Category Archives: good hair

Wonderful World

I am delighted just to be alive, and to be in love, really in love for the first time in my life, even if I cannot say who  it is.  

But  Thomas Robert does not love me.  Or rather he is not admitting he does. But I will keep loving him. He is worth it and my heart knows who it wants. Forever.

This does not damage love but it does offer some perspective.  Maybe, I love the wrong man, but I don’t think so, and I want to share some info about  the beginning of our romance; it was all so achingly beautiful. Every feeling I had with him was the first time I ever felt these things.  I don’t intend for this to be a praise fest, but there is nothing else that it can be, a real sexual awakening with this man, and I will always love him for that.  

Every feeling I had with him was the first time I ever felt these things.  I had been married for forty years, and sort of thought I  had felt them before, but it wasn’t until this man that I realized by the comparison.  

Believe it or not the first orgasms I really felt were with him.  I was 60 at the time, now I am 63,

I felt this even just from kissing him.

Happened the first time he really kissed me; not the sweet and delicate kiss in O’Hare, but in the taxi.  I could feel what his having waited 25 years to kiss me was like.  This was when I felt  it the first time and every time after that. He is very good at what he does.

I had never been kissed the way he kissed me in my life.  And I had never kissed a man the way that I kissed him in my life.

I doubt that any man could rival was he achieved.  Of course, what I was feeling made me want to do things right then.  He tipped the driver extra for his discretion.  There were so many stares at us as we stood at the registration desk, his arms around me the entire time.  Even more stares when we left the Chicago Institute of Art.  I suggested we go there because I knew his late wife had a painting there.  

And I like art anyway.

When we left and we had walked a few blocks, I told him my feet were hurting so he knelt down and had me climb on his back, and where he placed his hands carrying me was quite suggestive.  Cars stopped. A lot of honking of horns.  And the hem of my skirt, a short skirt, as they all are, the only kind I have; the hem kept rising and rising. I suggested that the look was becoming obscene.  He asked if I were ashamed to be seen with him,  I said, “Of course not; it’s just that people will know  what we’ve done.”  

Then he laughed.  

How I love the baritone dips, those dimpled notes of his laugh.  

“They know what we’ve done, in fact we’re telling them now” as his hands, because of how  he was carrying me were underneath my skirt, and yes, even on his back that way, he was able to manage clitoral manipulation, the crotchless pantyhose surely helped.  

It was quite the spectacle as he carried me on his back from downtown Chicago to the hotel.

In the hotel, I could tell that men were envious of him.  He never looked better to me.  He knew how much I like his facial hair.  Sometimes he is clean-shaven, but I prefer his mustache and a little beard.   I like how his kiss feels with his mustache quivering the way it does.  I won’t even get started on what he can do with his tongue and with his mouth. He made only one request, that I reciprocate.  And I said I would but only if I felt it. I started reciprocating right in the that taxi.  

This is truly how the  physical part of our romance began,

I am one of those older women, 63 years old, with everything natural  about her:  size, weight (100 pounds), hair, no weaves, no extensions, no wig and never a relaxer in my life.  I cannot say why this is, but I like it very much.  I like waking up and feeling pretty,  whether or not I am.  

Let’s just say that when I am with a man, he will know that I will look exactly the same in the morning as when we go to bed.  The man I love discovered this for himself.  He knows more about me than anyone else on earth.  And I do not want to provide those of you who do not naturally respond and react as he does, with pointers, but this man’s style is exquisite, and I would do anything with him, except illegal things.

He is strong the way that I prefer a man, 

but he can also be quite gentle and attentive.  

He knows how to get things done, and forget that myth about the alleged sexual superiority of the black man; (I was married to a black man for forty years, and let me tell you without being crude  that Thomas Robert never was not crude, just sure of himself as he has reason to be); let me tell you,  Thomas Robert destroyed every such myth.  

Thomas Robert did promise  to drive an 18-wheeler full  of condoms down my street. I admit that I am still waiting to see that.  I have no idea how many packs of condoms it would take to fill such a truck, but I cannot wait until I see Thomas Robert driving it,  “We Break For No One” on the side of the truck, “Warrior” condoms or something to that effect Thomas Robert would need something like that—I can’t resist that remark, as what I had with him was by far the best, and not seeing him again —oh I hope not!— doesn’t change that fact.

I have never seen a more good-looking man

We had some very good times, and I am glad about that.  I always accepted you as you are.  Always.  I still do. I just thought it would be okay to inform you about my work, just as I would like to know about you work. I always supported your work, you know. I am a supporter, nothing else. You didn’t ask me if I accepted this, because I do.  I am your friend, not your girlfriend (as I once was).  I do understand he difference.

You didn’t have to unfriend me after 30 years. That is hardly the way of acceptance.  You do not accept me as I am, imperfect as you and learning stuff constantly.  

Thomas Robert said this:

I am in your life and you are in mine. That is, unless you want to sever. I don’t want to, would never want to.

—Thomas

But let’s face the facts.  I stand with him on a bridge to nowhere.  He once said he was all in, but this evidently, is just  not true.  Not anymore, the way I both thought and hoped it was. So this may be my part to finish off what he is ending in a  most cowardly way,

He did write a most wonderful poem for me, and I will always have that,  and the sexual and love awakening, good things indeed.  

Here is the poem:

You are the corner of my eye

            Thomas Robert Higginson

                (for THYlias Moss)

You are my rent-a-poem

You are love jungle — Yoyo, hula hoop!

You are my closing costs

My plasma vibrator my single malt

You? You are my Tampa manatee 

You are my Occupy

You are an eucalyptus octopus

And a haircut on an autumn day

Also submarine. Surreality check. 

You you…! You YOU you!

That’s who. The Temple of Shenanigans,

AKA Shenanigan Temple.

The complete works. The leftovers.

You are what I’ve been waiting for

And now I’ll never wait anymore.

Dream baby, you are, and indefatigable,

That, too. And you are the cream in my coffee,

And you are the one, and you are my everything,

And you are everything I could hope for.

And still you are more, and still you keep coming,

You are coming like a river, like a torrent,

Like an all day-lollipop where every day is today.

You are the Castle of Doubt on the Plain of Forgetfulness.

You are one more and able to laugh it off.

My sunshine, that’s what you are.

A rocking chair and a band-aid. Violin castanets.

An elusive perfume. You are all history. You are

Breakfast and you are on your way and all

I can do is list, name, and hand out passports.

Because you are who you are in a way that is all

Your way and which, as a poet trying to set it down,

Failure, I am a failure in that you will always be

Something to me both bedrock and ineluctable,

A passion of opposition and an unchecked probity

Of Probability and yet a chemical formula not to be

Tested. The Higgs bosun, that’s it exactly. A gluon.

A ramshackle melody. A forgotten memory that

Never happened and when all is said and done,

Actually nothing was said and nothing was done.

That’s why I keep writing endlessly penning, because that’s

Who you are and when I stop, Surprise, you are

The surprise, you are the inching to the summit,

The chocolate razor, the tadpole’s pole and the

Gate to the Fields of the Lord. I sing you praises and

The answer is more like a light fog saxophone, a

Kingdom Come revelation, a hunch that blossoms

To birth a new species. An appointment for lunch.

Some nectar in a tube, a pillow. Like the new language you

Are, if I could write that I would, you in a race car,

A pendulum, a fire tower, a blimp. A pothole, narcissus,

An a capella cantabile, a big bucket of milk. I can run alongside

You but can’t keep up with you, your tapdancing

Shadow, your clothing made of earth and spit. But I know you

And when you wish me Happy Birthday I trade it for yours,

You not growing old, you everlasting, you infinity you

————

A First response to: “You are the Corner of my Eye’

 

             for Thomas Robert

         by Thylias

 

My alpha and omega poem

 

braided into my hair

 

that falls into the poem like breezes,

 

that falls into you

 

acrobatic atmospheres

 

homecoming, prom

 

this poem

 

these bosons of alphabet

 

form my prom, my graduation,

 

valedictory address, where I live now, really

 

live, as if for the first time

 

(inside you)

 

my sense of direction, elevation

 

slow home-cooked meal

 

–poetry food–

 

indulgence, cure for every disease

 

including religion: church of me,

 

apron, radon shield,

(a poem published in Black Renaissance Noir by Quincy Troupe)

copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

in his poem, Thomas Robert said I was “bedrock” —do you realize just  how astonishing that is? “Bedrock” (and not just Flintstones here, but fundamental principles, the underlying structure e on which one may build with confidence.  It is no simple thing to be bedrock for a man, and I am so glad that he called me “bedrock” –read the poem again, and pause on that word, repeat it at least a dozen times. Listen: Thylias Moss is bedrock.  a Backbone, essence, that is what he called me , because that is what I was to him, and I haven’t changed at all.  

I am still bedrock because he said I was.  His poems never lie, so I am BEDROCK, roots, heart of the matter, nitty-gritty, that too. 

Solid, solid,

I remember when he said that we were solid friends; I addressed him as “Amigo Solido” and he said he would never want to sever that. Oh Lord, Thomas Robert said this too:

“I am in your life and you are in mine. That is, unless you want to sever. I don’t want to, would never want to” 

–and yet he severed; I didn’t and maybe he was just fulfilling a  request I made, telling him that I would never be content with him just as a friend, because I would always want more, and that is the truth, His poem said “and still you are more“–just what was I to this man?  It is absolutely incredible.  Always happens when I really read his work, I keep finding more and more and more.  

I know that this is my poem; my name “Dream Baby” is right in it, his poem is the bedrock source for my favorite nickname.  A nickname not to be avoided, so ineleuctable too.  His nickname too, “Higgs” “Thomas Robert Higginson” “Higgs boson” –that’s how well he knows me, to put that in a poem, 

But I want my friend back.. and my friend is gone. I want the best lover on earth back! I will always love him.

And these are my favorite letters from him:

Dear T,

What a moving and lovely letter, what a heart you got, a wondrous one, one that I got to know better, and better, and loved in the way we loved.  A mind that evolved those feelings into literature, into a story for the ages.

And that art means so much to me —and this letter, just as much, meant just for me, explaining me back to me from your perspective, and through your lens.  Our friendship has moved so many places the world cannot contain them all, and still goes on, growing every whichway.

