The Long Pause Ends

 

It's November.  I can believe it, even if I don't want to.  I haven't blogged in about 4 months.  

Recap:

• School started in August--1st time history teacher, teaching in a pandemic in some aftermath of summer racial protest
• Working from home with family.  Bounced between having a three year old and one year old at home while I was working.
• Financial issues as only working one job, and depending on book sales.
• Worked on various marketing strategies for book; ie book reviews, articles written about book, personal videos on IG, Facebook, & Twitter, ads through Facebook--still not a bestseller
• Inconsistent #vss365 writings
• On hiatus with Wherdzmyth magazine, however did write one article last month
• Felt need to write creative post

So yes, has been a busy bit of time for life.  Teaching is not an easy job.  Do I enjoy it more than working at the mental hospital?--absolutely do!  Do I miss really focusing on writing, developing stories, or creating marketing materials for books?--absolutely do!

Because I started back doing some #vss365 writings and posting them on Instagram and other places, I thought, meh, what the hell--go 'head and do a blog post too.  So this work is from 10/31, and has a bit of a halloween feel, but not totally. Please enjoy the ranting creativity of the word #danger.

#Danger, danger

like Things Stranger,

Penny It’s is rising 

from Hell’s grip—

& Nightmares masks

are manufactured on Elm

as sharpened gloves

remain on charred helms

It’s the 31st so quench 

your thirst w/the blood

from infected innocents 

@ your door

#vss365 #danger 

I initially posted this piece on Twitter, and thought I'd get a good response.  Not that I was seeking hard for a good response.  But I thought it was a good piece for Halloween and a bit clever.  However, I was wrong.  Not a real big response.  And speaking of Twitter, I haven't been getting a much in the way of engagement from them as late.  So it may get lowered on the social media food chain so to speak.  

The next two are blog exclusives! 

The voices are

waking 

placing my safety 

in #danger

As sitting still or

sleeping becomes impossible 

in this pre-manic state,

I want to swallow 

this fearful hollow hole

tied to my frontal lobe

Yet I am late 

with my lithium 

here come the 

white coats, ready to

take me,

captive once more.

I really liked this piece; wrote it while being a 1:1 with a mentally ill patient during a shift I picked up at the hospital.  Who can say the dangers of mental health aren't real. Who can say living that best life isn't hard, isn't frustrating.  Just realized the pic cut the words off a bit, but that's why the poem is written across from it...you know balancing the picture with the poem.

NEXT!!

#Dangerous puss popped

from space pimple.

The ooze from 

ozone layer infection created

COVID—

It wasn’t the Chinese.

They were just

victims of Venus’

vicious plan to vaporize 

the human race.

As we run to the polls

placing our fate

to liver spotted faces

because we refused to try

fresh faces;

we deserve our choice.

Climate control 

refused by the boys

allowed the lack of belief 

to make the world 

bleed

Who's not up for a selfie poem.  I really enjoyed writing this one simply because it's political, it's conspiracy, it's Covid; we vote in like 48 hours...it's just a lot of stuff I liked writing in this piece. 

I hoped you enjoyed this post.  I've been thinking of doing a mash-up rough cut spoken word piece of the last few #vss365 poems.  If you think it'd be a good idea, then drop a line, and let me know.

And for those who don't know #vss365=VeryShortStory365 (like in days)

Until next time readers!!

Some Good

Three years is a long time for some.  2017 was what I like to call my return to adulting year.  It was the year my eldest was born, and sacrifices I’d begun to make to ensure good parenting.  

So I took this job with this state hospital.  Was it a dream job for me?  Far from it.  I never wanted to go back into mental health, but I did because it was paying more at the time.

Other than really great stories about the patients, their psychosis, voice inflections, and personal interactions--there were the staff.  There’s nothing better than a good damn co-worker.  On the shift I worked, I had several.  Some took a minute to get used to, others were Saints from the start, and others still went from co-workers to friends.  

It takes a special type of muthafucka (and I mean that with the greatest respect) to work with acutely mentally ill patients.  There’s a level of professionalism that sinks slightly and is still acceptable.  There are pauses when patients say certain things, and staff faces become purple or red, doing their damndest not to laugh in a patient’s face; there is silent understanding, and inner laughter.  

