Sunday, February 14, 2016

And If You Happen To See Her, Will You Let Her Know That She's Still Fly?

"Do it for me...for my birthday. Baby, go write a blog today. It'll do you good. Write."

It's Valentine's Day and his birthday. And the only gift he wants:  is for me to blog.
Okay. I can do this.

*stares at blank screen *stares at blank screen *stares at blank screen *stares at blank screen

I don't know how to write this.
I don't know if I can remember.
Will muscle memory swoop in and save me like Falcor in the Never Ending Story?
Or will I sink into the earth, voiceless, my energy
zapped by fear.

Will I share too much?
Will my passion be irksome?
Will I expose my fuck ups?
Missing you.
Man I miss you.

Here, silence is not golden.

So whom shall I fear?

I'm outta fucks to give.
Mattafack, I'm fucks deficient. It's time I blogged again gatdammit.
I miss it.
I miss you.

I look at my hands.
I fight to uncurl them. Straighten them.
I stare at them
I command them to restore.
I don't recognize them anymore--
they are battered and bruised.
They're not pretty-I didn't realize I even thought they were pretty until...

I dare a tear drop to form.
I don't have shit in this world but my hands. They've clawed, punched, scratched, waved, lifted, pushed and pulled me all over this world.
My hands are battered and bruised 
But the screen is no longer blank.
Uncurl, straighten.
I am fatigued. Just tired. Not nearly as tired as my mother. And her mother. And her mother.

Then I remember my shoulder.
Reconstructed and stronger than ever.
Keep going.

How shall I write this?
First, I'll use my hands
these two beautiful agents of destruction.
We've had some good times, haven't we?
My two greatest weapons.
Surely, we have more tom fuckery left to have.

Me against the world.
Typing defiantly
so what,
that 90 words a minute pacing has slowed down.
I can adjust
Keep calm, toke and carry on.

How shall I write this. What the fuck to talk about?
I blame social media for this! Easy excuse. But I've lost my ability to
express myself over 150 characters, past 6 seconds, tumblr-ing, pinteresting is a fucking verb now, insta, re-gram, I don't even know what the fuck snap chat is....what is that little ghost emblem anyway? isn't that weird???? Everything is fucking weird to me. I wish Bowie was still here.

Bowie said, all art is unstable.
I think I'm beginning to understand why.
And it's a beautiful thing.
So fuck it, here I am possum

Mummy is back.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Don't Worry Possum-

josephine will relaunch soon with stories, love and tom FUCKERY.

ciao for now,

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Mid Day Tom Fuckery!

Ciao fucker!

It may not seem like it, but spring like weather is actually coming! Here in NYC its 32 degrees and we are all walking around like in a fucking daze--shell shocked by the long brutal winter. But look here pimpin, this song right here will give you all the sunshine that you need.

Happy World Theatre Day to all of my comrades! The struggle is real, and its an honor to fight side by side with you.  Alright mummy's little possum, blast this song for all to hear. I love you. Yes, YOU.

(*oh and sorry for the lame commercial before the song. That's fucking youtube. So hope you don't get blueballs waiting on the song :)



Thursday, December 5, 2013

Mid Day Jam! Celebrating 20 Years of Jamiroquai

Ciao fuckers!!!!

If you can believe it, this album turned 20years old this year. So like Tom and Donna say "TREAT YO SELF" and give this a listen. Peace to your day. Mummy loves you.


Live and Laugh friends.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

When the Sun Rises Over The City Of Shoulders

And then sometimes I wonder if ol' John Henry would look at his sledgehammer collecting dust
in the corner of the room
(in the corners of my mind)
and think
Shit. I am tired.
I know the folklore as well as I know the
folks who dwell in the city of Chicagoland
racing against a steam powered hammer
the closing of schools
the closing of minds
the closing of legs
(you pray because, just what the fuck are you sposed to do with that baby?
You're a baby yourself.)
And I try not to get mad when I see Flaming Hots, high fructose purple drink
at 8am on this bus-top; It's cold.
We are tired
We are weak
but we are strong.
Depressed economy
Depressed minds over sharing on social media
your pain
your disappoint and endless selfies
that annoy the shit out of me.
Finding the right angle in the bathroom
Are you sure you want to post? Yes.
upload that pain
for all the world to see, with a caption befitting him and her and her and him.
Oversharing. But then I think,
who else will celebrate you? Its always open season on little black girls.
Big ones too.
But then, through my annoyance of terrible images
(uploaded by us)
you decide whether or not to click Like
or simply look over the photo again.
And that's when I notice the all mighty powerful hammer propped against the wall.
Collecting dust.
Though she's mad and wants to live a life like she sees on VH1
I ask her, why bother being a muse to the worlds bullshit
When you have that mighty hammer right behind you.

Replace the selfies, with better images I beg you.

Folklore says this old hammer killed John Henry / but it won't kill me.
that was my chant, growing up here in Chicago.
I sang songs about John Henry as a child
replacing the lyrics
this old Daley segregationist legacy killed/ but it won't kill me.

Now pick up that sledge. For you are the victor.