So thank you infinitely for the gift of all possibility and the settling of the words’ world into a mutually respectful and fulfilling friendship. Of course that means ongoing, and how that works with collaborating, mutual performances, seeing each other etc etc —it’s all there, we just don’t know what yet, and that’s the beauty you have given us in this letter.  The truth of it.

It means so much

It means everything

T R

Thomas Robert

Dear Thylias.

You are one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.  You’ve meant so much so deep to me and I just can’t let it go this way.

Loving you, connecting with you deeply via life and poetry, fantasy and caress, was like a new skin.  I wear it, but it’ yours.

You have inspired me, informed me, danced me.  Your beauty is a trauma to quotidian. I relish your attack on life.  I’m in awe of it.

My heart sang to you and you heard and your response, to me personally and in your writing, in our talks and in our shredded breathing,

There’s an electricity of positivity that charges me still.

Its’s a gut kick to me and I know I hurt you which ricochets back and painful.  I couldn’t take it further, Thylias.  I am sorry that the realities of my life —my family, my job, my grief —consume me me in a way that broke the spine of dream.  Were we younger, were I more open, if only I could have put my responsibilities aside and blahblahblah.

I’m a bad guy if you want that, Forker, but when I think about our damn dream time together, relive the drama interplay spontaneity of the performance we did, all we shared and held, for me —

It’s a friendship that I treasure deep.  Always will.

I would ask you to consider this an offer to continue our friendship.  To support each other in a new way.

In any case, know I am here for you, always will be, in a way for us still to find.

Love,

Thomas Robert

As he has a girlfriend now, I am very limited in what I can say, nothing direct to him as he is of the mind that  I do not respect the fact that he has a girlfriend.  Frankly I was surprised; I thought that relationship was over; I had no way to know that it persisted,  and since that’s the way he wants it, I am fine with that.  So what if  I dont’t have the love of my life anymore.  There are worse things that could happen.  And one day, I hope will not love him as much as I do, but who am I kidding? I will always love this man

The last text I will ever receive from him:

Dear Thylias,

It’s not my intention to cause you pain, not now, before or in the future. The fact is, as I’ve said before, that I have had a girlfriend now for over a year, and my silence simply means I have nothing to say since you won’t accept that. 

Please do not write me any more. 

I wish you all the best in your life. 

Thomas Robert

So I am not writing him.  This is posted in my public blog so he may or may not, (probably not) see it.  I will never contact him again, by email, text, certainly not phone.

But I was the one who transcribed his Alaska podcasts.

I was the one who vetted his book.

I was the one who wrote poems with him, for him, to him.  In fact  an entire book of such poems exist, “Aneurysm of the Firmament” says they are by Thomas Robert Higginson, but he does not exist, by that name for real, only for me and Thomas Robert, whom I sometimes call  is real, and at the moment, really hurtful  in a way I can never be, even now, my goal is to  celebrate what was achieved with him.   These are just facts.  

He is  the man I thought he was, the man I  hoped he was, prayed he was,  just not for me, although I still love him, and probably always will. The mask is off and perhaps cannot go back on; if it no longer fits and is just a mask after all. But he looks so good in it, and underneath is the real man I love. He just needs to wake up and join me again. I still wait for him. Always.

I feel very lucky to have had my time with him.  I will never see him again, even to have a proper goodbye. after 30 years of friendship, and the best intimacy I ever had in my life.  In my life. 

I wanted from him something he couldn’t give me despite  promises  he had made,

To which I replied:

“I won’t write you anymore. I thought that perhaps you no longer had a girlfriend, I am impressed by the longevity and endurance of this, really unlike you, the you I thought I knew where shorter seemed your MO.

 

me in his hat

Thylias in BFF's hat

Thylias feeling sexy in Mr. Thomas Robert Higginson’s Hat.

(Thomas hat is in a special drawer of my desk; I love to wear, most because it is his, but I am too embarrassed to ever let him see me in it.  I would identify it only as “Thomas Robert’s Hat” or the “Hat of the Man I Love”.

I would try not to say more, but around him, I am nothing but tongue-tied. It. should be easier for me to talk to him than to any other man on earth, But I have no control at all, when it comes to him.  And that is what scares me; etc. All the fear that can be wrapped in my bundles of complex feelings.  Is this normal for a woman my age?

There is a power that comes from self-confidence, and it’s best when this feeling begins on the inside and works its way to the outside.  Let’s just say that my outside is finally matching my inside. 

I sent him a postcard in which I was wearing the Dream Baby dress from our last date together at Vermillion Restaurant in Chicago, and this is what  he said:

“The postcard got here yesterday. You look like a model.

You write like a gun arrow lightning bolt.”

I had on this dress:

THYLIAS IN HIGGINSON DRESS

Above, two images that Thomas Robert said were his pinup images of me.

And another image he loved of me:

Yhylias Rebecca Brasier Moss -forst dangerous selfie

I know that much is said about the sexual prowess of the black man, but I was married to a black man for forty years, and what I’ve known with Thomas Robert blows every such myth out of the water.

Of course, this is not the only reason I love him, but the way he does everthing, the way he moves, and oh he way he speaks, the way he bends, the way he holds his utensils, there is nothing about him that doesn’t turn me on.  And this man will be 70 years old next year, and I cannot believe that such things stir in my heart with just the thought of him.  I am too nervous to ever face him because of the intensity of what I feel; talk about the way he holds a fork, the way crumbs gather in his moustache which I prefer to a clean shaven Thomas Robert, the apron his beard is for his face, and my god, do I ever love him in hats… And on and on and on…. I hope for forever.  I don’t even want to think about kissing this man. I get all flustered and orgasmic just from the  memories of his kiss.

I have never been romanced such as this man romanced me, among other things,  he wrote  this to me:

You have inspired me, informed me, danced me. Your beauty is a trauma to quotidian. I relish your attack on life. I’m in awe of it.

My heart sang to you and you heard and your response, to me personally and in your writing, in our talks and in our shredded breathing, 

There’s an electricity of positivity that charges me still.”

I feel good about many things, that I am alive, that the world still exists and that there is power to change what we can, otherwise accept the world as we have made it, for it did not get however it is by itself.  

Natural processes cause everything to age, and decay beautifully.  Deterioration can be stunningly beautiful and there is hope  in the natural recycling that occurs, when allowed to.

It tends to be people with whom we have problems, especially those reluctant to receive the bounty that  life gives them.  Be open to receiving good things. I am sure that like me, many of you suspect that you did not earn them.  

I do not feel that life owes me anything.  Instead, I owe things to life! I’m grateful for the opportunity to exist, grateful for the senses I have even when the senses don’t behave in textbook manners, but I can perceive something in some of the many means and modes of perception.  

More than anything, I am grateful that I am not in the world alone.  The world  is meant for sharing, and such sharing often involves love –I have plenty of love to give, and I give it, realizing that I have fallen in love with a man I have known for many years, about 30.  I didn’t set out to fall in love with him,  a friend, probably the best friend I have ever had, and I admit my biggest fear is only that he may not love me now or ever.  I know he loves me as a friend, and I love him as a friend also, but so much more than that now.  This has grown over the  years of friendship.

This is what Thomas Robert said about the two of us standing on a bridge in Chicago:

Of course I wanted it all — I was all in! at least I thought I was. what held me back? what changed my mind? I’d guess  it was all in my grief-stricken past that didn’t allow me to move forward across that bridge. but it’s all just guesses at a past that refuses to be clear. it is a great foto — that time was delight”

Here is that photo, most precious photo of all photos  I have:

Our Usness!

My favorite picture of Thomas Robert and myself; I hope that someday this photo may be shared with the world. Nothing would maje me happier than to be in his arms again.

And my response:

THR—you said that we if “ever became anything the whole damn world should know” —and I always thought we were becoming  “something… special on a bridge partnered with that “new place” for  me in your heart? —and though you rarely say it, “yes us—do you still say yes us?  —I do; I never stopped saying it.  

I also resent well-meaning Fb friends who know nothing about me personally from offering their impressions, “been there, done that” –but they haven’t been me doing that wherever I’ve done “that” nor with whom I’ve done it. I am told that he is “using me”, that I “have an addiction” –addicted to him, of course! I  love that man, and there is no one I can tell except  him, and I should not need to tell him all the time… As a matter of fact, he told me he loves me on 3 August 2016, last year, he told me he loves me in his confounding way of saying things, but he said it, and I resent others telling me that he’s using me.  They are not in whatever  I am in with him, and if he’s using me, that will  reveal itself.  

He wrote this he really did:

Best of the messages of love from THR:

“Thylias,  It is Love & that is all, it is kin and Life itself. 

Sending you strength and Love

THR“

3 August 20

My ultimate response after the poem “Moving Dance of Reduction”, an extension of a poem he sent me: “Moving” 3 August 2016, extended to include “Armadillo Style” —our best collaboration to be sure)

Thomas Robert,,

You know that I accept this.  I like hearing that it is Love. 

I’m just afraid that it might not be love tomorrow.  

I love knowing that it is Love, I need that more than anything… 

As long as it will continue to be love, I am fine.  

No one can say how long it will continue to be love on this Wildest of Rides, but I am glad to take this ride with you.

Thylias

Truth always comes out.

Such as the truth of how I feel about him.

I can’t even look  at a photo of him without feeling things I haven’t felt before about a man, things like lust, and I was married for forty years.  

I try so hard to leave his private life his private life, but I am so expressive whereas he is able to keep things inside himself,;   I don’t dare be around him because I know how I would behave. I have zero control around his man

I  am not going to judge him or give credence to what others say.  I will make up my own mind about him, and trust that he really is the good man I believe him to be.  I will not allow my opinions of him to be formed by others who have no idea of the longevity of the friendship, and if I love my friend in that romantic way alone, then so be it.  You have to take a chance sometimes, and I have taken mine, and I have no regrets at all about loving him, just incredible embarrassment, in case he was unaware, but he is also a very intelligent man; I suspect that he knew this before I even told him, and now I feel all embarrassed because I let him know.  

Trust that the things he said to me he meant and really did feel for a time.  