These individuals knew me as a new dad.  A proud man who would glowingly show baby pictures to anyone if it would brighten their day.  They knew I worked hard, didn’t shy away from confrontation, or the trash at the end of the night.  They also knew I was always good for a smile if nothing else.  And they helped my black ass out!  They gifted me with baby shower offerings, covered shifts for me, and gave me space when I needed it.

I will miss many of my co-workers, our rituals, our routines, our ways, our end of the week jokes, and mutual respect for the work we put into the job.  We put in 40 hours a week, and rarely were there off days taken.  We knew our patients and forged relationships with them (at least most of the time).

It will be hard leaving these excellent people, it’s always hard leaving someone you’ve grown with.  I can honestly say I respect the bulk of my co-workers--definitely the floor staff.

In closing, this was some good.  In the end when you’ve checked out, suffering from compassion fatigue, with zero fucks to give, you look over at your co-worker.  And they’re doing their job.  You stand up, and remember your interview, when you said, ‘yes, when the time comes, if the time comes, I will give a two week notice.’ 

Then you bust tail for two weeks, because your co-worker deserves that.

Goodbye Old Frien-a-mie

It’s come down to this.  July 23rd, I’ll serve my last shift in the mental health field, and resign my position with Fort Logan Mental Hospital here in Denver.  Nine years ago this was a new field for me, now I feel the need to move away from it with impudence.  The field has been helpful, informative; but here in the end, the right move, is to move away.

Nine years ago I’d crash landed just outside of Denver, in Aurora; right on Illif and Blackhawk.  My car went down, and my hustle got me out.  I’d scored a job with a hybrid online school, that wouldn’t start until the fall--it was May.  I had to survive.  I’d found a job spinning signs to make ends meet, but I was homeless staying in a shelter.  Then June hit, and Excelsior interviewed me.  I had experience working with kids, but knew nothing of psychology, mental health, treatment centers, or “going hands on.”  Excelsior stabilized me economically.  By the end of the summer I had a job with decent pay, somewhere to lay my head other than a homeless shelter, and was working on getting a car.

I worked the cottages, worked with the girls, learned about triggers, self-care, strength based care, trauma informed care, CPI, manual holds, grabs, and got my cardio in just about every shift while running around campus behind our clients.  It was mental health, it was hard, they were young girls who’d been abused, and it was our job to keep them safe.  

For 5 years I did that.  And I had progressed.  I was the only supervisor to go from being a campus counselor to a supervisor.  I worked my ass off, and felt a true sense of loss when Excelsior closed their doors.

Yet other doors were starting to open.  I’d gotten another teaching job as a technology teacher with Columbia Middle School--it was a great fit, and I was excited.  Then fatherhood came, and more money was needed.  I thought I’d left working in the mental health field behind.  I was wrong.  I had applied for a state job with Fort Logan Mental Institute.  The job description seemed familiar; work with adults who have mental health issues in a locked hospital setting.  

I didn’t want to go back into mental health.  I was happy in education, I loved working with my kids, I loved working with the information, rather than behaviors.  But I needed money, I had a little one on the way, and the hospital was paying more than the school.  So back I went.  

Back into the behaviors, and outburst, the delusions, the checks, the feeling of being on guard, while knowing the importance of building relationships.  

I need to process--a term mental health professionals know all too well.  It means take a step back, look at the whole of a situation; weigh the pros and cons, see where you were wrong, and see where you are right.  Through these next couple of entries I’ll go back, and look at the pros and the cons; see where I went right, and where I should have improved.

But at the end of the day, my last day here will be July 23rd.  Like any good milieu worker, I have a plan, there is structure, and barring any critical incidents, we’ll get to that date smoothly.  

I look forward to processing the last three years at “the fort” with you--

Announced

So these be the facts folks...see video below

(I think the video may suck a bit, so if it's unwatchable, no worries, there will be other blog post coming...thanks for understanding.)

