Saturday, December 31, 2011

A Head Start on Foolishness

I just wanted to get a head start on the foolishness that I plan to participate in during the coming year. Happy 2012, yawl!

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Michelle O Got a Big Ol' Butt!... Oh... No

Just when you think the coast is clear and you gon' have a good damn day, Eurocentric Beauty Standards strike again! I almost threw my phone across the room this morning when I read about Wisconsin Congressman, Jim Sensenbrenner's ugly, ignorant, racist, sexist comments about First Lady, Michelle Obama's rear end. According to his big as a single family home ass, " She lectures us on eating right while she has a large posterior herself."


First of all, sir, you have 46 chins, so have a fucking seat, but don't break that bitch. Second, what he's referring to as a "large posterior" is what we as black people all over the world view as natural and quite normal. In fact, Michelle's behind is nothing in comparison to how we actually have been known to get it poppin'.

Clearly this is a case of ignorance. Maybe he's not used to what we're used to. Fine, I get that. But I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Michelle Obama isn't the first black woman he's ever seen. Clearly, in all his years of living on this planet and having eyes, he's come to realize that there are some differences in the physical appearance of white women and black women. And even if there weren't, he has no right as a man to sit around criticizing a woman's body, especially when he's not walkin' around here gettin' his Vin Diesel on.

Him and Rush Limbaugh.

You wanna know what that fool said? Back in February, this is what came out of his monkey mouth: "The problem is, and dare I say this, it doesn't look like Michelle Obama follows her own nutritionary, dietary advice... I'm trying to say that our First Lady does not project the image of women that you might see on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue or of a woman Alex Rodriguez might date every six months or what have you."


1. She may not project the image of women that you might see on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue... However, she has been on the cover of Vogue (and PLENTY of other magazines! And isn't Vogue way more prestigious?), so shut your mouth. Forever.

2. She's had 2 babies. Rush Limbaugh, who have you given birth to?

3. Oh, so now we're evaluating folks' qualifications based on whether or not Alex Rodriguez would date them? That's mighty intelligent.

4. I see... So in order for the First Lady to encourage people to participate in physical activities and have higher nutritional standards, she has to do this...

Oh. Okay. Yeah, that makes sense.

4. Didn't the nation go crazy about how toned and awesome this woman's arms are? Clearly Michelle is in shape. This should not even be a conversation.

5. Michelle Obama is a woman of nearly 50 years old. And clearly she's not fat. In fact, her body is bangin'.

But I realize that this isn't entirely about fat versus skinny. This is about the fact that Michelle is a woman and as a woman, her worth and authority (at least in the minds of sexist, racist white men with too much money, power, and time on their hands) hinges almost entirely on her physical appearance. I find it interesting that in all of this talk about her body, no one has cited the fact that this woman is a Princeton graduate.


*looks around*

*sees no hands raised*

Okay, I'm done talkin' about this, 'cause I'm just gonna get more and more worked up if I continue to think about it. In closing, Patriarchy lives, Rush Limbaugh is still a complete idiot and Jim Sensenshutupheux needs to have his right to utter words revoked. As a black woman, the only way I can find enough peace to be able to sleep well at night is by reminding myself that Sasha and Malia are somewhere swayin' their little non-existent (but soon to be prominent) hips, chanting, "My Mama is hot and fine! She got a booty like mine!"

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Yule Get Drop Kicked

There are a significant number of reasons as to why this situation that is happening on my desk at work is just wrong. Look, I love Jesus more than just as much as you do, but that's no reason to put a fake candy cane in a red vase on my desk. See, this is the [main] problem I have with Christmas decorations. Rarely are they ever well done, understated, or elegant. At best, they're kitschy, and at worst... They're awful, ugly, eye sores. Jesus wept.

Listen, I'm just tryin' to work here. However, at times it's a struggle with this distracting ass twig with random ball configuration directly in my line of sight. There has to be an ordinance or code under some obscure labor law that will allow me to sue my employer for subjecting me to this foolishness.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

But This Photo, Though

True, she is skinny as all the fucks. But this photo, though! GIRL, YOU BETTER MODEL! Oh! The pose! The dress! Is she on stilts? OH MAH GAH!

*passes out*

Friday, December 2, 2011

Added Ridiculum

This week, my fiancee and I launched our wedding website. Well, sort of. It's still missing some content, but it's a start. And as if I'm doing a spectacular job of keeping up with my own site, this blog, and my Blackplanet page, and er... uh, other social media, I've made more commitments. Not only have I decided to write a years worth of blogs for my wedding website, but I will also be contributing content to the new Golden State Slam site on a bi-weekly basis. I'm a busy sista! However, I am excited to have all of this madness on my plate. It'll keep me good and insane, just how you like me. Now, please excuse me while I go pull all of my hair out.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

This Shit Right Here, Son!

This hoodie right here is giving me life. It's just the sort of eye candy a girl needs to get through daylight savings, the middle of the week... and being poor. Okay, actually, maybe I need more than a picture of a bad-ass hoodie to get me through poverty. But you get my point.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

We Came. We Saw. We Boomed.

Remember a few weeks ago when I told you about the Boom Girls shows that were going to be poppin' off in Stockton and Oakland? Well, them joints happened and it was fire. Folks were hospitalized for smoke inhalation. We burned it down, pyromaniac style. And that's not me bragging. That's me telling the truth and also testifying to how much of a blessing it was to be able to collaborate with women that I consider to be my sisters. Despite hectic schedules and individual responsibilities, we came together, worked hella hard, created some wonderful art, and had the honor and privilege of inspiring so many people. I was honored to share a stage with all of these women.