I would not feel so embarrassed if he would just let me know that he does not mind my feelings for him.  I keep feeling that I am pushing him, as long as I am not pushing him away.  I long to hear him tell me that he loves me again… But he also said: “If ever I change my mind, I will tell you.” And since he hasn’t told me, I assume that he hasn’t changed his mind.  

I don’t know everything about him, how could I?  But I know enough and I know better than to allow others to make up my mind for me.  This is just between my heart and his heart.

It was so hard telling him, but he had to know, as this is the truth of what  feel, no matter what happens I threw caution to the wind as all that wind does is carry my love for him to him… I feel like a teenager again, hardly like a woman in her golden years, and Thomas Robert will be seventy years old in 2018, and I can not even  imagine that I find that old man as sexy as I do, and although I feel so embarrassed by feeling such things about this man, I am too  embarrassed to see him, although I want to see him more than everything.

Just a few of today’s selfies now:

I am not young anymore, 63 years old, but I do my best by doing absolutely nothing, soap and water, a little lip gloss, nothing on my hair except a little  Mongongo oil. During our first weekend together,  Thomas Robert jumped around in that bedroom of the hotel, singing, “mongongo, mongongo, mongongo” –oh read the book if you would like know more:

Offered as fiction, but it is all true. This love was real!as real as anything has ever been.

NEW KISS HORIZON LINKS:

 Link to “New Kiss Horizon” on Smashwords: 

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/683373

 Link to “New Kiss Horizon” paperback on Amazon: 

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss/dp/1540584496

 Link to “New Kiss Horizon” Kindle book on Amazon: 

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss-ebook/dp/B01N1K0PLC

 Link to Thylias Moss Amazon writer page: 

https://www.amazon.com/Thylias-Moss/e/B001JSBOQQ 

Vashtis Blog (narrator of NKH, maintaining a blog so that readers may keep in touch with developments in the character’s life beyond the book):

Vashti’s blog URL:

 https://vashtisblog.wordpress.com/

I love how nature recycles things, cycles of dirt and organic things, death becoming birth becoming death becoming birth again in other forms, some call such cycles evolutions, and he can be negative as well as positive, but the beauty is not staying the same.  

More than anything, however, I love Thomas Robert Higginson!

Manhattan Rain poncho

I am exhilarated and invigorated by variety! I always will be.  I am not in control of what my heart feels, and my heart feels what  it feels for a most wonderful man.  I hope that the likes that I am his, because a lot of men pursue this little old lady, but there is only one man I love, and he knows who he is, and I look forward to the day when I will not have to conceal his name, because he is indeed a real man, and any man looks better when I am on his (Thomas Robert’s) arm 

(or on his [Thomas Robert Higginson’s] back again)

I am so eager about this upcoming trip to Mexico. The poem I am taking ih me is a poem I wrote with the man I love, an extension of short poem of his, but I fond the words so toking and compelling; a poem of his I extended even before I knew that I was in love with him, “If You See Something, Say Something”. Th poem was published in “The Fiddlehead of Canada” and also appears in my romance novel about my first weekend ever with this man: 

The text of the poem:

–in response to: “If you See something, Say something”

                                       –Thomas Robert Higginson

      

“If you See something, Say Something

Banana”

                    

white shadow

crescent moon

Wax (ing)

Wax banana

Wax grapes, apples

in bowls

On my mother’s dining room table

lunch

kitchen sink

I see this also

my father washing dishes

scalding water

his skin

down the drain

plates clean, heavenly,

full of banana water spots

we eat the shadows.

two of which

are my father’s

diseased lungs

yet I float on clouds

into such a clean, pure kingdom

that nothing else matters

just a banana which I eat the moment I arrive.

Buddha

in suds.

copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

I so so happy to be taking a poem written with the man I love to Mexico to  introduce my work to the Mexican people! I am very glad to be able to share this with him in this way, and although “Thomas Higginson” and “Thomas Robert Higginson” are not iterations of his legal name, these are names with great meaning for me, nicknames so to speak, as even  my favorite nickname  of me\yself comes from a lovepoem he wrote to me, “Dream Baby” a poem in my romance novel as “A Trip to the Tienda:

A Trip to the Tienda:

A Trip to the Tienda

by Thomas Higginson

— for Vashti

 

You are my rent-a-poem

 

You are love jungle — Yoyo, hula hoop! You are my closing costs

My plasma vibrator my single malt You? You are my Tampa manatee You are my Occupy

You are an eucalyptus octopus And a haircut on an autumn day

You are firecracker, salt, oil, vinegar Things not supposed to mix

yet do.

You are jellyfish tentacles elongating my back, dreaming of medusans all of which become you, YOU, You.

Also submarine. Surreality check. You you…! You YOU you!

That’s who. The Temple of Shenanigans, AKA Shenanigan Temple.

The complete works. The leftovers.

 

Strangler fig, tiny seeds starting out on branches, tines, grow to surround, encase the host,

leaving only figs to take over

You surround me just that way, take over, connect with me, to me: your host

You are what I’ve been waiting for And now I’ll never wait anymore.

Dream baby, you are, and indefatigable, That, too. And you are the cream in my coffee,

And you are the one, and you are my everything, And you are everything I could hope for.

And still you are more, and still you keep coming,

You are coming like a river, like a torrent,

 

Like an all day-lollipop where every day is today.

 

You are the Castle of Doubt on the Plain of Forgetfulness. You are one more and able to laugh it off.

My sunshine, that’s what you are.

 

A rocking chair and a band-aid. Violin castanets. An elusive perfume. You are all history. You are Breakfast and you are on your way and all

I can do is list, name, and hand out passports. Because you are who you are in a way that is all Your way and which, as a poet trying to set it down, Failure, I am a failure in that you will always be Something to me both bedrock and ineluctable,

A passion of opposition and an unchecked probity Of Probability and yet a chemical formula not to be

 

Tested. The Higgs boson, that’s it exactly. A gluon. A ramshackle melody. A forgotten memory that Never happened and when all is said and done, Actually nothing was said and nothing was done.

That’s why I keep writing endlessly penning, because that’s Who you are and when I stop, Surprise, you are

The surprise, you are the inching to the summit, The chocolate razor, the tadpole’s pole and the

Gate to the Fields of the Lord. I sing you praises and The answer is more like a light fog saxophone, a Kingdom Come revelation, a hunch that blossoms

to birth a new species. An appointment for lunch.

 

Some nectar in a tube, a pillow. Like the new language you Are, if I could write that I would, you in a race car,

A pendulum, a fire tower, a blimp. A pothole, narcissus,

 

An a capella cantabile, a big bucket of milk. I can run alongside

 

You but can’t keep up with you, your tapdancing

 

Shadow, your clothing made of earth and spit. But I know you

 

And when you wish me Happy Birthday I trade it for yours, You not growing old, you everlasting, you infinity you.

Excerpt From: Moss, Thylias. “New Kiss Horizon.” Thylias Moss, 2016-12-16. iBooks. 

This material is protected by copyright.

_________

my response poem to his poem:

A First Response to “A Trip to the Tienda”

 

for Thomas  Robert Higginson

 

 

My alpha and omega poem braided into my hair

 

that falls into the poem like breezes, that falls into you

acrobatic atmospheres homecoming, prom this poem

these bosons of alphabet

 

form my prom, my graduation,

 

valedictory address, where I live now, really live, as if for the first time

(inside you)

 

my sense of direction, elevation slow home-cooked meal

—poetry food —

indulgence, cure for every disease including religion: church of me, apron, radon shield,

spikes of hair, double helixes of braids, words of the poem expand, latch

 

onto proteins of my hair, food poetry chromosomes of a new child incubating in margins: complete peptides

perfect matches, IDEAL genetic codes pearls, apologies, endless apologies to the fine poet who wrote this

for me, my doppelgänger —

 

my poetry food,

nourishment, sustenance, one-a-day, one every day

 

each of your arms is a stanza,

each hair on your body is punctuation

 

:placing us together:

 

compass needles pointing to lovers, science of poetry,

Thomas Higginson becoming true north somehow resisting magnetic north

to be

my gateway to bliss

 

kept for too long undercover.

 

This monument this testament

is forever, and acted out religiously, ideally

and perfectly

 

in a single windy city weekend

______

Excerpt From: Moss, Thylias. “New Kiss Horizon.” Thylias Moss, 2016-12-16. iBooks. 

This material is protected by copyright.

as these poems appear in my romance novel, “New Kiss Horizon”

Cover of NKHIMG_3739

I sent Thomas Robert a postcard of me in the dress I wore on our at daete at Vermillion Restasurant in chicago, and hese images were on it:

Thomas Robert had this to say about the post card I sent him:

“The postcard got here yesterday. You look like a model.

You write like a gun arrow lightning bolt.”

Mexico City Invite

I love all things, and I try to love all things equally, I m not into judgement.  I never was.

But, I do love his man more than anything except my son.  These are the two most important men in my life, my half Bangladeshi son and this wonderful man:

a photo of my son and my son and I 

I am truly blessed! 

Advertisements

“Good Hair” Essay live in Mythos!

airmythos

Very pleased to announce the publication of my essay “Good Hair: an Endordsement of Vanity”  in Mythos Magazine! at this link: https://mythos-magazine.squarespace.com/essays/good-hair-an-endorsement-of-vanity

Please enjoy!

–by the way, I love my hair, and will be going on Wednesday to have my hair done at Penthouse Hair Salon,  561 N. Hewitt Street, Ypsilanti, Michigan 48197.

PenthouseHairDesign

Pat Freeman understands my hair, almost more than I do.

When you visit Penthouse, please ask for Pat.

 

No weave, no extensions, no hair pieces, never relaxer:  100% natural hair.

A clip from the Chris rock film “Good Hair” with which my essay shares a title”

 

 

 

“Good Hair” essay in Mythos magazine

Apparently publication of my Good Hair: essay remains on track in Mythos Magazine illustrtions and everything.  Here are the inital comments from the edios o Myths:

“Thanks so much for your submission to Mythos Magazine. I loved your piece. The richness of your narration was powerful, smart, and unapologetic, and I’m interested in working with you in the coming weeks to publish it for our site. I know it would be deeply appreciated by our readership. 