742020 poem

 Happy Fourth

    former slave,

    current racist

un-merry residents of this

tense & dense situation 

which sits on your chest 

like an overweight elephant

the elephant in the room

which when addressed

burns every door-knob, sheet-rock,& brick—

down to the stud

Happy Fourth 

    good cop,

    peaceful protester

social media & big media pigeonholed

you, panning cameras

in opposite directions

Regardless,

keep doing what you do,

keep being who you be

Happy Fourth

    to the faithful, &

    those who lost faith

    to those who say 

fuck the forefathers 

with emotion, dignity, & grace

We are not grateful, yet

still we fight for what’s right

Try to balance the 

bars & stars

w/ hypocrisy & democracy 

because black, white, brown, red & yellow

have uneven views

that are weighed in the street

Happy Fourth

    Covid—

you sick ass trick,

cancelled our barbecues & fireworks

lickity-split

That’s what you think

we need—

Space;

For it seems like

each side becomes violent 

in less than

6 feet of space—

So on this fourth,

2020 is cray; let us

Not Stop,

until we find our way

please continue your

anger, your frustration, your

misunderstandings, &

Your Communication 

with each other 

✌🏾

Feelin' Some Kind of Way

This week (6.19.20) has been difficult.  Family issues are always there, job issues the same; but relaxing via social media or tv has brought up feelings and emotions there is no running from.  Nothing but constant reminders of who I am and where I stand in this country has been exhausting.  

The kicker was an article I wrote for an online magazine I work with--wherdymyth.com My editor wanted me to do a piece on manhood--black manhood.

Let me rewind.

About a week ago my team at the hospital had received a new patient.  The report on this individual was that he was from jail, highly assaultive, and had to be placed on a 1:1.  I remember going to report that afternoon in a bad mood.  I remember the hospital was not going to “up-staff” us for this individual even though that’s what they usually do with a 1:1.  

There is always a feeling of being unsafe in this country.  With the protest it was forefront.  Now at my job it was immediate.

The report stated that the patient had been heavily sedated and had been sleeping all afternoon.  No lie, part of me felt like I could get assaulted, have a bad restraint, and maybe get sent home.  I did what all men do, I strapped up and went to work.  I got a pen and a few pieces of paper.

As I approached the room I looked at my co-worker and noticed his body language.  He was ridiculously relaxed.  When I got to him he said, “I don’t know what the hell they gave him, but he’s out like a light”.  I felt better.  I got a little look at him (expecting him to be Black) but he wasn’t.  Upon first glance, he looked Hispanic.  It didn’t matter, there was that make-up to be knocked-out: Black or brown, male, and with a record.

There I was, in a chair just outside the door, watching this grown ass man sleeping.  From the looks of it, shit--he was getting some of the best sleep he’d had in months.  After about 15 minutes of this man snoring well, I began to feel safe.  So I pulled out my pen and paper; and watched as the words just flowed out of me.

It was a release, a tension breaker; a recognition of where I am and where we are as a country.  After writing I did feel more relaxed, my breathing was better and my headache had decreased.  

But there was also a drain, a physical feeling that can be related to being in your hotel room after a 16 hour drive.  Experiencing racism is exhausting, writing about being Black is consuming, living in america is living beyond fatigue.

By the time I got home, I was excited, but I was spent.  I wasn’t done with the article, but the majority had been written.  The next night, I was drained; felt like I was a main actor in The Hangover.  I remember having a conversation with my wife at the end of the steps and thinking how much of a fog I was in.  I know I needed to type up the article and finish it, but I just didn’t have the strength.

A few nights later, I was able to sit down, type it up and finish it off.  I wasn’t sure if it was what my editor wanted but I emailed it off at like 3 in the morning.  The next day I received a text from my very excited editor.  She said she liked it, and could feel the passion in it.  

She wanted me to do another article, but I couldn’t.  There are writings like this I’m still responsible for, there are promotions for my new book I’m working on, and life is full swing.  

Overall I’m very happy with writing for the magazine.  It’s another outlet, it’s reciprocal appreciation--and appreciation has become a big theme for me as of late.  

If you would like to read the article, it’ll be posted on the magazine website wherdzmyth.com  

At the top of the page you’ll see the link for WHERDMYTH; they’ll be a drop down and you’ll see the months.  The article will be out in July, but I did a piece in the June issue on social evolution which is well written and enjoyable.

Thanks again for reading, stay safe, and remember that if you can’t love your fellow human, at least respect them 

Because, #365 poems (Hash Tag Poetry)

Because through a pandemic, we write. Because I am Black, we
write.  Because there are riots, or protests, and unsatisfied, and
unsafe feelings, we write.  Because we never solved the issue of the
color line last century, we write.  Because it is a part of me, because
it doesn't stop, because of hash-tags, because of technology, because my
voice deserves to be heard, because I want my seeds to know, because I
have books to sell, we write.  Because it is 9:59pm on a Monday night,
and this was on the to do list.

