Blk Coffy Posts

October 14, 2019

October 7, 2019

Dad, don’t you know I can be in the whitest of white picket fence, apple pie slice’n, 

Khaki pants wearin neighborhood. Get snatched up, raped, or shot in a Walmart shopp’n for some comet cleanser. 

Anything can happen anywhere. 

I’m tell’n you, just because its white don’t mean its right.  

So you tell’n me that livin in the city ain’t safe?

Too much goin’ on in those poo man streets 

Wino’s begg’n, crack heads leanin’

Anything can happen anywhere. 

You ask. Why I do wanna live in the inner city, seeing my people livin’ so low?

You say those people down in the city have nothin’ to lose, nothin’ to gain.

They’ll see me, won’t think nothin’ of my life. 

Anything can happen anywhere. 

Dad. I see your point. But I’m tired of runnin’. 

I’m not safer with them white folks no more than I am safer with the black folks..

I’m tired of turnin’ the cheek, coverin’ my eyes, packin’ up things and leavin’. 

Those people you afraid of, are me and you. 

And we can’t keep hidin’ from ourselves because

Dad, Anything can happen anywhere. 

September 10, 2019


It’s the 3rd time my phone has rung in the same hour

My mother. Calling, screaming, forcing, demanding. 

“Marti, call me back I have some good news to tell you this time.”

I roll my eyes knowing there’s no need nor urgency for anything. 

But I betta call back. As grown and independent as I am.

I have my own good news to tend to.

I have my own needs to meet.

And yet, the phone keeps singing. Forget the breakfast you wanted to make. 

Don’t sit down, close your eyes to meditate. Stop rolling your mat out for yoga, you don’t need that.

What you need to do is call your mother back.

The mother that sacrificed her life for you.

The mother that carried everything on her back for you. 

The least you could do is call me back. “ I just got to say this one thing then I’ll be out ya hair.” 

That one thing turns into a hour and 15 mins of sang’n the blues, not one or two things of any good is said. 

Ring….Ring….Ring.. Ring…

Ring…Ring… Ring…Ring…

I let the phone ring. I’ll get it when I feel like talk’n. 

August 24, 2019

Every time Grandma started cooking, the kitchen would fill up with a redolence that stained clothes or left a fragrance in your hair.

Sweet potatoes, greens, corn bread and bake chicken clung to every corner while the heat bussed through seams of closed doors until the whole house was sweating profusely.  

Grandma would yell, “ open up them windows..let some fresh air in.”

Each window would screech like a new born baby 

then a rush of coolness would soften the sound 

I’d stand there for a few minutes before heading back to the kitchen

Soaking up the loud mouth neighbors, the hard vibrations of base in a passing speeding sports car, to my grandfather marching back and forth from the front of the house to the back

And I, too was a part of it all

 my little brown body watching from the window pane 

I was seeing the world as much as it was seeing me 

August 21, 2019

What I need friends fa? 

All they do is smile in ya face then sleep with ya man 

Them women down at the church ain’t no good 

If I went anywhere with them, you know on one of them church trips 

They’ll see me. See how my body look under these pretty church suits and church hats

Nah I can’t have that

I can hear them laugh‘n and whisper’n 

Tell’n folks Miss Eloise ain’t nothing but wrinkled leather 

All that shake in her hips, nose in the air ain’t about nothin

What I need friends fa? 

I got a man, he might be nothin’ but an old stubborn dog

But I got a man

July 19, 2019

Summer’s peak with nothing more than jus’ heat

The streets swell and sizzle 

black kids cook and frizzle 

Skin crisper than burnt bacon 

Aside of sunny side eggs 

Fried, scrambled, and shaken

It don’t bother them none

They keep runnin’, laugh’n 

til the sun closes in on the horizon 

Skin darker than burnt bacon

Sweet, maple and smoke  

permeating the night sky

They’ll be at it again tomorrow

Fried harder and darker and better  

July 1, 2019

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June 17, 2019

I told mama stop feeding those weeds 

they ain’t goin’ no where 

I told mama them weeds jus crowd’n space 

takin up room where flowers can bloom. 

Pluck em, spit em out, cut em, get rid of em 

But mama keep waterin’ them weeds 

pray’n for somethin’ different. 

Mama say them weeds betta than nothin’ 

I told mama, well them weeds is all you gon get. 

December 16, 2018

Moved by actual love letters, Peter Bruun creates a drawing for each and every letter he is inspired by. Below, a self-love letter I written as a prose was chosen to be apart of the project.

November 30, 2018

She sat cadet corner like

between brick umber colored walls
warm, stubborn and content

No one can see her
The walls just let her be, here
cradled like a baby.

She needs this
feeling the heat of her own breath
The sounds of her own words

No touch could give her this
No existing thing could fill her
But there, against the nothingness
Love finds her