Let me know if you accept this offer to publish, and I’ll reach out with more details. We have an illustrator for pieces who would likely do some accompanying artwork for yours, which we can coordinate a bit later. 

Looking forward to hearing from you!”

and here is the followup just received minutes ago, a wee k befor my 63rd birthday!

Hope you are doing well, and sorry for the long delay on my end! 

Our illustrator is going to work on a piece to accompany yours in the coming weeks. Do let me know if you have any specifications for that.

 I’ll be back in touch by the weekend with some logistical things. 

My Best,

Bindu “

and now a few photos of this “good hair stuff”; I must thank my parents for my haiving the hair I have, especially my moher’s own shame of her short, kinky nappy hair:

Mama here with the hair she hates:

FLORIDA PAST

She always wears a wig now, will not be seen without one, and not necessarily the  100% human hair wigs, but  in hers as seen below, the fibers are plastic, but they do cover her shame, the curse of having Afro-textured hair.

 

And then there are those who insist that my hair could not possibly be natural, although it is.  

Others have problems wth my hair, not me.

 I was born this way;  I do nothing to cause my hair to grow. NOTHING.  AT ALL.  

You want this hair, you can purchase it. There are all kinds of products that I do not use, well, watch the Chris Rock movie if this is something you do not know for yourself.  

Do I look better because of my hair?   Some men think so, and isn’t that what this is really about?    The sex appeal of hair?  

I cannot say for sure; I only speculate, but in my mother’s case , she hates her hair, and made sure I wouldn’t be born it,  but xI an also say that I am glad not to be bald, and if I am relaxed, that is just my demeanor.  I have the hair  I haeve because of heritage, that’s all.

My parents, the reason for the hair she always wanted and didn’t have.  Specifically my paternal lineage.  I am not in control of my birth; just glad that I was born, and also glad, very glad to have hair, good or not.  Even my hairdresser has commented on my hair, because there is no weave, no hair pieces, no extensions, and I have never had a relaxer, and will be 63 years old in a week.  The only change I make is some occasional hair color.  My hair dresser can attest to that –not that I require any proof.  If you want to think  that I have good hair, then think it.  I’ve been told often anought that I have it.  

Please, I am glad to have it,but no need to make a big deal about it.

And I would not trade my hair for another form.  Yes, indeed, men tend to like my hair, for a variety of reasons, but one thing I can say is that my hair does not come off, unless it is cut off.  The way it looks is the same way I wakeup wih it.  I do no have to have “weave sex” as in the movie “Good Hair” by Chris Rock.

I just want to repeat that I have no relaxer.  I do not need it.  Sorry.  I am a black woman, but that is not all. I am a multiracial woman, if that is needed to explan this natural growth of my hair.  My hair grows the way you see it in these photos. 

If it looks relaxed, that is only because that is the way my hair grows.  

And this clip from the Chris Rock movie also:

I am also naturally small, 98 pounds, and I have never dieted.  No, my life isn’t perfect, but I am thankful for whatever I’ve got, and I do not apologize for it.  

If it took races mixing to give me this look, then let them mix, for I could not exist any other way. I a naturally thin like my father. And his father seen below. Races should mix anyway; such devisions help no one, but my mother was completle bypassed by black movemens she never said it loud that she was “black and proud” because she isn’t.

And at age 87, and about to die, she is not going to change.  I will be sure that she has on a wig for her funeral.  I will be sure that she looks what she considers  “best” 

“Good Hair” essay accepted

I am delighted to report that my “Good Hair” essay has just been accepted by Mythos Magazine.

 

Not sure when the issue with my essay will be published; I sent it earlier todays, and I have already receved a response from the editor:

“Thanks so much for your submission to Mythos Magazine. I loved your piece. The richness of your narration was powerful, smart, and unapologetic, and I’m interested in working with you in the coming weeks to publish it for our site. I know it would be deeply appreciated by our readership.”

As usual, I spoke TRUTH  —nothing else is worth saying.  So I don’t say it.

There will be accompanying artwork, I am so pleased to say. No details yet, just feeling “acceptance” (all I have ever wanted, to be accepted as myself.  That is all you get with me, 100% natural; I do not mean this harshly.  No wig, no weave, no extensions.  None of that for me,… Not a problem if you want to accessorize yourself that way, I choose not to, not because it’s better, I am content with what I have right now. I not feel a need to change it or enhance it. I like it as it is. 

Doesn’t matter what I used to have or will have, this is what I’ve got in the moment that I write.  Take it or leave it.  Does not come off unless it’s cut off.

It is what it is, and I am who I am:  a tiny woman writer –age 62!– with a lot of natural hair. 

 My hair is thick, but the photo doesn’t convey that.  

We all have something worth celebrating about ourselves, as long as you woke up, that is excellent acheievement.  Be thankful, boast that you woke up, not everyone did.  

And yes, I woke up like this:

 

 

Flawless

I am as unapologetic here as I am in the essay.

TRUTH

and never anything else from me.  Everythg about me, head to toe is 100% natural. Everything.  No additions or subtractions.  Not one. Not even a diet.   No weave, no wig, no hair pieces, no extensions and I do not apologize, for what?

Does the “TRUTH’ need to apologize for being the truth? 

“Weave sex“? –not necessary here.

A man who is with me will see a woman wake up with him the same as she went to bed with him.  I am not hiding anything.  No girdle to unlossen. My waist is tiny but is not cinched.  I have not ever needed a push-up  or padded bra.  Never.  

I try to be quiet in the background; I try to fade away,

but this truth is as real as anything else,   and if I am accepted, please understand that this TRUTH comes with me. I do not ever separate myself from TRUTH.  

If you want to know something, depend on me not to lie

(not even to get the man I want, yes; I may have some truth and a lot of natural body, and I am not that stupid, was considered gifted starting in first grade, but TRUTH alone is not enough, I even gave him my best natural “cookies”, but I woud be lying if I said I have him, but not  if I admit I want him (and telling the TRUTH right there, may cost me, but I say it anyway, I must; I asssure you he already knows how I feel about him. I speak here as myself not as a character.  I speak about my real life,   from the depths of me–)

The naturally skinny, the naturally coiffed, the naturally aging (I don’t even wear makeup, only some lipgloss) also have something to say.

I am talking here about nothing I gave myself.  Born this way.  

Please note, I am not rich.

I was born that way also.  I too have needs, wants, desires.  Including a man who will accept me as I am.   I accept him as he is; he knows I do.  I just want love; I just want to give love…

I am little, but I can love him… My love for him is much bigger than I am.  Much stronger too.

I don’t even know for sure that I should say this, but as it is the truth, I am willing to take a chance. I am sure he knows anyway, whether or not he wants me to say it, but just a look at a photo of him, and I fall to pieces.  

Just what it is about this man?  –I am beginning a series of poems to help me answer that… “more poems” I should say, not as if I haven’t written about him before… even this blog post… 

Here’s to his Highness Higgs –and every Higgs boson everywher.

NEW CREATE SPACE PROJECTS

Good Sunday morning!

For a change, I do not plan to write about the shambles of my love life; will not be fixed today anyway, and I can’t say when, but it will be and is.

Not much has changed; I am still in love with a wonderful sman; I like everything about him way too much, no one can be as good as he is, but he will have to deal with the man in the mirror.

but too  much is beautful for me to disrupt or destroy that beauty.  That it attained a pinnacle of loving expression will always be true.   Nothing can ever change that.

Enough said.

I have embarked upon, for 2 writing projects quite dear to me, Amazon’s CreateSpace, a self-publishing tool that will allow books made with it to instantly be sold wherever Amazon has a footprint, and where doesn’t that corporate giant tread?

The first project is a group of collaborative poems written with a friend, Aneurysm Of the Firmament (that much I’m sure of); a friend of mine, a lover also, the very best, you will have to take my word on that (or read the book I had to write after beign with him with him! Thoroughly Transforming!

New Kiss Horizon with Book Excellence badge

 

Thomas Robert Higginson (a pseudonymn) , right beside me here, and may it always be this way.

Thylias Moss (Dream Baby) and Bob Holman (Dream Lover

Dream date with a dream man, as we stand on a bridge forever connecting us, Chicago, 2014

That collection is finished; just waiting for the sample of the book to  arrive, and  if I like it, then into production; already has its ISBN number, so this book is real, and I am delighted by that.

Unfortunately, the sample isn’t due to arrive at my Ypsilanti house until the day before my mother’s 87th birthday.  If I do not, as I would like, get to go there, I have already planned to call her and sing to her; she always likes that –mothers you know.  

I am so eager to see that little chapbook, that contains two poems from “Wannabe“, with permission from the publisher (who I would prefer not to name), but…  Yeah, and my so-called comprehensive book with a blurb from Harold Bloom in the most prominent position possible on the jacket, extolling my stature as a writer of significance, except that he is referring to a New & Selected not even in “Wannabe” –I am in Harold Bloom’s “Western Canon” for “Small Congregations” –the only collection of my previously published collections of poetry not included in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” –well, mistakes happen, I know quite well.  

Wannabe & Small Congregation

together these 2 New and Selected collections contain the work needed to b single comprehensive collection

But some mistakes make possible wonders that could not be possible any other way, and for that reason, I am glad for what looking back could be seen as mistakes but I am not looking at mistakes today; I am looking at only opportunities which is what CreateSpace is.

So while I wait for the collection of poems written with my friend Thomas Robert Higginson (I may need to do a drawing of him; I assure you I can, all just from memory–what a great idea; I have never attempted a simple pencil sketch of him… Wonder how the pencil will feel in my hands drawing the man I so want to be with?  –a Thomas Robert Higginson comic book? graphic novel “graphic” as defined in multiple ways –I leap too far ahead; I haven’t even drawn the man, and the idea is forming even as I type this, but obviously the idea really appeals to me…  But to have him form right on the paper in graphite from what will become my favorite pencil after I draw him? and even the two of us together, using illustrations from, I don’t know, the Kama Sutra, as a guide, not that I’ll need one.    Too much heaven!  –and I am a little bit skeptical about him possibly seeing this; after all, we are “just” friends, and I shouldn’t permit myself to think this way  about a friend, should I? 