And because this is a video that speaks.

truth (not a poem)

Disappointed? yea, yes.  Absolutely.
But is it fuel? yea, yes. Absolutely.

It's taken time to understand how this fuel is a creation.  Sitting and stewing does no good.  Writing is good, creating is good, your truth is amazing.  But time consuming; not profitable.

I tried. I failed. It hurt.  Went live earlier & off a few comments and a couple of views I posted.  1/2 ass promoted and thought something would happen.

It didn't. It was disappointing, yet it was honest.  It was experience. 

As a writer I'm emotional.  As an author, I care about sales.  And am emotional.

I used to say my books, my poems and work were my children.  Now they're not.  My actual babies put me through so much more.

So take that social media.  Take that so-called supporters who never showed.  

I know this is poetry.  And poetry doesn't sell.  And poets have hard roads.  I don't mind being outside your "creators/creatives" circle.

I am speaking my truth.  It comes from a place of pain.  It has a price. It comes from a place of desolation.

I accept me.  My family's financial well-being is not hung on this.

shit.

Disappointed?  yea. yes.  Absolutely.

But more disappointed in me being half ass, and trusting in 

half-ass support.

#poet #ig # blog #newday

 

word wind-down, building up, taking stock

We've made it, the 29th of April 2020. Celebrate this day, 
remember this day. Know there is history, know you did 
great things on this day~~even if it was only getting out of bed. 
For writers and readers and people, things could be worse. 
Adjusting is hard, it is change, but try to embrace it. 
Read some poetry and be confused....love, cb

 ____________________________

4/29, four twenty-nine, 429, 4.29….all day, I’ve been looking at the date all day and 

trying to figure out 

why this date is sticking out.

About 9:39 mountain time, I took a moment and googled the date. As the processes processed 

all those one’s 1’s and zero’s 0’s my mind finally remembered.

The Verdict.

Rooodddneeyyy Kiiinnnng, Rodney King!! They would, we would, I would, the whole young black hip hoppin’ community would, yell, scream, throw bricks, and watch shit burn.

4-4-68 a date my Mom could relate to. If she were here.  If Dr. King was here. If justice lived here.  If April wasn’t so bad.  April burns.

Irony of writing this in a milieu, at night, when our psyche patients struggle the most.  Trauma.  Some say flashbacks, like me flashin’ back to my youth.

Black, still reality; behind the 8 ball, still around; still down but never out, we shout, but never be free. Throw them hands and try to make it 18.

Be blessed to say we be at least 2 times that

Flash-backs, burn, like that whip crack

28 years past that...but where the justice at?

__________________________________

pandemic,

not as much pandemonium as i’d 

imagined.

but who really imagines 

a fuckin’ pandemic?

i mean, i guess some slick 

hollywood bitches did 

and got paid and 

shit, but damn

shit’s on cnn

damn

damn

shits on cnn

shit, but damn

and got paid and

hollywood bitches did

i mean, i guess some slick

it’s that pandemic curve 

that cnn be quotin

and florida can’t flatten

while california re-opens--

hope it don’t be no 

grand-closin’ for second times

get ya’ mask and 

wear that shit homie, 

i mean

wear! that! bitch!

but what use is screamin’ 

in a country that keeps 

talkin’ bout dreamin’

while one of tv’s most 

useless reality stars

took the wheel,

like big wheels with 

a cracked front tire 

or toddler bikes 

with no training wheels

we just feel the fuck off.

learn to deal with your choices

but in the mean-time 

try that new country-time 

lemonade that so many love so much--

it’s got a splash of bleach! 

and comes with a set of PPE,

as yo’ white privilege turns to dust

____________________________________________

off time, almost

done with doin’ the most

but matter improved

or at least effort did

description of deep 

lung expansion, crazy hair 

scratchin’ neck roll heavy

with that of life

a beautiful wonderful life

clarence the angel ain’t needed

because sometimes dollar signs 

don’t stretch in directions 

that’s desired, but they stretch

existence is more than economics

(of course~duh)

and living be more than existence

but what is 

    more than connection?

honest type, pickin’ up where you 

left off type

more than textin’ or typin’ in a chat 

box

or some bot sendin’ emoji love

plugged in listenin’ love

evaluate this time

though it may be hard

dig deep give thanks for 

you are still here

almost done

    with the most

but connection occurred

    more than concrete walks

time is more than worrying about 

that which you have little to no

    control over