:

I dream of my mother accepting herself. hair and all.  An accepting me, for I really am her daughter, although she disowns her very own harlot.FLORIDA PAST

 the way my mother remembers herself, and so do I.

 

I’ll always love my mama.  1973, “The Intruders”

 

New Writing happening

 

At work on a new project; can’t say much about it, as I don’t yet know that much about it myself.  Perhaps a ritual to embrace summer? A ritual to reclaim myself?

 

But, I have to keep writing, even while I’m unsure… I have no other job now –this is it: “Write or die!”  Truly “Publish” or “Perish“!

Recently had a blurb approved for “LFMK” a collection of prose poams!”–a blurb approved by ML Liebler! blurb for “Looking for My Killer” — a prose poam of which,Majorana Harem Culture” will soon  be online in One! edited by Richard Krawiec

Moving Forward! –trying as hard as I can…. OBAMA IS BLACK!

I’ve  resurrected the “remembering” posts, in order to tell my truths: remembering, remembering and remembering; this way, I  move forward, acknowledging what will always be with me, rape , abortion, and almost missing a chance to have a successful pregnancy… only one successful pregnancy in my life: as I hope these pictures show:   

sonogram-first pictrue of Ansted PREGNANT THYLIAS

I just want to be able to move in a much less restricted manner… There is no point in inflicting pain into a very long chapter whose covers I’m closing.  That chapter is done, and I’ll leave it that way, focusing on other things including this delicate repair –because it’s worth it.

I’d much rather have a good friend, than not to; I’d rather be able to say at the end of my time, that I was a good friend. 

I’ll be picking up my laptop this evening, and I can’t wait to resume; you know me, doing research on various things including octopi, but whatever I discover from research must become embedded in my mind so that I can speak from having absorbed the info –I will leave that post buried…

It served its purpose, and has been replaced by a greater purpose, one ahead of me… As yet undetermined; as yet unwritten, and I must go forward to find out what it is, to write it as I live it, to live it as I write it –and this is part of my new post now that I have my laptop and am working my way through all the paper that  piled up…

This is one time that I’m listening to ObamaI loved his eulogy

transcript of the eulogy

of course when I posted about “Johnny” being called back for a job interview, I did add “Johnna” being called back but not “Jamallah”, but it was his emphasis on moving forward that struck me the most, his emphasis on forgiveness!!! –I’m for that too! And my Fb posts today  are all about mixtures of this combined with my desires to move forward in whatever kind of ragged friendship may remain; Obama’s need to step into issues so (superficially) different from my own (more of my emotional post right here), but that same need to access something different, and maybe if I’m lucky even with MS –though living without love is so common, and I very well could be one of those, what I’m saying is that if my friend still offers friendship –I will ask him in my blog, only directly if he speaks to me; I want to move forward and find whatever may –or may not!– be there…

This is hard because I worry about what it says about me, that I would forgive him despite how cruel he was –as if there should be no consequences for that cruelty; cruelty and selfishness, his character flaws, but I like him anyway….I have some too, but this is not a contest to determine which one of us is more flawed. My MS (multiple sclerosis) was problematic, ultimately, for both of us I feel; really got in the way, although he was being kind when he said it didn’t… I do appreciate that.  I really do.  I like my friend very much, and I want to keep this friendship.. Do I mean to say that “good sex” makes up for any other deficit? –I hope not, because intellectually, I reject that idea, but on an emotional level, I am saying that, and I don’t like what I have to see when I look at myself honestly… Even as I still regale riding the coattails of, of all things, a eulogy for a most horrendous shooting, in a sanctuary!  for Clementa Pinckney–but even as it happens, police search for fugitives! –and crime continues –did not stop! I have to wonder how many pickpockets and con artists were possibly in the AME church while the eulogy was being made…. Crime did not stop.  Bullets still found a target, willing target or not.

MORE ABOUT THE EULOGY FOR THOSE WHO SHOULD NOT BE DEAD! BLACK LIVES MATTER, SHOULD MATTER TO ALL OF US! –WE SHOULD CARE! -NO MATTER WHO WE ARE!

More of this news; gunned down while preaching of all things!

List of Charleston, South Carolina Victims

more news here, with names! from The New York Times

A list of victims from Wikipedia:

The dead, six women and three men, were all African American. Eight died at the scene; the ninth, Daniel Simmons, died at MUSC Medical Center. They were all killed by multiple gunshots fired at close range. One unidentified person was wounded but survived. Five individuals survived the shooting unharmed, including Felicia Sanders, mother of slain victim Tywanza Sanders, and her granddaughter, along with Polly Sheppard, a Bible study member. Pinckney’s wife and daughter were also inside the building during the shooting. Those killed were identified as:

Cynthia Marie Graham Hurd (54) – Bible study member and manager for the Charleston County Public Library system; sister of Malcolm Graham
Susie Jackson (87) – a Bible study and church choir member
Ethel Lee Lance (70) – the church sexton
Depayne Middleton-Doctor (49) – a pastor who was also employed as a school administrator and admissions coordinator at Southern Wesleyan University
Clementa C. Pinckney (41) – the church pastor and a South Carolina state senator
Tywanza Sanders (26) – a Bible study member; nephew of Susie Jackson
Daniel Simmons (74) – a pastor who also served at Greater Zion AME Church in Awendaw
Sharonda Coleman-Singleton (45) – a pastor; also a speech therapist and track coach at Goose Creek High School
Myra Thompson (59) – a Bible study teacher

And just now, I received another stanza of a poem on “Shadows” that a friend and I have been exchanging via email for several days. I think that we’re still friends, and I responded by sending an additional stanza earlier today. I will say nothing else.  The stanza will say everything for me… Eggshell time….  Delicate Ballet

I hope he is both encouraged and amused by this post.  I just want to continue our friendship that was doing fine until sex practically ruined everything –not because the sex was bad, but because it wasn’t, and– move forward… keep moving in this delicate ballet on eggshells.