Leap, leap,  leap (into his arms –I can’t help it)

and wouldn’t you know, the Angel of the Lord returned to visit my mother who just called to warn me to make no decisions at this time; to tell me she was afraid, the spirit told her this, that now is not the time to try to sell a home because the republicans are about to seize power, although she detests Trump, yet doesn’t feel Hillary to be any better because she is a woman; she said for me to follow God, and pray for what I really want, and I did, but it’s not what she thinks it is.  (I prayed to have him, of course).

My mother has no idea how involved I’ve become with a certain man, and when I tried to tell her about him, just his name; he had wanted her to be in a movie about poetry he produced long ago, but she wouldn’t, preferring that no one know she worked as a maid; she has no idea how often I have included that info in my writing, and more recently her puritanical views about sex.  She would be shocked to ever know what I’ve done, and enjoyed with That Most Delightful Man. She told me then that the only man I need is “Jesus”, so when I first wrote about being with him in Chicago, I called him:

“Jésus” and that way, if she ever saw it, I was in fact talking about 

Jesus

Jésus

in the story “Mongongo Drupe” published in Callaloo.

(read most of that story here: “Mongongo Drupe“<https://muse.jhu.edu/article/576194/pdf&gt;

in fact, before I ever went to see him for that unforgettable weekend in Chicago, it was well before these recent events, so I guess that was for the best, as I would be unable to explain what has happened to her, and it is most definitely my life, not hers.  

Mongongo” the name of the only oil I put on my hair, and it seems to be working.

Oh I well remember my son driving me to her house in Cleveland in the pouring rain, rather as it is right now in Ypsilanti, and exchanging texts with that Most Delightful man; how wonderful that was; you don’t realize how wonderful every moment has been…. That Callaloo story only gnaws at a most wonderful surface, and even that hardly accesses what is so amazing and terrific about being  with you/him…

Here’s part of that  email exchange:

-on our way to visit my sick mother –she’ll be 85 next month –and is finally okay with my seeing you –she even told me to visit thrift shops to try to buy back the blue striped dress [of course, she has no idea what I plan to do with you –and you don’t either; hope you’ll be happily surprised –and will surprise me also; I love surprises from the right man.  She’s never seen my parts in that movie about poetry you roduced and asked me to be in, and I plan to play the part with the dress for her once we arrive.
The rain is so intense windshield is completely obscured –hard to type, but wanted to forward this latest communication from the Teresa Nyong Vogel Foundation.

By the way, my ex is not   being  supportive at all of my trip to see you — though I really want to attend, that Teresa Nyong Vogel reunion is a veil, removable veil to see you. He remarked to me that I must really want to see you considering all that I’m doing –inviting you and everything, sharing a hotel room –dressing for you, trying to guess what you’d like to see me wear, but imagining even more how you’ll remove it, and look at me, then touch me –my son isn’t helping with the R&B music he’s playing
–Jaheim– and that music plus what I’m already thinking is dangerous… Now Luther Vandross –“Never Too Much” –“a thousand kisses from you is never too much, a million days in your arms is never too much”

Jaheim

Luther Vandross – “Never Too Much”

to which he replied:

“I worry about your safety and I chortle at yr wildness and I ripsnort with passion and I flagellate with absorption and I tentacleize with tendresse as I undress the emptiness”

I would never want to divest myself of the memories of That Delightful Man for that would be to try to purge my mind of the best memories my heart has ever known, as an adult.

He asked for the dress I wore in his movie he  didn’t just ask for it, but described it completely!   How impressive that is, and I am not going to throw this away… maybe he has revealed himself to be an ordinary man, but that is just fine, I like him, no I love him anyway.  

This is not the first time a woman has loved a man who still thinks so fondly of her, and even still loves her in his way… But asking for the dress, really shows me the depth of the impression I made on him when I was in the movie about poetry for which he was one of the producers and asked me to be in it; make no mistake about that!

The parts in the movie in which I wore the blue striped dress:

and:

“While the blue-striped dress is gone, I did locate two pictures of me wearing it, and those I paste right here (photos taken at my mother’s house in Cleveland, Ohio).
Not sure of the date, but judging from my hair, sometime in the 1990’s —probably early 1990’s as there’s no evidence of graying”Blue striped dress1 (TUSOP).jpegBlue striped dress2(TUSOP).jpeg
Brasiers with JoJo Holman.jpeg

I’m in the back holding Ansted, Dennis is in the front, my aunt Eva who never married, and is mother of midget Mike, and who passed for white (she had some amazing stories until her death); JoJo Holman is right behind her.  The two girls are Bernard’s daughters.  Bernard is a huge lover of jazz and Godzilla.  My cousin Edward  (who lives in Chicago, but whom I won’t see while I’m there with you —as I mentioned, he’s only been to the airport once, and wouldn’t be able to find his way home; he lives on the south side of Chicago) is sitting to the left of Bernard’s daughter who also has MS –her grandmother, Belvia Brasier Hill, as I mentioned, died from a combination of MS and Huntington’s.  JoJo who lives in Tennessee is quite ill, and not expected to live much longer.  Haven’t seen him since this photo was taken.  We’re quite a small family with a terrible amount of distancing.

You asked, so let me tell you a little of how it was for me, flat-chested till I was in ninth grade –my mother and her sisters used to pray for me that I not remain so skinny and flat-chested. Then the miracle; overnight.  I was about 14, nearly 15 –went from a girl who didn’t need a bra (but wanted to wear a training bra anyway) to a 32D, the second most rare size, I was told by the Playtex salesman visiting the downtown May Co. Department store where I would work a few years later.

You can imagine the unwanted attention I attracted.  

I was just a shy little girl, shy little top heavy girl, more like the women on the maternal side of my family; and  thin, raw-boned more like members of my paternal extended family.  Those prayer sessions were rather intense.  And my aunts were (most of them are now deceased) pleased with the outcome.  Then, the most rare size a lingerie buyer told me: 32 DDDD.  Now, a mere 30 DDD or 32 DD depending on manufacturer…   I recall when I had the MRI on Friday  being asked what kind of implants were in my body and I tried to say that I had no breast implants –the expectation now, and I  seem unusual about that, natural, that is… So many operations for augmentation, and I once considered reduction.  Used to keep my arms crossed for a while, and even wore minimizer bras; used to try to hide, but  my ex really liked that about me, and actually I did too, and when I was nearly seventeen was glad to be pushed up.  

To both flaunt and have discretion; I was a most unusual professor.  
Bras were manufactured differently then, more pointed cups and so forth, so hiding was compromised.  I remember distinctly how I looked when my ex met me: a red stretch form fitting turtleneck (long gone) in church –exactly where a damaged 16-year-old girl belonged fresh back from an abortion in NYC (not legal anywhere else at the time).  Ultimately, I became more glad than not of my ability to attract certain forms of attention, but I’m so much older now, and what was once so attractive has changed a bit.  Tits and ass –that’s me, and I hope that you want all of that and will touch all of that –as much as you like, and I will reciprocate –maybe not in the beginning,  but in stages –I need to be introduced to eroticism and intimacy…  Please teach me, Mr. Delightful how to love you… How to receive whatever you want to give me, and how to give you whatever you’ll want from me…   Wish that you could touch me right now.  I really do.
There’s Huntington’s Disease in my paternal family (always fatal if you inherit the gene –are you familiar with that disease?–one death sentence I didn’t  inherit– and why I feel that most of them are deceased, and why I was unable to know my paternal grandfather.  Most of them lived in the south, Cowan, TN, at a time that races were discouraged from mixing). My paternal grandmother was mostly black, and some Indian (she was literate as was her mother in West Virginia, a small town for which Ansted is named), and my paternal grandfather was Native American, Caucasian, some East Indian (how all of that came together in Tennessee is rather strange –he was classified, as “mulatto” — I was raised to not be color conscious.  My paternal cousin in Wisconsin, whose mother died of MS and Huntington’s says his mother raised him as Indian period, Bernard H__.  One of my aunts “passed” for white so that she could work for the government. All my life, degree of pigmentation made differences in where I could go, what I could do, how I was treated, and I was one of the privileged because I wasn’t “too dark”, and had “good hair” (did you see/like Chris Rock’s “Good Hair” movie?).  
A real division in my paternal family because of degree of pigmentation and hair texture; some of the cousins (I actually have two in Chicago [Edward, and his sister Pam]) failed to inherit this hair –not me, and I was criticized for that– sometimes praised, but always considered “different” –and now, even at my age, with weaves, wigs and various hair attachments, and hair relaxer, form of lye, mostly, various hydroxides (I don’t have to use that product), it’s become rather common for black women to have hair that simulates a texture more smooth, and long –“Good Hair” explores so many topics, including “weave sex” –apparently so different from ordinary sex, but my hair isn’t like that; is attached, rooted in my scalp, without relaxer  
— as you can tell,  I’ve learned to flaunt that hair; I rather enjoy tossing it, and, as I said, I look forward to you brushing it, styling it, doing with it whatever you like –if you like that. If you want, you can use  your arms, maybe only one, and I could sit in your lap while you brush it –a turn on for me.  You’ll have to figure out best ways to position me for many things. 
 I’m sorry that I don’t know more, but will enjoy your teaching me, and no one need know.  Between us.  
I expect for everything that you do to be a turn on — I don’t really know what won’t be, but if I don’t like something, I’ll let you know.  Do you want me to be quiet when we touch, when we explore each other’s body? Or will I be encouraged to make noise? Will I be allowed, that is? I don’t want to be quiet; that seems unnatural.  When we actually make love, what if I want to scream? I will probably be shy at first, but I will still yield, and overcome my shyness.  I want this to be an experience unlike any experience you’ve ever had before… I want what happens to surpass anything you’ve imagined…. (I hope that you have indeed imagined us making love).  I want you to want more and more and more of me…. I want us both to explode… I look forward to detonation….
What are turn ons for you?  
I’d like to try to do them; I want you to be happy with me.  I want you to be really glad, even about that Brazilian wax, I got just for you, my first, in wanting you to be  really turned on that we’re together, alone in the hotel –one bed to rest things on, and another bed to use, ostensibly for sleeping (but only a little of that –I plan to have you as a stay-awake caffeine pill). 
Between the meetings that I also look forward to, and being with you, not quite enough hours in the day, but I’ll get by on reduced sleep so that there’s time for everything I hope to do with you.  
For the first time in my life, I don’t want any secrets.  You’re getting the me admitting to her lack of experience despite my age. 
My mother  accused me of loving my father more than her, and  I did –I identified more with him, maybe because he’s deceased, I did so much walking wih him, miles and miles;  my mother knew him only as a husband, a lover, but I knew him as a father, and I was an only child, and she never accompanied us on any of our walks –miles and miles…. Where I learned alternatives to the bible –the purpose of the walks, as soon as I got home from church.
CALVIN THEODORE BRASIER

He bought me a new book in the Golden L ibrary of kKnolwlede at the end of each walk (in this way making for me an alternative bible): 

A while ago you told me that if we’re ever alone the fire will meld us together.  We will be.  Soon.  Melding very soon.