It was an amazing surprise to have Sonya Renee join us for our Oakland show! We were not at all expecting her, however, she was just what we needed to make our crew [somewhat] complete. Pony Jones, and Ebony Janice (our beloved, seriously missed East Coast Booms) could not be there with us, but they were present in spirit, pursing lips and sassing all up and through.

If you missed it, I don't even have any words for you. I mean... dang! That just sucks. However, we may be showing up again on a stage near you in the not so distant future, so stay tuned. Thank you, Tama and Aaron Brisbane, and The Saint from Pierced Ear Poetry in Stockton. Thank you Nercity and the entire Golden State Slam family. Thank you, Chas and the Jackson family for letting six crazy bitches stay at your house and run up your water bill. Thank you Bay Area poets, for all of your love, inspiration and support. Thank you Brandon Caffey for the awesome pictures! Thank you to the videographer, who's name I can't remember. And mostly, thank you, lovers of the word, for coming out to hear us and for receiving us, for laughing, for clapping, paying (attention and money), chatting, hugging, following on Twitter, friending on Facebook, and just letting us be in your face. Without you, we would just be talking to ourselves... Which we could do... But it looks crazy.

Boom Girls, left to right: Judy Holiday, Jimetta Rose, Yours Truly, Tamara Blue, Sonya Renee, and Simply Kat

Friday, October 14, 2011

Color Struck

The fact that my fiance and I just cannot seem to pick out our wedding colors is just ridiculous to me. It may also seem ridiculous that I'm so determined to have the colors picked when we haven't been engaged a full 2 months yet and our wedding is actually over 13 months away. Listen. Let's get it poppin'. I need to know what the deal is. What is this situation gonna look like? I need to be able to envision our wedding day, at least a little bit... And the colors play a vital role.

We already know where in the world the wedding will be, though we don't have an exact location. We have a date. I need some colors. Our Save the Dates probably go out 'round about December or January and shortly after that, we're on to the actual invitations. I need to pick out dresses for my bridesmaids and maid of honor, flowers, everything. My Mama wants to know what she's gonna wear. I can't figure any of that out without colors.

We've talked, and talked, and talked... and talked about it. We've sat down and looked at colors. We've scoured the Internet. We've emailed each other. Still, no colors.

I have an idea of what I want to do... Sort of. But I'm scared it might be too strange. And then there's this epic list of all of the colors I don't want and/or don't like. Then there are all of these parameters that the color story needs to fit inside of (at least in my own neurotic mind). It's a tropical destination wedding in December. Season versus location. They sort of clash. So, I could do brights, but that doesn't make sense to me in fall. Arrrrgh!

Fiance thinks I'm over thinking. I probably am, but that's how I roll. I'm very driven by aesthetics, so if things don't look right, I will be miserable. These colors that we [desperately need to] decide on are more important than my dress. Yeah, I said it. Listen, I ain't worried about me. These colors could go terribly wrong, but I know I'm gonna be cute, regardless, so my fresh-to-def-ness is a no brainer. Boom. Colors, come on.

Friday, October 7, 2011

Don't Do It Like That

In a previous blog entry, I briefly mentioned that a girl stole my house key. Some of you may know a little bit about that if you follow me on Twitter or know me in real life. But, for those that don't, I figured I would give you the lowdown on this triflin' child's lowdown behavior, since it's the sort of outrageous shit that happens in my life on a fairly regular basis. In fact, these sort of occurrences are the precise reason that I started blogging in the first place. I am both tickled and troubled by the fact that I seem to be some kind of foolishness magnet. [insert deep sigh here]

I also thought it would be a good time to properly introduce you to the phrase "Don't Do It Like That". This particular figure of speech was invented by my sister (and Maid of Honor) Ebony Janice and introduced to me by my brother, Chas. It's basically a derivative of the term "Aw Hell Naw"... but slightly more sophisticated and definitely more instructional. Whereas "Aw Hell Naw" is a reprimand, "Don't Do It Like That" is informative. When someone says it, they're basically saying, "Help me help you to help me help you... To not be a dumbass."

So, this summer, I had a spare bedroom, no job, and plans to be gone from my apartment for a few weeks, due to travel and cupcaking. Enter, Ashley Catharine McGinty. By some miracle (or perhaps by voodoo), she ended up being a member of the slam team that I was coaching and I sort of knew her from seeing her around in the poetry community. At the time, she was a pretty good friend of one of my besties (though, at this point, she's destroyed that relationship, once again, due to her persistent ratchetness) and she was looking to transition from her parents' house into her own place. The spare room I had was only going to be available for two months and would need to be vacated by August 31st. We agreed that she would pay half of the rent for two months (no utilities, cable television, or internet, though she would have full access to all of them) and keep it moving once September arrived. I won't get into the ridiculous immaturity that she frequented while she was at my house during the two months we agreed upon. I'll just say that I was ready for her to be gone before we were even into the second month.

When it was time for her to go, I was gone from my apartment and sent her a text asking for my house key. The following is the correspondence between Ashley McGinty and I, leading up to and after September 1st:

AUGUST 31, 2011 10:21pm

ME: If you haven't already left the apartment, u can go ahead and drop the key in the mail slot aftr u've locked up. Thanx so much.

SEPTEMBER 1, 2011 1:39pm

ASHLEY MCGINTY: Will you need it before Monday? I don't know that I'll be able to get it over there before that. Everythings been cleared out, I'll give you the key at bk if that's alright?

ME: I'm not clear on why u didn't leave it. If u cld mail it, that wld be great.

ASHLEY MCGINTY: Ok I didn't know if you'd be comfortable with it in the mailbox- but that's fine I'll mail it.

SEPTEMBER 6, 2011 5:03pm

ME: I didn't get my key in the mail today. Whn did you send it?

SEPTEMBER 7, 2011 5:03pm

ME: WHERE is my key??? This is 100% ridiculous. I need my property by tomorrow. Thanks.

