It seems whenever I read the latest periodical
Or browse the most current Web site of the black intelligentsia
I feel a fever and experience a moment of schizophrenia

It seems there are less than six degrees 
separating me from today’s Talented Tenth
From the esteemed writers, pundits and poets of the 
Neo-soul black bourgeois bohemian hierarchy
Those with whom I have crossed paths
Those with whom I’ve broken bread and shared laughs
Those who have bought me sushi and tried to tap ... my ass
Those who promised to critique my manuscript – and didn’t
Those who probably covertly wished I’d just quit it

Because I was competition convenient with whom to be cool
I had connections
Like an artistic matchmaker, I put similarly yoked minds together

Then I got knocked up
And was slowly excised from the circle
Like my baby was excised from my body

My life became too scripted to be a drama
No longer a receptacle of dysfunctional distress
I became a mamma with much more to digest
My words became more than seduction; they became unrest

I don’t know many artists with 401Ks, health insurance, IRAs and houses
Those who have partners in spouses 
Instead of niggas and louses who feed them the flavor
That seasons their poems and songs of Woe

I don’t know many artists with high-profile 9-to-5s
Whose creativity is simultaneously batteried yet carried by a salaried position
I am not speaking in encryptions
I write this not in derision
For I am cautiously content
But have made a methodical decision

Creativity can come from the subdued, the cool, the calm, the grace …
Not always crafty conundrums of calamity, cacophony and trendy new categories.
This is my space.