“Weather is a factor, and those anticipated storms have arrived —love how the sky looks, it and the pond have merged.  Love the tapping on the roof, like fingertips, becoming angry at times, and then gentle, now scarcely making contact at all, but in roof-ways, the roof remembers the rain as a splintered lover that talks in thunder, and every now and then, illuminates their way with marvelous flashes of lightning, knife blades, marvelous knife blades….”

To which That Man regaining his sweetness as I remember so much, replied:

Dear Bullet Dodger —

Looks like you is stable eyesed!!!

Great photos of ver sexy you. 

and the family — who took the picture? What stories!!!! 

These photos were taken at my mother’s house, the home my father bought in 1963.  Badly in need of paint, something my mother will try to do herself.

______

We have such a long and complicated story; we have history, and that is just too much to ever give up. I can’t bear the thought of you not in my life… I want to get past this, and reinstate you as the wonderful, tender, caring man you always were, the man to  whom I wrote this:

All I know is that I hope to never lose your friendship (?)—but it’s more than that; I do  not know the proper word for what you are to me, but won’t say it again; nothing has changed, except I do not know the word acceptable to you (and I do not want to know what I am to you —not really [because I may not like it]) —but I am convinced that you care deeply, just as you know that I care deeply about you, no matter how old all manner of official documents say you are.  I like you regardless. I love you regardless, from the first time I told you.   The you, you are now, wherever you are, on a bridge or not.  We stood on something that connects us both literally and metaphorically —always, and that wonderful photo has life of its own.  It does what maybe we can’t, at this time.
Look, today I celebrate so much, being alive for one thing, and your existence.  I’m glad you’re in my world, and that I am in yours.  I’m glad that our story changes, grows [every “whichway”], mutates, but does not end.  I’m glad that we have a story, Mr. Delightful, and it is our story, and no other story is ours.  Only this one.  Always this one.  I’m so glad about this Mr. Delightful, more glad than I am capable of expressing (without some help from my very best friend: YOU):
I can run alongside

You but can’t keep up with you, your tapdancing

Shadow, your clothing made of earth and spit. But I know you

And when you wish me Happy Birthday I trade it for yours,

You not growing old, you everlasting, you infinity you.”

 (excerpt from a poem you wrote for me, remember?)
and you wrote this to me:

“Dear T,

What a moving and lovely letter, what a heart you got, a wondrous one, one that I know and got to know better, and better, and loved in the way we loved. A mind that evolved those feelings into literature, into a story for the ages.

And that art means so much to me — and this letter, just as much, meant just for me, explaining me back to me from your perspective, and through your lens. Our friendship has moved so many places the world cannot contain them all, and still goes on, growing every whichway.

So thank you infinitely for this gift of all possibility and the settling of the words’ world into a mutually respectful and fulfilling friendship. Of course that means ongoing, and how that works with collaborating, mutual performances, seeing each other etcetc — it’s all there, we just don’t know what yet, and that’s the beauty you have given us in this letter. The truth of it.

It means so much
It means everything

Mr. Delightful

A complex story in which I have experienced every emotion possible to feel, and I must thank you for that, for allowing me to feel “everything” (sounds as if I’m quoting my children’s book [and new book, in which you are so involved, all those “Higginson” poems [that come out of really seeing you, hearing you —discovering you as if for the first time, [[I so want us to write more poems together, of course —I so like connecting with you that way]] –listening to everything you say in so many locations, and I know you recognize them, as honored as you are in my writing —what man can claim such honor? — that I really feel, and as smart as you are —even “smart enough” to see me – and really understanding [[parts —of you, never the whole ‘enigmatic’ Mr. Delightful] —a good thing; hope I’m never able to figure you out completely, and  I am quoting two of my books): 
“I want to be [‘wannabe’] eyes  looking, looking everywhere [and seeing you: that is a forking  everywhere].
I want to be  [‘wannabe’] ears hearing , hearing everything [you say, and that is a forking everything]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] hands touching, touching everything [all of you, and that is a forking everything]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] mouth tasting, tasting everything [all of you, and that is a forking everything [romance novel]]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] heart feeling, feeling everything [for you, and this  is (or rather: could be the most forking  ‘everything’ of all were it not for what follows:]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] life doing, doing everything [for you, with you, because of you, through you –the most everything, for your birthday and everyday [[on which you are endlessly reborn in my heart]]] —That’s all.  And that is a forking everything forking [some Midhudson Taffy also, which also must fork and fork and fork as it’s ‘eaten with a fork’]”
68! —way to go!  

You also said this to me, Lord knows you always know  what to say:

“making poems is making life”

and you said this to me:

“I have all yr books, I think, Mz Moss. I do love A Man (if she’s A Woman)”

and you wrote this to me, so much more than this,

 

Skippity,

Sitting by a calming fountain in Kiev, just after the bells of St Sofia rocked the plaza — real rocks of noise

I can say a few things: how crazy are you? am I? we?

Pretty crazy, I’d say!

BUT certainly it is a continuously reviving poem

A fantasy dream and reality scream

You are a Go For It All woman finally free

You constantly inspire, and I wish to too

Standing off to the side and cheering you on

Hey! Watch out for that banana!

The Mnemonic of Yr Palindrome

TMnOYP

—- and when you woke this to me, Mr. Delightful, 

“I should be working

Instead of smiling at you

Smiling at you”

photo 2.JPG

to which I replied:

Isn’t smiling at me a form of work?

to which your reply was

“Lol!”

And how everything started with this:

“Hey, this won’t be a business call!

I’d be calling to reestablish contact, Ms Moss, that is all.”

Peace,

Mr. D

 

Surely you will recall that one stumbling block in the way of our love taking off; you called him “PSOG” (Previous Suitor Other Guy” although he had a name.   When you first contacted me after waiting 25 years, you had to wait an additional  two weeks, because of PSOG,  and when I contacted you two weeks later, just two weeks later, to tell you that PSOG was completely gone from my life (what I want you to say now about a certain nameless GF, you know what I mean); well to convince you that PSOG was gone, I sent him and BCC’d you on the breakup email of break up emails, this one:

Break up email of break up emails:

PSOG,

This isn’t as difficult as it may seem,

but under the circumstances,  I think it’s best to not be involved on even a  minimal level.  I appreciate — I really do— your continued concern, but I must try to achieve whatever I can on my own (or via members of family).  I appreciate your fondness and will remember it.  I agree that intimacy is not for us. Never was.  I can’t say that it will be with my new old-friend, but as I once told you, worth pursuing.  I like how for many years he’s cared for me —on any level.  Sorry, but I can’t do a blog or even go for walks, even if that leaves me out of shape.  I won’t forget my medicine, and I’ll find a way to get to that dreaded MRI on Sunday.  I’ll get there somehow, of that  have no doubt —even my ex has agreed to take me —I just don’t think it should be you.

You’re free to write responses to my writing —as any reader would be; I maintain a partnership in that sense with all of my readers (who are also forms of “collaborators”), most of whom never connect with me directly.  And yes; you may send your responses to me, and I’ll answer them as timely as I can, but won’t be preoccupied with responding (it’s not as if I have nothing else to do).  As long as such contact doesn’t suggest a sustained relationship with a possibility of growing into something else.  I don’t want such growth, and such growth didn’t happen naturally..  Send me anything you like via email.  Nothing wrong with that.  I just won’t go anywhere with you.  I can’t —would seem that I have no self-respect, and I do.  I guess I can blame all of this on match dot com, a service I no longer use, and won’t use again… If I hadn’t used it, wouldn’t have to write this message.  I’m quite disappointed with the service. 

It’s fine with me that we don’t attempt to pursue any romance ever—some things are just present, and no need to force what obviously isn’t there to kindle.  There is no fire to burn or extinguish.  No fire at all.  No attraction (other than my own —temporary— delusion).  

I’ll also be able to get to he airport; my ex has agreed to take me if necessary.  He’s also agreed to pick me up when I return to Detroit if necessary.  He has accepted that there won’t be any romance between us ever again –and he’s accepted that; he and I will be talking tomorrow, and he’s taking me to lunch, and will pay for all of it! —his and mine; he won’t ask me or demand that I pay for half! (as you did).  —Nor is there any romance between us, you and I, and I’m opposed to doing anything that might seem to open that door.  I’m closing that door for good- -something I thought I already did.  More than once.  We can’t be involved in that way for many, many reasons.  We’re so wrong for each other —in just about any way that I can imagine or construct a couple. There’s nothing right between us —and I can’t make it seem that way… I’m through pretending that we had something we didn’t.  I did that for too long, and I’m not going to dredge up past incidents —want to leave everything buried, and bury anything that remains above ground —all must be subterranean —coffin nailed shut.  Sprigs of garlic around, and a set of silver nails, wooden stakes

I’m trying to make this clear again: NO US!  —NOT EVER! —even if things fail abysmally with my new old-friend, I won’t be seeking to resume anything like that between us.  Just a casual friendship at best, right now (that includes Facebook). Whatever we almost or sort of had, is dead and buried, and I don’t rob graves to have some form of man in my life.  I don’t feel desperate.  Just divorced and available —for the right man, and that will never be you. He must ask have something to offer to me, intimacy of course, and you have none of that for me… Intellectual and emotional closeness; bonds of heart and mind —we’ll be able to connect on multiple levels —and we can’t, pure and simple.