ASHLEY MCGINTY: I put it in the mail I'm sorry if it's not there I don't know what to tell you.

ME: And whn did u mail it? Cause I definitely shldve had it by now.

ASHLEY MCGINTY: I sent it yesterday morning

SEPTEMBER 7, 2011 5:16pm

ME: WOW. Not Thursday whn I asked u to, after u didn't leave it whn u left? OK. I see. This is absurd. Ummmm, let's hope it shows up tomorrow.

Then I called her. She didn't answer so I left her a really great voice mail message in which I gave her the business. First of all, who holds onto a key that would give them access to property that they've vacated after their time on the premises is up and they've removed all of their belongings? Why wouldn't you leave the key? If you didn't know what to do with the key, why wouldn't you contact the person that it belonged to and ask them what they wanted you to do with it? [I'm so confused! Insert Ricky Bobby Hands here] Second, if I ask you to mail it, why would you take DAYS to do so, and then, apparently stick it in a regular envelope, slap a stamp on it and put it in a mail box? A key is something that someone of average intelligence would think to put in a padded envelope, take to the post office, and mail WITH TRACKING. THEN, when the shit hits the fan because YOU didn't handle YOUR business, you cop an attitude with me???

I then sent her the following email:

from Nikki Blak
to Ashley McGinty
date Fri, Sep 9, 2011 at 3:37pm
subject: Unreturned House Key

The fact that I still don't have my key (well over a week after requesting it) is just ridiculous. I'm completely confused as to why you would keep a key to a location that you have removed your property from, after you no longer have a right to access the property. I'm also confused as to why, when I requested the key, you chose not to return it to the property and deposit it in the mailbox as instructed and why, after being asked to mail it, you did not do so, but kept the key for several days following.

At this point, I have no way of knowing if you did infact mail the key. However, I do know that considering the fact that it is Friday the 9th and I don't have it, and you claim to have sent it on the 6th, there is a possibility that I may never see my key again. With that said, I'm looking at changing my locks, which you will be responsible for covering the cost of (though, judging from the way in which you have and currently handle your "responsibilities", I will have to eat that cost). After the past 2 months of a great exercise in patience and kindness on my part in response to your constant irresponsible/inconsderate behavior concerning my apartment, this has taken me to the level of "pissed off", just to be clear.

If you still have the key in your posession, kindly return it to me. If I have not recieved my key in person, via delivery, or with the aid of magic, in a reasonable amount of time, you can anticipate a bill from me detailing the cost of new locks and keys for my apartment. If you chose to ignore my requests, it will only further reveal your character.


There was no response. Then, I went ham on twitter.

SEPTEMBER 16, 2011 11:53pm

ASHLEY MCGINTY: I was at work and unable to answer your phone call which doesn't warrant your ugly rant via twitter. After hearing from various sources that you'd like to "put your hands" on me, what in the world makes you think that I'd be open to a face to face conversation with you? I offered to deliver the key in person, you preferred it via mail. It was sent Tuesday morning sept. 6th And I did not sign a contract, therefore I have no responsibility to pay for the changing of the locks.

ME: U didn't sign a contract, however, by taking a key from me (and not simply leaving it, which wld be logical), u created an obligation upon urself to return it. Honey please on the "ugly rant". And I'm not requesting a face to face convo, as I've never been interested in chatting w/ u abt anything at all ever in life. But until I have my key (or new locks from u) we do indeed have business, sugar. I'll see you around.

Ladies and gentlemens... There are many ways to do it. Ashley McGinty's way is not one. Not only did she not take proper steps to make sure that my house key was returned to me, but she's attitudinal and unapologetic about the fact that I don't have my property due to her own irresponsibility, refuses to make it right, and then wants to act like she's the victim in this whole situation. So, now I have to take her on Judge Judy to teach her a lesson.

Though, what I really want to do is act like this.

But I was raised right. So, I'mma be a lady. For now.

Monday, September 26, 2011

I Don't Even Feel Like It, But...

In re-dedicating myself to this blog (yeah, this one that you're currently reading. Hi.) I have self imposed a 1 post weekly, minimum requirement. Really, I should post more. More than likely, I probably will. But I have to, at the very least make myself accountable for 1 post a week, no matter what. No matter what's going on or how busy or sick or in love I am. And it doesn't matter what it's about, as long as it's something. Okay? Okay.

Well, today I don't even feel like posting. And it's not even because I'm just too daggone lazy. I'm actually really busy and more important than me meeting my 1 post a week requirement is that I memorize like 137 new poems this week. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. Five. But five poems is a lot! When is the last time you memorized that many poems? That's what I thought. So it might as well be 261. [insert hair flip here]

All of this memorization is in preparation for a duo of northern Cali shows that I am doing with a few of my fellow Boom Girls, Tamara Blue, Simply Kat, Judy Holiday, and Jimetta Rose. If I can get all these poems in my head (which I will, once I finish this post), they're going to be amazing shows. If you live in or near Stockton or Oakland you should definitely make it a point to be present at Pierced Ear Poetry Slam (Oct. 20th) and/or Golden State Slam (Oct. 23rd), as both venues celebrate their anniversaries and give a stage to a fly collective of women. Doesn't that sound like fun? Of course it does. And a night of high quality entertainment, such as the kind we're about to provide can be obtained for the low price of a $10 ticket at the door! Isn't that a bargain? Of course it is!

Listen. I'm about to go wad these pages of poems up into ear canal sized cannons and shoot them into my ears so that a river of poignant words can flow from my mouth at these shows. In the meantime, don't forget that I have an actual website that you can visit to learn about all of my poetry doings and writings. Feel free to help yourself to the open buffet of detailed info for the October Boom Girls shows, below.

