basquiat's revenge

today… / i’m just a fat Black bitch with a few good words

basquiat’s revenge

today…
i’m just a fat Black bitch with a few good words
a court jester at best
every [Black] poet waits in line for their 15 minutes regurgitating the last one’s
sonnet into a lackluster spinoff

every Black man’s poem reads:
i was killed today
i will be killed again tomorrow
america, you wish to consume or wear or fuck or frame my flesh
america, you were never america in the first place
let us swallow our fists until the bruising bears resemblance
of a broken chain
i am never at your mercy


they calculate every move
hovering to see if the academy gon’ take the soul outta me
as if i didn’t sell it already in a los angeles basement

                                                                              //in exchange for a simple day

2016 got a few secrets on me

                                                                                               
        the devil got even more

                                     i am imperfect
                                                in the most perfect ways
no idealism penetrates the perilous nature of my pen
i see the southpaw stance of their spoken word                                                 from a mile
                                                                                                                                              away

i prefer an unorthodox rendering of my wicked tongue

a fading table sketch of an early basquiat
turned calamity from a violent cadence
                                                 a sicko’s mind fuck 

                                                                                                   how far left can i take god's third eye

                                 let’s see:

a portrait:

my latinx cousin smoking meth in the bathroom

in the room over her toddler watches a gay cartoon



a landscape:

my african friend begging for my hand in marriage

for citizenship in a country he’s doesn’t even want to die in


a still life:

of my third abortion. no. my fourth


graffiti:

the lines of coke i snorted the night before i moved to oakland

i play god always
i’m as shameless as i paint myself to be


the Black woman’s poem reads:
i was raped today
i will be raped again tomorrow
america, you wish to consume & wear & fuck & frame my flesh
america, you were always america in the first place
let us swallow our blood until the bruising bears resemblance of a broken chain
i am always at your mercy

they calculate every move
hovering to see if the loneliness gon’ take the poetry outta me
as if i didn’t offer everything in a florida graveyard
                                                                          //in exchange for a killer’s aim

                                                                                         this the second time you read that stanza

                             in the last piece                                         

i refused to bleed                                                                                                                                                                                     
                     on this page                   

                                                                        bleeding is the only thing

                             that seems worthy of your applause         

mimi, you screaming at the walls again                                                                                                                


                                                                                                 mimi, you shouldn’t write it like that

mimi, just shut up & do the work                                                                                                   

                                mimi, play the game


mimi, slow & steady wins
 the fake                                                                     mimi, tell us about your next—

mimi, be nice

      &

maybe your 15 minutes        

               will last longer        

than the nigga ahead of you         


the chip on my shoulder gotta death wish                                                                                      

                                                     the arrogance
                                                       can’t even hide

                                                                                                             itself

it removed my head                                    

              from the body           
        &
placed it off centre             

left on the canvas                                                                                                                                                         



the eyes dilate                                    

lava hot                    

a whispering window                         

shot up from             
skull                     
crack(ed) dances                                                      
into the yellowing     
of the teeth                                          
                    a cigarette spawns
the tall-tale sign        
too good for this willowing scene       
vibrating in opposition                         
to the onslaught reverberation                                             
safety tantalizes for                                
luxury                                                                                                                                                               

                                        i’m almost bourgeois                                                               bored

the reality is if i don’t hear the slit                                    
of the wrist                
  transposed through                              
the paint                   
                                                   then what are we really dying for?

to be representational?                       
     i forget to be here                                                          all the time                                

GROUNDED JUST ISN’T MY THING                       

it’s the ones who                                

prance proper            
                                         holy
who got the viciousness                                              
            begging                                  to             crawl 
naked                                                                             
          completely out of their skin
me?                                                                                
every wall                                           
                                was already

taken                        
every seedling                                                            
of                                 
doubt
   was planted                              into          

a forest                                                                                
decaying my wandering           
thoughts                                                               

   into a new beginning                                                              

let’s see

how pretty

i can make

this frown

look today


sun in the 6th (the house of unforeseen enemies)

you were in my dream last night. i hope you are well. you & all your                 friends             were
sitting on a stage. you were quietly meditating in the corner & then you left. once you were gone,
people began accusing you of having a gun, but i didn
t see it.

About the author

Mimi Tempestt (she/they) is a multidisciplinary artist, poet, and daughter of California. She has an MA in Literature from Mills College, and is currently a doctoral student in the Creative/Critical PhD in Literature at UC Santa Cruz. Her debut collection of poems, the monumental misrememberings, was published by Co-Conspirator Press in 2020. In 2021, she was selected for participation in the Lambda Literary Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBTQ Voices & writers, and was a Creative Fellow at The Ruby in San Francisco. She is the 2023 recipient of the SFF/Nomadic Press Literary Prize in Poetry. Her second book, the delicacy of embracing spirals, is forthcoming with City Lights Books this Fall. Her works can be found in Foglifter, Interim Poetics, and The Studio Museum in Harlem.