Haven’t tried building my own Frankenstein’s monster, and I don’t want to form  closeness with a monster anyway.  No zombie for me either; I want a flesh and blood man who is confident of himself and seems to value me as something special —we’ll be special for each other —that can’t be you.  I want the man ultimately in my life to value me as much as I value him —nothing forced; completely natural, and its not natural for you to be involved with a woman on this level, a woman like me, I mean.  I’m well aware how that Teresa Nyong Vogel Prize was something you could use to a form of advantage, especially at Cottage Inn —but not to my advantage, only to yours…

We are no more! and I’m completely okay with that.  I’m shedding no tears.  Just moving forward, without you

—all I have holding me back is that MS-related optic neuritis (simulating blindness in my left eye) and my loss of directional skills  (aneurysm related) —I can get lost so easily; remember all the trouble I had when we walked and I had trouble knowing which way to go?  This is a problem I have.  Perhaps it’s permanent. I hope that the man who becomes the man in my life won’t mind, that it won’t be an encumbrance for him; we’ll find ways to navigate around this glitch, I’ll call it —just who I’ve become physiologically we all change with age, by the way, something that I know you know, and won’t mention again (would require a little grave-robbing, your impotence that you tried to blame on me, grave-robbing, so I guess I do  leave on a vindictive note, but I am sure you know your own impotence that you tried to blame it on me).  Causing my friend to allow me to see him nude from the waist down, asking only that I take no photos; i didn’t but kind of wish I had, as I had never seen anythingn so huge and entirely tempting that would very soon —if I could accommodate all of him–be inside me

It wasn’t just the porn vignette.  Many things…. There is no path to romance for you to me.  Not ever. And I don’t want a path from me to you.  Not ever.  

My mother commented last night that I have no need to tell anyone even that I have MS, since my disease is so invisible, and she’s particularly upset with you as it looks as if I was a prize that you couldn’t recognize for what it is.  Obviously you weren’t ready to pursue a relationship with me or perhaps with any woman (you did tell me about your involvement —brief— you said, liaison  with another man) —but that may be too accusatory to say.  I’m not writing to solicit a response, just to finish closing a door, that I thought was closed anyway, and maybe would still be had I not mistakenly invited you as a possibility for getting me to and from the airport —Sorry for the invitation.  I’m withdrawing it now, and will be sure not to invite you further to anything.

Just to make this as clear as possible:

No us.  Not now.  Not ever. No matter what happens.

Thylias

and after this you were fine , and we could begin… one of my favorite parts was when PSOG tried to blame his impotence on me, and also said he refused to use condoms, and you told me that you  would drive an 18-wheeler full of condoms down my street, and talking on FaceTime, you showed me and told me that if I could see you right then, and I could, everything, I would know that impotence around me was hardly your problem.  And it certainly wasn’t. Not then, and definitely not in person.  I must confess, that I really liked seeing this.  Really gave me something tangible to dream about.

 

But in the hotel I was offered an upgrade on the room, a single king bed instead of the 2 queen beds reserved, and you answered, so, so eagerly, your arm tightly and tightening even more around me; you were determined never to let me go, now that I was yours.  “we’ll take the single king” and we did, Room 304 –I will never forget that.  

 

Oh well: Delight after Delight Mr. Delightful

Don’t you remember this?

 

Soon after that, you sent me this:

“Baby
I can’t wait
To taste your kiss
Kiss kissing kisses
Slow you lead your
Beautiful tender lips
Just to rest there
So quiveringly touching
The moment itself
Kissing”

Don’t you want to remember this?

Aren’t you glad that I do?  Aren’t you?

Oh Mr. D, I hope you  also remember writing this to me:

Don’t be nervous, except a little, in a good way! and don’t worry about Sat — you can play by ear, and you should enjoy the Geniuses as much as you can. We’ll have plenty of time — and will probably be wanting a bit of rest…  !!!

Mr. D
 Mr. Delightful, I don’t want you to be able to forget a single second of what we have shared! including this:
“You are beautiful

3,766. I  am looking forward to reading your letter and viewing the attachments

Mr. D” 

You are still this man, aren’t you? Aren’t you still the man with whom I fell in love?  Aren’t you?  Don’t you want to be this man?  Don’t you want me to love you, even t  –Something I have never done with you is lie.    Please don’t make me regret all the poetry (including the poetry of our bodies; I know it looked divine, just the way you made me feel –that photo that I will not post out of respect for your “decision”  [now that really is a “glitch“]– we’ve shared and even written together… Please don’t make me feel that I meant nothing to you…

The absolutely delightful  man who also said this: ” You have always inspired me, Forkergurl”

–and of course, Mr. Delightful has always inspired me… 

You just don’t know all that we have shared; Mr. Delightful, can you possibly understand the complexity of what you might be  throwing away? rocking the eery foundation of everything we’ve shared over the years, causing  me to have to question everything that transpired between us?  –transforming all of it, and there has been so much, into lies.  
Just really try to understand what this is doing to me, because I want you to be as delightful as you always had been, delightful and honest… 
How can I be so replaceable, when there will never be anyone else like you, I know that, and as I’ve always done, I want to celebrate you! I gave myself to you fully, and all I ever wanted was for you to give yourself to me just as fully, just as completely.  I have been willing to work on the terrible distance between us that didn’t drive me to  lies! –Not once did I try to deceive you.  Not once.  Think about it.  Love like mine is rare Mr. D, and it is all yours.  All yours.  Forever.
Very recently, on 3  August, you wrote this and lit up my heart, Mr. Delightful:
Thylias,  It is Love & that is all, it is kin and Life itself. 
To which I replied:

You know that I accept this.  I like hearing that it is Love. 

I’m just afraid that it might not be love tomorrow.  

I love knowing that it is Love, I need that more than anything… 

As long as it will continue to be love, I am fine.  

No one can say how long it will continue to be love on this Wildest of Rides, but I am glad to take this ride with you.

Thylias

And now?  I still love you, 
 
 
I shouldn’t love you if and while you are involved with your GF who should be me, and who was.  Only me.  I did that for you.  I never lied to you, Mr. D; not once.
You are worth it,  and
and I am still worth it. Mr. Delightful.
and, Mr. Delightful, I remember all, all of it so damned good

Even more recently, in September, last month, he said, “Relax –it takes time”

after I sent him a text in which I told him how I really want to see him, and how I really hope he likes my selfies.  

Relax – it takes time” he said

and “why so choosy picky? They are all great as usual”

to which I said, “All great as usual? Nice of you to say that before you’ve been see them,  I guess you do notice me and I am glad.  Very glad actually.”

I have always worried that he likes how I look; I have always wanted to appeal to him physically.  You see for he 44 years I was with my ex, beginning when I was 16, he never, not once, called me pretty or beautiful of anything like that.  He said my head would swell, and over the years, I thought of myself as unattractive, not to mention when a grade school teacher said when I returned to visit her when I was in ninth grade, “Thylias! –you’re beautiful! you were such an ugly child!”   I was.  I know that.

I’ve seen this man in Chicago, Minneapolis and Detroit., and he made it a point to always call me beautiful or pretty; he had no idea how badly I needed to hear this until I told him what I never heard.  And then he said it all the time, and I learned to think myself pretty, and now I have a problem with vanity…  Anyway, one day Mr. Delightful sent me a text,

“Thylias, you are one gorgeous woman”

I have loved having dinner with him so much. I had my first real dates with this man.

I learned how to kiss with this man, and he can really kiss.   I was touched in ways I’d never been touched before, with his fingers, tongue and, well, not an x-rated blog. but you get the idea.  

In Minneapolis, when we were about to go to dinner, he said he’d come to my hotel room at 5:30 pm, and asked “U r ready for dinner?”

to which I replied, “Sure. Don’t look my best, however.”

to which he replied, “LOL”

and I had another wonderful meal with him.  Sommetimes, I forget all about context.  My sense of time gets out of whack.  And then I accuse him of things he did not do.  This doesn’t mean that he  handled this current “situation” properly, because he didn’t. But when everything is added up, the list of pluses is substantially longer, and besides, what human being does not deserve forgiveness?  He needs forgiveness; we all do, and this way, I get to have some peace, and continue the best friendship I have ever had in my life.  

There has been enough hurt, and if he is able to love anyone, that is a good thing.  

May we all be so lucky as to find someone to love.

Excitement reigns!

I am very excited about my forthcoming –just days now, volume of new and selected poetry! “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code“! (from Persea Books!)

wannabe_front

I haven’t had a new book since 2006, and Tokyo Butter!

 

Tokyo Butter

Tokyo Butter – a search for  forms of Dierdre (really my  late cousin Hilda).

 

The cover image is really a 50X USB microscpe scan I made of flowers from Hilda’s Funneral in 2002.  I  grew up with Hilda as if she were my sister… A terrible loss for me… 

I wonder what she would be like now?  She was only 3 months older than me, born 25 November 1953; I was born 27 February  1954.  “Tokyo Butter” explores some of that… I couldn’t believe that all of Hilda (“Deirdre” in the book) was gone from the world, and “Tokyo Butter” is the outcome of my (as yet incomplete) search for her.

casket roseHILDA 2

 

Here is a version of a video piece I made about a poem in “Tokyo Butter“: The Cultue of Snowmen”:

I really want the Proscope mobile!  Oh what I would capture!

Images I captured with my Proscope Digital microscope:

:

 

 

Hope you’ve already put in your orders at Amazon for “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code“!

 

wannabe_front

Video poam I made, the source of the title of this book soon to be available:

 

 

 

Also, please check out my Amazon Author Page!!