October 20th
Pierced Ear Poetry Slam
Hosted by The Saint
Plea for Peace Center
630 E. Webster Ave.
Stockton, CA 95202
$8 in Advance, $10 at the Door

October 23rd
Golden State Slam
Hosted by Nercity and Jelal
Grand Lake Coffee House
440 Grand
Oakland, CA 94510
$8 in Advance, $10 at the Door

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Why Cutting Up is NECESSARY

I have so much things to say right now. And when I have "so much things to say", I intentionally try to keep it brief and manageable, or else, we'll both be here all day. By now, I'm sure you've heard all about the Troy Davis tragedy. Yesterday, justice was not served, in fact, the United States' criminal justice system continued it's campaign of victimizing and terrorizing citizens. This is literally like a terrible nightmare and this morning when I opened my eyes, I was sad that I hadn't successfully awakened from it. I sincerely feel trapped within the borders of this country. I feel abused by it. I just want to run away. I honestly feel like I can't live here anymore.

Where am I gonna go? I have absolutely no clue. Because the truth is that though The United States of America is brutal, ugly, murderous, wicked, and unjust, it is not the only country that gets down like that. The United States' behavior is just a reflection of the people that live in it and run it. And since people are people everywhere you go, I'm afraid I will not be able to outrun human nature.

I am often perplexed by our attitude toward and treatment of others. Why do we hate and kill each other? From the time I was a young child and able to have real, cohesive, logical thoughts, I've racked my brain trying to understand humankind's predisposition to malice, and I have not yet been able to figure it out. We mostly act like wild animals.

My feelings on the Death Penalty have vacillated over the years between support of the concept (ridding society of "evil", reserving resources for those among us who don't commit heinous crimes, "making things right", "bringing peace to the victim's family") and believing that there's no place in our judicial system for such an archaic practice. Throughout my adult life, as I've matured and learned more about the history of my people and the history of this country, I've steadily moved away from supporting even the concept of "an eye for an eye"; not because I'm some super peaceful, new age, yoga mat toting, liberal, artist, but because, in a country where institutionalized racism is, as I type this, digging it's roots deeper into all facets of our social structure, and corruption is common place, there is no possible way that a person of color or of a lower socio-economic class can truly, fairly be tried for any crime and sentenced properly. If a fair trial by a jury of your peers cannot be had, then the option of capital punishment should not exist. It is dangerous. Innocent people will inevitably die.

I do not know if Troy Davis committed the crime that he was executed for. I wasn't there. He says he didn't. There was no real evidence to say that he did and no reliable witnesses. In the years since the trial, most of the witnesses recanted their statements. More than one witness said that they were bullied by the police into incriminating Troy Davis in the murder of Officer McPhail. More than one juror on the trial basically said that knowing what they know now, they would have never found Troy Davis guilty. There was entirely too much doubt to execute this man. And yet, that's exactly what happened.

Now, I'm always slow to shout, "RACISM" whenever something dumb happens. However, sadly, in this case, I must. Because, how is it that after all of this non-evidence was presented and these shady witnesses were cross examined, and the jury, eager to return to their regularly scheduled lives found Troy Davis guilty, did the presiding judge actually get it into his legally professional, logical mind to sentence him to death? If no one in the courtroom has an ounce of sense, at the very least, wouldn't a judge? This leads me to believe that there were other factors that influenced the judge's decision. I suspect that other factor may have been Troy Davis' color.

Then I read about a case just three years ago in which a white man was sentenced to death in Georgia after shooting an individual three times, beating them with a crow bar and a can of paint. He admitted that he did it, probably did the Harlem Shake while confessing, and then managed to have his execution halted 3 hours before it was to be carried out. This man, David Crowe, was spared and had his sentence commuted to life in prison. Oh. Okay. See.

But Georgia couldn't do that for Troy Davis.

And I'm not really in support of setting fires and turning cars over, but...

It is definitely time to start some fires and turn some cars over. Because, I for one am tired of the United States killing my folks. And if the judicial system and it's police officers will mercilessly murder Troy, and Amadou, and Suzy Pena, and wrongfully imprison Assata, then they will do it to my children, me, and you. And they won't stop there.

The conversation since last night has been about exactly what to do. I don't have that answer. I'm still trying to figure it out. Petitions are nice and are helpful in effecting some kind of change, but I'm really not interested in being polite about this anymore. I am dedicated to figuring it out. I encourage you to do the same. Maybe I will see you and celebrate alongside you in a place where our paths converge.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Seriously Folks...

'Member when I used to do all that great blogging back in the day? Yeah. I'mma do that again. Starting now. Seriously, folks.

Okay, listen... Don't look at me like that.

I been busy! I'm sorry, okay? I promise to make it up to you with lots of introspection, observation, verbatim text message, copy and pasted email conversations, and tomfoolery. Just watch. You'll see.

Okay, so let's start. "What has that maniac, Nikki been up to?" you may have been wondering. Well, I lost my job, ended a 5 year long on and off relationship with my best friend, rode some planes, got swept off my feet, fell in love, coached a slam team, went to Nationals, hosted a weekly open mic, continued the daily task of staying fly till I die, raised a black girl to the ripe old age of 12 years old, had a girl steal my house key, and got proposed to. Currently, I is gettin' married, lookin' for a job, growing my hair into a glorious, awe-inspiring mane, tryin' to get my stolen house key back, and writing, writing, writing. Oh, and serving the Lord with gladness. This here blog is going to be a part of that "writing, writing, writing" I just mentioned. It's gonna be so good. Mmmh, mmmh, mmmh!

