Foggy Day at Monticello

I had the privilege to venture an hour and change south to Charlottesville, in particular, Monticello, aka Thomas Jefferson's ol' crib. Mostly thanks to a Culture Class assignment. We reached the fog-drenched colonial mansion not really knowing what to expect. Well, aside from armies of gray hair that is.


Surprisingly, we were far from disappointed with the tour of Jefferson's lil' mountain. The tour, great. The gardens, great. The things I learned, great.


One thing I was disappointed with was the curator, along with the Thomas Jefferson Foundation still struggling with the fact that Thomas Jefferson could have possibly fathered the children of his slave, Sally Hemmings.


Now don't get me wrong, I could care less whether he did or not. But the fact that a credible historical society thinks that it might tarnish his name even after DNA tests proved it bothered me. But it did remind me of something I heard once. Draw your own conclusions.

"It's historical.
People like they historical shit in a certain way.
They like it to unfold the way they folded it up.
Neatly. Like a book.
Not raggedy.
And bloody.
And screamin'."
- Suzan-Lori Parks

I wrote and shared this in class today.

Sometimes the candy-coating tastes better
By Kris Kennedy

There he is
Candy-coated Kris
With his candy-coated shell,
Such a sweet guy
Sweet like candy
Pay him no mind.
He’s just a treat
A sweet treat
Just a buck deep
He doesn’t mind.
He’s nice
So nice
Easy and free.
I can see him going far in life,
He’s just so charismatic.
He's gonna be somebody.

Please pardon me, but fuck that.
Please don’t mistake my kindness for weakness.
Politeness as invitation to speak your mind
And not expect anything in return.
Don’t mistake my nonchalant-ness for some silly snot-nosed kid
Who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about
Or takes things lightly
Or breathes in good air
And breathes out sprinkles.

Inside is reds, oranges and then some.
Flames, tears and then some.
Bruises, scars and then some.
One big middle finger
And then some
And then some.

Do you know what it’s like to go hungry for weeks
Living in a one room motel for years.
Me, mom, dad and baby brother.
Or having both sets of neighbors taste
Gunpowder-laced homicides
Or gun shots
Or tears
Or screams
And then some
And then some.

So, Please pardon me.
Pardon me
For the always being the new kid
And so on and so forth
The always having to change to fit in
And so on and so forth
For the smiling to make the pain go away
And so on and so forth
For the broken spirit and bones
And so on and so forth
The trampling, the fears, the being left to blame
And so on and so forth
The words left unsaid, the shame and handcuffs
And so on and so forth
The emptiness found in the words “I love you”
And so on and so forth
The lies and STDs
And so on and so forth
The being told with fists and bats that I’m nothing but a nigger
And so on and so forth

The drugs ripping family, from the seems
And so on and so forth
Having no place to call home
And so on and so forth
Staring at death’s face in the shape of a gun barrel
And so on and so forth
Asking why little brother has to die
And so on and so forth
All the times I cried to myself on bathroom floors
And so on and so forth
The me trying too hard and still failing every time
And still carrying everyone’s
Burdens on my back
Like a rock
And then some,
Do you know what’s it like?

So, Please Pardon me
For all that I am
And all you don’t know.
I smile
So you don’t have to see
what I have to.
Because no one deserves that.

It's been a bad week

It's not been the best week. Tons of work. Just as much failing. And a shit ton of learning. That was the only good part. My body, my self-esteem and my friends probably all hate me for this week. But, next week is a new one. So to celebrate. I thought I'd share two poems I wrote this week. I hope you enjoy. Tell me what you think. Not that I care.

I'm not perfect
By Kris Kennedy

I used to be a lover,
a rock star, a kid
I used to be a songwriter,
a singer, a dancer, an artist.
I used to be a friend.
I used to be an economist,
a journalist, a leader
I used to be a catalyst, a role model
I used to have my own special place in the world

and I'm not what I what I thought I would be.

'Cause truth is
I'm still struggling to find my voice.

All I know is that I love creating.
I love thinking, telling stories and building culture.
I love being me.

And I would apologize that
it might not show up in my work here,

but I'm not sorry.
I can't be sorry.

‘Cause everyday I’m still fighting to find it.

------------------------------------------------------------

Here's poem #2. Funny, I wrote it almost right after.

Richmond, VA 6:24pm
By Kris Kennedy

Butt asleep against wooden bench seat
Two people, two tables down speaking French
sounds like politics, religion
maybe romance

Runnin' through my own mind
trying to catch a glimpse of something brilliant
but it's just florescent light
not sunlight
like a trickster

Stopped to breathe
watercolor and pencil doodles on the wall
but not for me
not for
what I need

I need brilliance
not French

Today I decided to write a poem

I woke up this morning in a sour mood. Grumpy. Sick. Feeling very hack-ish.
So, for my daily writing exercise, I decided to write a poem.

Poetry used to clog my bloodstream. All through high school and most of college blessed the world with notebooks full of poetry and songs. But for some reason, I stopped. And those notebooks are sittin’ in a box somewhere in my parents' basement I’m sure.

Anyway, here’s my thoughts and feelings from this morning. Well, at least how I felt at my core.


I used to write for me
Poem by Kris Kennedy

When was the last time I wrote from my heart
The last time I gave my brain the day off
And listened
With my eyes closed
When was it?
When was it last my heart lived on my sleeve
With conviction
And left to bleed
Like a declaration of independence from giving a damn
When was it?
‘Cause last I checked,
I’ve been working my rear to the bone.
Just check under my fingernails
The tree rings under my eyes
Or the limp in my heartbeat's syncopation
But what good is that?
What good is jumping
Still staring at the cliff behind me.
Not the clouds.
Not the sky.
Not the patchwork ground below me.
I ask, what good is that?