 

You can hear me reading three of my favorite poems from”Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” for Poets and Writers Here:

 

 

 

http://www.pw.org/content/wannabe_hoochie_mama_gallery_of_realities_red_dress_code

The three poems I read:

  1. Blue Coming
  2. The Glory Prelude
  3. Me and Bubble Went to Memphis 

Also here “Me and Bubble Went to Memphis” here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/audio/detail/76019

 

The Glory Prelude video poam here (music composed and performed by Graphic Artist Ansted Moss, Vocals by Thylias Moss who also made the vide poam; contains footage of my mother who has recently been visited by “The Angel of the Lord” –whatever that means.  I cannot compete with “The Angel of the Lord” –noone can):

(my mother is unaware that this footage was captured)

Please don’t tell her, unless you are “The Angel of the Lord”.

she already told me that she’s coming to get me… –I am going to be haunted after her death, so if I make no further posts, you will know that:

  1. I am dead
  2. My mother got me.
  3. My mother succeeded at what Houdini couldn’t
  4. A mother’s love

How mama looks now, as she waits for The Angel of the Lord  (to come back in ways my deceased father can’t):

 

Mama in wheelchair

(She loves Popeye’s chicken, but isn’t supposed to eat it. Diabetes,  Hypertension, Glaucoma, Thyroid problems, loss of the ability to grasp physical objects (with her right hand especially) and to remember anything, Dementia; loss of hearing, loss of eyesight, unless looking at and/or listening to:  “The Angel of the Lord”, but she’s coming back to get me, a promise she has made to the “Angel of the Lord” –I take this most seriously, because she saw “The Angel of the Lord” as real as anything she has ever seen..

“The Glory Prelude to a Widow Shrine System” is for her, the widow since the death of my father in July 1980.   She says “the only man I  need is Jesus”, so I called a man I liked a lot, before I loved him as I do now, “Jésus”.  My mama with dementia, (I love her, but she still doesn’t know. Just wanted to tell her that I had found a good man; I thought that maybe she would like that.  But no.  

I’ve been divorced since 2013, but makes no difference… Even if nothing goes any furher, I just wanted her to know that I had found someone much better, who doesn’t lie to me, a man I can trust to tell me the truth, whether or not I like it.  He will not deceive me, the most trustworthy man I know. 

and “Hypnosis at the Bird Factory ” (also in “Wannabe”) as a video poam right here:

and Tornado Pi, video poem version of the print poem “Tornados also in “Wannabe“:

 

 

Print version of “The Glory Prelude” in The Offing here:

BUY THE BOOK!

READ THE BOOK!

 

A significant new poem from this collection is: “Higginson Matters in Magnificent Culture of Myopia” and I perform this signture poem from this collection here

(the unnatural emphasis on the word “moss” comes from  a niece of my ex, telling me that I could hardly be moving on with my life, since I still had their name, a name they did not copyright, a name they did not intiate; there are many other “Mosses”; they have no valid claim to the exclusivity of that name:

 

Speaking of things “trustworthy”, I was all set to believe that an unfortunae  sitution with my publisher was greatly improved; I’m still all set for that, but I was disappointed when I saw on the publisher’s website for my book; a quote about me, this mixed-race woman who would never choose a partner based on his color, or a partner who would choose a woman based on her color; I would not exist without mixing… 

and although the quote which offends me now and all that I’ve tried to accomplish in  my writing is gone from the book jacket, I still name, on the website, “the black truths behind white lies” and am still a writer “who speaks bitterness”… I was disappoined to see that, because of the inaccuracy, and immediaetely wote an email to my poetry editor

That is not who I am; I speak TRUTH, no matter what color it is.   And if “black” (a part of me but not all of me) is so powerful that whatever is “black” at all, even a tiny potent, powerful drop; if so powerful that I  can not avoid using a black lens to interpret everything, then everything I see automatically becomes “black” because I see it, and everything  I say automatically become “black” because I say it, and everything I hear automatically becomes “black” because I hear it, and everything I do, automatically becomes “black” because I do it, and everything I touch automatically becomes “black” because I “touch” it, and everything I feel automatically becomes “black,”because I feel it,  and everthing I eat automatically becomes “black” because I eat it,

 then there is no need for me to preface anything I think; anything I feel, anything I do with “black” since I cannot do anything that is not black, so when I think of quantum phyiscs, quantum physics becomes black; every form of math, everything I’ve written here is black; that’s how potent black is, one drop and black heaven is the reward!

 

I continue to think these black thoughts, as I thought them at the University of new Hampshire where in a class for those teaching English composition, the subject was “How To Eliminate Vagueness” in student wiring, and one TA observed that when a sudent writes the word, “black”, the student likely means something else, such as, and this was agreed upon (worth noting that I was the ony visibly “black” person in the room); agreed upon that the student meant “irreversible damage” , so I wrote this poem, for instructors of English 401 at the University of New Hampshire, originally published in Callaloo, then in my book, Pyramid of Bone, nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award:

about Pyramid of bone, Langdon Hammer says this: 

Although many of Moss’s poems discuss race and gender, these subjects are, explains scholar Langdon Hammer, simply “starting points for her work…her poetry makes such facts of identity seem unfamiliar, their meanings not to be predicted, unavailable to the naked eye.” Known for startling metaphors and vivid imagery, Moss’s work demonstrates an expansive imagination that seeks to connect at times wildly disparate subjects”

Pyramid of bone

Book by Thylias Moss

To Eliminate Vagueness”

 instructions: substitute  irreversible damage for blacwherever it occurs

 

 

In the red-legged locust’s black raids upon midwest soybeans,

in their illicit transmission of tapeworms and parasites

to quail, turkeys, and guinea fowl,

in all the black calendar days that are supposed

to indicate the ordinary.

 

In operating rooms body parts black with gangrene

are excised and trash cans seem to fill with dead crows.

 

There’s a black crust two miles thick in Soweto, some on bread,

around eyes, most on the streets where blood dried

into its own monument.

 

Then my mother’s black face nothing can soften, the sweating,

the forgetting to sleep, the solidarity with anyone troubling,

the compassion only I knew she felt hugging a radio, singing

spirituals, sequestering herself in her widow’s bedroom

praying for women unable to pray.

 

And what of Europeans, what of Asians and Latinos who are

     irreversibly

damaged, whose gangrened minds should be excised but who are

   not black?

 

 

One day I noticed my mother had poured her face onto mine

and had given me spirituals and lullabies.

I sang them when baskets of black clouds dumped

their transparent flowers over the convent

 

and the nuns’ basic black didn’t get wet

and they carted the flowers home in wheelbarrows

and arranged them like lullabies

and wept silently

 

as we were weeping, mother and daughter together

in my father’s old rocker, the damage already done.

 

                                            for Gary and the English 401 staff

 

                                                       Thylias Moss

Originally published many years ago in Callaloo, then in my award-winning collection “Pyramid of Bone” (University of Virginia Press, 1989)

 

and listen to me read, on the Poetry Foundation site: “The Pampering of Leora” 

 

and this video poam (product of act[s] of making) I made”Cosmic Seduction” is just another black thing I do:

Please enjoy as much of this truth as you can.  I thank you and  am grateful, always.

___________

Included for someone special 

all  for him

 

His if he wants it, the most trustworthy, most deserving  man I know. 

 

 

 

Still Waiting/Holding Pattern

Holding Pattern…

Still Waiting for word, good word, about my romance novel.  

Getting close to the time for “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” September 2016 publication!  

 

wannabe_front copy

Red Dress Code-02

Pretty excited about that! 

 

Flap copy from the Persea website:

 

Thylias Moss, one of American poetry’s great innovators, is a national taxonomist and secular preacher who catalogues our culture and responds in gorgeous outrage to its injustices. This career-spanning volume conveys the hypnotic spectrum of her full poetic output, from Hosiery Seams on a Bowlegged Woman, her 1983 debut, to Slave Moth, her acclaimed 2006 novel in verse, to more than fifty pages of new poems. Whether in early or recent writing, Moss makes no promises of smooth sailing: even when her poems begin with beloved cultural icons (Robert Frost, Doctor Who, the Statue of Liberty), they insist on new perspectives, truths, and realities. She is a fearless reimaginer of poetry’s possibilities, a writer who seems made for (and by) the digital age—its blitz of interactivity and reinvention—a futuristic archivist always compelled by the current moment.  Arranged chronologically, this volume offers us Moss as she has evolved through the past three decades, recognizable yet unpredictable, ever “a poet of fierce intelligence and radiant intensity” (Martín Espada). Wannabe Hoochie Mama of Realities’ Red Dress Code is an indispensable book, a record of who this essential writer has been and where she may be heading.

Praise for Thylias Moss

“Thylias Moss is a permanent American poet, canonical in the old, authentic sense.”—Harold Bloom

“As if the muse of Wallace Steves were transplanted into the body of a black, female pop-culture maven.”—David Yaffe, Village Voice

“It’s tempting to confuse Moss with the characters she describes, so deeply does she appear to inhabit their lives. . .[with] her trademark intensity and ferocious intelligence.”—Jabari Asim, Washington Post Book World

“Reading Thylias Moss is always dangerous and exhilarating, because one never knows exactly when the poem might explode and leave its reader marked forever.”—Raphael Campo, Parnassus Poetry in Review

“Thylias Moss names the black truths behind white lies. She is a writer who speaks bitterness and makes her own music of it.”—Marilyn Hacker, Women’s Review of Books

About the Author

Thylias Moss is Professor Emerita in the departments of English and Art & Design at the University of Michigan. Her eight previous books of poetry include Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler, a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist, and Slave Moth, named Best Poetry Book of 2004 by Black Issues Book Review. Moss is a recipient of the fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur foundations, among other honors. She lives in Ypsilanti, Michigan.

 

Okay, maybe naming “black truths” is part of it, but I hope that I have not been figured out completely; I hope that many of you are still guessing… I like to think that at some level, truth is truth, and does not have to have a color, but apparently, we are not there yet, if that is what I am doing…  but if truth must have a color, then I am all for black truth, for if black is as powerful as it is supposed to be, then how could I avoid “black” truth even if I wanted to; if black is this powerful  that black alters whatever I experience, let it! –I need do nothing but use my senses —bitterness? Me?  –dangerous? yep; that’s me, a dangerous woman –yes, trademark intensity (Lord know, I am intense, as in Lisa Fischer, “So Intense“)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just completed a draft of an essay I will be submitting by 15 September about being multiracial in America.  looking forward to that,  and soon, waiting and waiting and waiting.  I wrote about “Hair”, of course…