Banner near Harvard Square in Cambridge Massachusetts, advertising the 2011 National Poetry Slam

So, now that we're back to being friends and you don't hate me for abandoning you anymore, I'mma letcha know... I'm old. I've been observing this lil' trend in blogging where everybody is tumbling all over the place. Listen. I ain't got time. I don't know nothin' 'bout none of that. I'mma stay put right here and push these blog entries out of my nether regions the old fashion way. 'Kay? I tweet. I Facebook on occasion. That's about all you're gonna get out of me.

However, I digress. What I really wanted to say is that I'm about as happy as a preggo Beyonce and I'm really excited to be blogging and sharing my life with you again.

On another note, one of the reasons that I felt that it was important that I return to blogging was because of the many social and political happenings of the past few months. There is always some mess poppin' off. I am by no means an expert in the fields of political science, economics, government, or sociology, but I do often have opinions, some of which might be interesting to folks other than my friends and people that I talk to on a regular basis. I spend a lot of time wondering if I'm the only person who feels or thinks a particular way about what I hear and read, and writing is a really productive way to process all of the information and [attempt to] make sense of the world.

For that reason, I find it very fitting that I am re-dedicating myself to my blog on the night before the scheduled execution of Troy Davis. If you don't know who this young man is, please take a moment to familiarize yourself with his case, develop an opinion, and perhaps find ways to be vocal about what is going on. It only takes a minute to sign a petition or make a phone call. You can contact the Chatham County's District Attorney's office at the following numbers:

Telephone: 912-652-7308 Fax: 912-652-7328

Hopefully, I'll be boasting about victory in my next blog post. In the mean time, let's all call, petition, tweet, email, pray, and make some noise to save this man's life.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Science Confirms What You Were Already Thinking: Black Women Showl Is Ugly

So, way back in the year 2008, I wrote this poem entitled Dear Black Men. I used it in the Hollywood Grand Slam Finals that year, got a 30 (which, in case you didn't know is a perfect score, bish) and a standing ovation, but went over time (due to audience reaction, and not enough editing before hand) and didn't make the gatdamn team [insert weeping here].

This poem later went on to become somewhat infamous. It now lives in my book, Five-Three and Rising. It has terrorized many a Black man in it's day. I rarely read it anymore, but when I do, it entertains me thoroughly.

Yesterday, Psychology Today published an article entitled "Why Are Black Women Rated Less Physically Attractive Than Other Women, But Black Men Are Rated Better Looking Than Other Men?". As you probably guessed, it talks about the reasons why Black women are generally ugly, especially in comparison to women of other races. In fact, we're so ugly, we're less attractive than men. That explains why I couldn't get a date for 5 years straight. Well, that and the fact that I'm a bald headed abomination. Thank you, Psychology Today for clearing all of this up for me. Now I can go eat my watermellon in peace.

Anyway, here's the poem. If you had not yet experienced it, you have that silly article to thank. Enjoy.

Dear Black Men,

It has recently come to my attention

that you think

I ain't shit

Imagine tha shock and dissapointment

I experienced

When I realized that all this time

I been walkin around here

with eyes

So ridiculously brown,

They've actually been scientifically identified

as "Attention Resistant"

Which would explain why

They all but refuse to be gazed into

Research led me to discover that I'm not tha only one

Plagued with this terrible condition

Which, apparently

originated in tha same place AIDS did

And there are women all over tha world

Suffering from tha same incurable affliction

Of brown-eyed-ness

As of now, no anctedote exists

Centers for Disease Control is working on it

But in tha meantime,

These melanin infested eyes of mine

Are so run of tha mill

That you cant help but feel


And trying to admire

or even acknowlege them

In tha slightest bit

Has left you tired on levels never before experienced

and unwilling to make any further attempts

and I must say I understand

I mean, why bother

with eyes that ain't even blue

or at least green?

Hell, hazel would be an improvement

Its a wonder I can even see with these

raggedy things

and one would think

That I would atleast

Hav tha decency

To wear colored contacts

When in your company

Whut tha fuck is wrong with me?

And why hav I been trippin so hard?

And for so long?

Really, I marvel at your ability

To put up with me

At all

Black men, I am so very sorry

My hair

Is so very nappy

I just never realized all tha pain it caused you

Until tha other day

When I caught a glimpse of these kinks

and stubborn twists

In tha mirror

And I must say,

It was unsightly

To say tha very least

I would even go as far as to say

That it bordered on frightening

How do I expect you

To run your fingers

Through this audacious barbwire maze?

This shit ain't luxurious!

It ain't even fair to you

And tho I was offeneded at first

I now realize that

Whut Don Imus had to say

Was merely based on an observation

That man's statement was rooted in truth

We ARE some nappy headed hoes

And just to think

That I was walkin around here, oblivious

When tha proof

Was all up and thru my scalp

And all around my edges

Is too shameful

For me to even contemplate

Clearly, tha nape of my neck is in dire need

Of some attention

From a hot pressing comb

I'm wrong.

Black men,

How hav you managed to maintain your sanity

Under these conditions?

Where do you get tha energy

To keep up with me

When I'm dancing

On beat?

How did you develop tha fortitude

That allows you to deal

With all this unnecessary

black girl attitude?

I mean, I'm aware

I reach new levels

of irreverence, everyday

Parading around

In this dark skin

With these big lips

and this massive mouth

That, despite my sincerest efforts

Won't allow itself to be toned down

Turned off or tuned out

I won't shrink, straighten or fade

And despite many colonialist's efforts

As rapists

It appears my blackness

Remains relatively undiluted

Which leads me to believe that

Tha only possible solution

To this rampant outbreak of blackness

Is for you to keep on persuing

White women

(and females of other exotic ethnic origins)

With tha fervor

And tireless dilligence

That only a black man

Can exhibit

And in tha meantime...

I realize

That despite my dedication to you

I will never be white

But, brutha...

For you

Tha least a sista can do

Is try


Nikki Blak

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Even before you were able
To fully emerge
From your protective cocoon
Of baby fat
And pastel pink swaddling
There were grown men
Testing strength of all manner
Of tether and chain link
Compromising boundaries
Constructed to keep you out
Of harms way
More than an arm's length worth
Of laws were enacted
To protect your flesh 
From paws and fangs
But these men
Can't rest properly
Until they have 
Touched you innappropriately

They were choking themselves
On their collars
Jumping their fences, rabid
Once they picked up
Cotton candy scent of girl
Fluttering above the baseline
Of a tattle tale breeze
They couldn't stop the razors
In their mouths
From flashing
Couldn't extinguish
A growl sparking
In the back of their throats

Tragic endings in our
Ugliest folklore never 
Hinted at this manner of savage
Didn't paint images of the broken bodies
Young women will be trapped in
After they have been hunted
We were unaware that a child
Could elicit such a reaction
Never knew female 
Could cause
Such a frenzy
Just by being born

Little girls don't understand
Anything about "sexy"
A language
Foreign and unnecessary 
Stilt legs, uncoordinated 
8 pm bedtime sleepy eyes
And breath with
The stench of milk
Clinging to new teeth
Like a memory

Even before you were able
To fully emerge 
From your protective cocoon
Of baby fat 
And pastel pink swaddling
There were men imagining
All of your private parts
Laying awake, waiting for you
Enginering erections in your honor
When your mother hadn't even
Decided what she wanted to
Call you
Claiming you
Before you knew
Who you were
They have scheduled your abduction
Timed it according to
Your birthday
The pulse of their footsteps
The amount of times they knocked
Before the door swung open
How often they looked
In the neighbor's window
Before the urge grew too wild
To wrangle
A chapter and a verse
Some other arbitrary number
Anything to attribute meaning
Justify everything wrong
They will blame you
When really
It's what they wanted to do
Long before you 
Stopped believing in Santa Claus

There isn't a chord in a song
That flips the undisturbed switches
When played in reverse
There is no camera angle 
In a film scene that lights 
A psychological fuse
There is no magnet in the well
Of your belly
You are not a star
Collapsing into itself
You simply
Didn't know your period
From a comma
Confused it for a tadpole 
In Times New Roman type face
Wedged between words
To slow the pace 
Of a run on sentence
That you did not co-author
You cannot pump the breaks
When your feet won't 
Reach the petals
Your mother's womb
Was no green house
So, no wonder you never got 
A chance to bloom
Sunlight didn't get ahold of you
Before an uncle's hands did
We can't handle it
Adults expect you to know as much
As they do
When you are not yet ready 
For these lessons

On a standardized test
You were asked to
Classify the part of speech
Under which the word "preditor" falls
You had no answer
And we respond with 
More than an arm's length worth
Of laws, illequipped to catch you
Tight roping alone 
You navigate the long walk home, 
While vultures halo
Over your head
A slow moving mobile
Above the cradle of a middle school 
Playground and soccer field
It is 2 pm 
And you are not even 
Dead, yet

Monday, April 25, 2011


If you believe that
death is the worst possible 
fate, you're in trouble


When fucking no longer
Coincides with laundry day
And whether or not
I have shaved my legs  
Your palms, familiar
With my stubble
And all manner of unkempt 
It seems you have not paid attention
To much of my imperfect
Us, unclothed 
Limbs and torsos
Piled on top of
Sheets that we have tinted
Our particular shade of human
We sure do know how 
To un-make a bed
Those pillows never stood a chance
So smart,
The comforter threw itself 
On the floor
When it saw us
Stumbling in
Blinded by eachother
Connected at the lips
I wonder
Do your strings quiver
In a manner similar
To the shake of my thighs
When I am walking to
The bathroom naked?
Will the dimples in my hips
Become a lyric?
Have you uncovered a song
In the basement of my spine?
You know,
The spot touched by you
So often
The flesh has molded
To the curve of your fingers
My birthmarks
Indistinguishable from
Your handprints
I admit
I have found
Poems in your eyes
I keep myself busy 
Trying to  transcribe them 
Everyday, I am rebuilding myself
Into a home for you
A fresh coat of paint
And well kept
Somethin' pretty for you to
Look at
'Cause you deserve 
All manner of fancy
That I can afford
Every luxury that I 
Can offer
All the amazing
I can manufacture
All of the food 
That I can cook
Stay here
If you ignore the stubble
On my legs
We can wash the laundry
Sheets that we have tinted
Our particular shade of human
You've got a smile 
That I did not have to earn
We have heirloom hearts
That still kick
In the middle of 
All of this mess
You do not need permission
To love me thoroughly


What is the Return Policy
On Human Beings?

I met you on my
birthday. If you were my gift
I need that receipt


We walk into the place
Smelling like sex
Talking too loud
Looking like love
All kinds of colored
No one needs to hold hands
We talk with ours
No one knows their sun signs
We are stars
We, animals
Sequined eyes and feathers to match
A flock of angels
Out for the night
Too much living 
Collected under our nails
Got us restless
We have seen enough moons 
To tell you all about the waves
We make our own history
We ain't chasing shit
We just spin these webs and chill
Look pretty
And wait
For something to come along
Fat enough
To sink our teeth into

Wednesday, April 13, 2011


What I really want
to say is the thing I should
never write


He says it was 
The extra 10 pounds
Your smart mouth
The new way you decided 
To wear your hair
How you lopped it all off
Loc'd it all up
Took the weave out
With no care or concern
As to what his preference might be
The fact that you ain't keep 
A clean house
But your shit was always messy
And he knew that from jumpstreet
Clutter on the coffee table
Didn't keep him
From putting his feet up
On that bitch
So let's be more realistic about
What is and isn't his own
Personal problem, versus your 
Predisposition toward imperfection 
In all things
Ask him why he doesn't 
Address the actual issue
Why he will pick and choose 
Which of your traits are acceptable
And what he can't tollerate
A man with a God complex
Would rather create a mate
Than find one
Maybe you two
Should date other people
Since it is apparent
That you can't live up
To his standards
Either that 
Or lay down
So you can get 
On his level


I love my house
Most in the morning
Cold tiles
And a front door
Painted with sun
All of the plants
Finally dozing
Their quiet conversations
From the night before
Suspended in the air
Orbiting our heads
Collecting themselves 
At base boards
And behind bookshelfs
To be ignored
Or mistaken for dust
Scent of hair and skin
Snaking itself into
A labyrinth cave of lungs
Each eager mouth
A pore and crack
In floor and wall
The hulk of my sofa
An inanimate animal 
The heater's warmth
A second ceiling
The tick of 
An oscilating fan
Turning it's caged face
To see you waking
tripple blade whiring tongue
Translating the language of
Last night's open window
Left unattended
A report of the day's first
News story
In which a neighbor
Exits his own apartment
For work
Clock hands twist
A familiar routine
In well timed celebration
These extinguished porch lights
All watching eyes
Audience of sparrows
Cats with no homes
Gated dogs that bark
Because of nothing at all
And for every little thing
Chipped paint
Dust at a threshold
A vacant window sill
Wishing to be seen
Books that look at you,
Spiders we do not kill
Because they do the work
We refuse
I am thankful
For a much awaited morning
Exhaling all around us
For this magical box
I heartbeat inside of
And most of all
For the unruly horizon
Who stretches
Her naked body
Across a soft, bare 
Mattress of sky

Friday, April 8, 2011


Migrane, scratchy throat,
burning eyes; Why I can't fuck
with cigarette smoke.


How I Signed Your Copy Of My Book

Dearest Adam, I
am still waiting to be tucked
away in your beard


When I told him
That he was not the one
Our rambunctious brood of 
Hypothetical, yet to be 
Concieved babies
Gathered around a small 
Open window in the
cloud covered floor of heaven
And whimpered, looking down
At us breaking up
Realizing that they 
Would never 
Get to be born
Because they were never
Meant to be

Such poor babies
Pitiful little cherub faces
Banished to non-existence
For all eternity
What a shame
Little So-And-So 
And Whats-Her-Name
Never even had a chance
How a romance can
Stumble on a starlit rooftop
And fall to it's death
What a freak accident 
This incompatibility is
Unfortunate to meet eachother 
In costumes that most accurately
Portray our ugliest characteristics
It would be better to roam
The streets naked
Answer yes, always
Swim with the bossy current 
And never ripple waves
Not even to signal for help
Once my lungs get thirsty

I am a woman
Little time afforded to my species
For things like
What we really want
And what we plan to do
We choose early
Self development or
Child rearing
Or a home
With arms enough
To hold you in
The most basic
And very simple things
Every option, delicious 
But a decision
Like a promise
You can never go back on

There is a scroll 
Of childrens' names
Lodged in the back 
Of your throat
That may never 
be excavated while you 
Are still alive
Thousands of years
After you have died
Archaologists will unearth it
And the scroll's subjects
Will whimper
As they watch

Wednesday, April 6, 2011


He is a man
Too big for my bed
I haven't had to share
My space in so long 
I forgot what loving 
Felt like
Flinch at hands
That caress
Without warning
A kiss on my neck
I did not calculate
A pull at my hips
Without permission
I traced my signature
On his back
So that he
Never again has to ask

I can claim him
A man
I might cut a bitch for
But won't have to
'Cause he ain't
Messy like that
I like that 
I feel safe
For the first time
My memory will
Admit to
Stubborn elephant
Giant enough 
To protect me on my own
I'm not one of those
Needy women, you know
I can carry things
Move furniture
Ride the train at night
I live in a house
Constantly creaking 
And settling
Like my own bones do

Sometime I don't know 
How to sit down
Allow a man
To work at this
Allow a man
To reflex
To hold
His hands, big enough
His ripened heart
All ready for the bulk
Of me, unabridged 


Always writing
Frictions these fingers
To a forest of bone
Grey matter gone numb
I be thinkin' too much
No ideas left
Right mind, non-directional
My art
Selects sides
Each night I blueprint
A map of my imagination
Silhouette shaped like pangea
Ripped the top from Pandora's box
To discover where the wild things are
Created a character play list
To listen to
My favorite sterotypes reenacted
Heart and head
In constant conflict
Gaza Strip esophogus 
I cannot hieroglyph a language
To prevent a dumbing down
Pig Latin is no option
I got a warrant
And I like my freedom
Gonna post a help wanted sign
In sills of my eyes
And sleep walk into the night
Looking for a runaway poem
A lost love 
Easier to recover
Sock vanished in dryer
Glitch in the Matrix
I have seen it
I have unplugged my tv
And transformed into
A well read woman
How can I anchor 
My ideas to Earth
Once I've inhaled these fine lines?
Higher than a bird
Black as a raven 
And a skilled hunter am I
So hungry 
I have broken a book's spine before
And I swear to God
I will do it again 

Monday, April 4, 2011


The places where you
Hurt yourself before
Remember themselves
On these nights
When your phone
Does not move
And your hands
have been holding
Only each other
All you own is air
And the dull
Ache of teeth
Clenched too long
Your body knows itself
No one else
This is happening
A warning you tried
To wish away
A sturdy boomerang
Days that unfold themselves
At your feet like a cadaver unraveling
This is the life that belongs to you
The life you fucked and tried
To get rid of
The life that wants your love
And won't take "no"
For an answer
It stalks
Hides in the dark
Waits for you
Knife wielding
Homicidal on good days
Your wounds smile
Your reflection on the blade
A deconstructed face
Eyes you cannot decode
Your body
Swaddled tight
In a cocoon of scaffolds


When God invented sound
We are what he intended
Us with our percussion footsteps
With our gleaming trumpets
With these lungs
With these mouths
My body, a clef
His nautilus ears
A many chambered masterpiece
And all the World
Altered, added, suspended

We were born knowing how
To prism these chords
Marry triad to rustling wind  
Weave  between these trees, standing
Tambourine the leaves, changing
To know the difference
To modify the time
To open the corridors
Of our throats
Forever and ever
And never have to sleep
Or wonder

We are unrelenting
8 count enough to fill a glass
Thunder enough to break it's back
Hands enough to carry it
Destroy again

We, symphony of hearts
Bleed riffs
Like the ancients
And our mothers' mothers
Their eyes, notation
Captured in our collective memory
Like rainwater
Like morning 
Like the tingle of sunlight
Coloring us green
Growing us big
Tuning our guitar string veins
Vibrating our bones
Puzzling us into gifts shaped like children 

Saturday, April 2, 2011


I could write about
his eyes. But everything
is not a poem

Friday, April 1, 2011

National Poetry Month 2011

Today marks the beginning of National Poetry Month. You may or may not be aware that I (and literally a gang of other poets all over the planet) participate every year by writing 30 poems in 30 days. That's a poem a day, kids. It's scary as shit. I'm going to try to make it through this year, though, and you should join me. Starting tomorrow (when I will post the poem I wrote today), check back here everyday for a poem that will be in the mediocre to amazingly fantastic orgasmic quality range. I also encourage you to participate by attempting a poem a day. If you want, you can even post yours in my comment section so I can see it! That way, this whole situation won't be like literary masturbation and can turn into something mutually enjoyable. If more than one person a day posts here, it'll be like group sex. Sounds like fun, right?

Anyway, to tide you over until tomorrow, here's a poem I wrote during one of these here "poem a day exercises". It'll serve as proof that all hurriedly written poems don't have to suck too bad.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Red Stories

Back in the very end of the old year (also known as 2010, also more specifically known as December) the amazing poet/painter/storyteller/photographer, Jaha Zainabu asked me if I would be a part of her poetry reading, Red Stories. I turned into a super nova, imploded, and then became a black hole. That meant, "Yes, please, and thank you," which I'm really glad she understood.

A short time after that, Kevin Sandbloom was also asked to be a part of the night, and momentarily, I ceased to exist. When I returned to... existing, I felt nothing but gratitude and elation. Jaha is a force and Kevin has the best vibrato west of the Mississippi. And I get to be 1/3 of this trifecta of kick-ass. Please, don't be jealous.

Since that time, I've been recovering from my physical state of black hole-ness, regaining my ability to speak so I can do my poems ('cause you know black holes can't talk), and generally looking forward to being a part of Red Stories. Thanks to the swift passage of time, I don't have to look forward for too much longer. Red Stories is less than a week away! This is the part where you get excited, too. Here are the details so that you can join us for what promises to be a fun, moving, memorable night of poetry and music:

Jaha Zainabu Presents RED STORIES
featuring Kevin Sandbloom and Nikki Blak
Saturday, January 29 · 6:00pm - 8:30pm
3351 W. 43rd St., Los Angeles, CA 90008
$20 ($30 for couples... isn't that clever?)

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Get Into THIS

This is DJ Jedi. He is my friend. He's also a helluva DJ and musical connoisseur. He has a podcast and creates amazing mixes, which you can find here. They're all the hellified shit, but the one that I recommend most and am currently obsessed with is his COVERS mix. If you have musical taste that delves deeper than Nicki Minaj and Katy Perry, you could quite possibly fall in lust with it, just as I have. It is gorgeous, and I thank Jedi for once again working hard for the muthafuckin' money. You better treat him right.

Monday, January 10, 2011

The Way It Is

All I have for you is a half-hearted apology, and that's about it. I'm sorry. On June 6th, my only nephew, my sister's only son, my mother's only grandson was murdered. He was 19, had not yet lived, and so we all -- my sister, mother, nieces, his father, paternal grandmother, other aunts, and cousins and friends died, too. There wasn't much to care about, and the blog was the first to go. So... Sorry.

If I could have stopped going to work, I would've. If I could've stopped caring for Naomi, I probably would have. If I could have just stopped showing up for all of my other obligations -- Slam Team, poetry venue, showering, eating, breathing, I would have. And yet, these were the things that kept me propped up and prevented me from going completely insane, along with an outpour of love, support, and concern from friends.

His 20th birthday has since passed. LAPD has not even made an arrest in the case. Christopher Lee Johnson's blood still stains the concrete, blackened by grime, unrecognizable as blood by passerby. And here we are. I think about him everyday. He's the first thing. That was my baby, too. My friend. My video game partner. I was there that one time he got in serious trouble with a group of boys at school for fighting and I told him not to be no snitch. He lived with us, in our house for years and would always eat up all the food and forget to turn the shower off right. My mother and I fussed at him sooooo much! But he was sweet. That was my child. I adore that boy.

I had a dream about him probably 1 month after he was killed. In the dream, I just couldn't believe he was there, and all I could do was hug him. I would pull away, look at his face, and then hug him again. I miss him.

This wasn't supposed to be that blog entry, though.

I knew I needed to come back, I just didn't know when or how. Looks like today is the day. I am not a complete wreck. I feel alright most of the time, and life does go on, as they say. So, here we are. I missed you. I've had so many things I wanted to tell you. So much fuckery I haven't shared! I'm turning 30 this year, putting together another Slam Team with Judy Holiday, and of course, still making a general nuisance of myself in the lives of everybody that I think are stupid. So, we have some good times ahead. I promise. Soooo... Lehgo.