https://jdtabor.cargo.site j. d. tabor ♥ Fri, 17 Jan 2025 17:20:30 +0000 https://jdtabor.cargo.site en https://jdtabor.cargo.site/a-chronicle-of-hunger Thu, 07 Nov 2024 21:48:22 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/a-chronicle-of-hunger accepted by Passengers Journal in 2024.&nbsp; “a chronicle of hunger” commissary bratwursts browned nearly black, nearly smoking! daddy hurries to the billowing smoker and forks one. your weekend favorite, i stand there, eating in a hurry. late kindergarten nights: leftover crab bisque soup and a packet of two saltine crackers. curls dip like finger food. i jolt awake. as not to insult daddy, i eat, hurriedly. my daddy teaches me only how to make a pb&amp;j. i am little. i am proud to finally cut it how i like: diagonally. we cut it together, with a sharp knife. slow, jas, no need to hurry— without him, i learned plenty, and cut myself often enough. my fingers spoke over the cutting board do you not feel tender with me? but i am drowning them over sink water, hurrying to the emergency room. my belly a mess of nerves and hunger, i only see ketchup sauce and dried barbecue sauce on my hands. i am open, i am stinging, but, here, i am in no hurry. they suture the wound and i am raw. i remember daddy cut his fingers too, clean off. a young man in a kitchen alone, his flesh in a plastic bag til sewed back on in a hurry. we may never stamp out our compulsion, me and my daddy, but i now whisper to myself, as kind as he did, slow. no need to hurry. why must we even hurry. https://jdtabor.cargo.site/being-called-names-a-kind-of-sonnet Thu, 07 Nov 2024 21:58:35 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/being-called-names-a-kind-of-sonnet accepted by spoken black girl magazine in 2024 “being called names, a kind-of sonnet” monday, noon. we rarely chat, y'know (so flowering intimacies can occur in thought only). she calls me names, forgetting mine. her cadence shifts, reimagined a gracile, harsh-tongued mess of words: back to her pre-medicated self, shifting tall before falling back. small again, my version of her—skin purpling and ashy, nearly sallow with it, eyes bloodshot from drugs/geriatric sleep patterns/rushing arthritis + diabetes + dementia + etcetera, the fillips of demise. she folds monochromatic clothes and calls me my mother's petname until i flush. we rarely chat, as disorientation muffles conversation into "whats" and "huhs" and the woman coffled beyond her emerges and speaks to me (celestial and voicing your mouth, i meet you before you became the you now: beaumont. sweet tea. mistaking recently illuminated streetlights for the moon. hearing crickets. my mother and you, a small child, feeling realized.) https://jdtabor.cargo.site/black-things-a-series Thu, 07 Nov 2024 22:04:47 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/black-things-a-series accepted by michigan quarterly review in 2024 “black things, a series“ Black as it is in color past-gone and farm-viewed nights so dark blue eventually. pupils. tree bark sometimes. car tires and their skid marks. voids. pre-genesis, pre-void oxymoronically. depths of oceans. the tops of trees. burnt roaches. burnt toast eventually. my man and his designated waitress at waffle house. centers of sunflowers. bee and zebra stripes. eastern gray squirrels so dark gray eventually. the eyes of deer and their hooves. enough blood. not quite my mother's hair; that's 1B actually. Black as it is in nature no streetlamps: animals appear bone-bleached white against car lights and trees a pale gray, swampwater a mirror, spanish moss the heads of bodies, the road an asphalt abyss of black starless holes. how many infinities are there? the armadillos moving rocks and the moon escaping amongst the tears of god in the sky. the haunt and exhilaration of night follows us until the pink dawn. Black as it is in existentialism being once a forest, mixing roots, shucked into wood, rudely now furniture, petrified into stillness. stuck between death and living usage. becoming malleable and unchangeable. marked. shielded. vengeance is always sevenfold. human and sweet. the toilers and waymakers, my mothers, my god.Black as it is in superstition as kids, we watched frogs suicide-hop to their startling drowning deaths. summers we spent releasing frogs and holding the white pink underbelly against our pink white palms. sleek dark frogs laying against expanses: bucket bottoms, sandboxes, the barren ground under swings. and, surprisingly, white concrete, floating on their backs as we did in our floaties. until caught up in the netting of the poolman, into the trash bin coffin and us, our daddy, his arms. so we'd sigh—"these frogs"—and manhandled them free, make a wish for luck like grandma taught us, and let them go. Black as it is spiritually saving the third rinse of rice water in my fridge for guests, practices of gratitude. 14k gold for the babies and other money rituals. grandmas in sunday best, the brides of god. choirs and praising, kids singing psalms and winter plays. food in the basement and long-winded blessings preluded by "this wouldn't be long so the food don't get cold," a proven curse. babies crying in the back, powdery perfume and purse candy. cigars, brandy, button down suits and brown oxfords; saying "miss", blowing smoke, soldiers of the lord. blessing and being blessed. https://jdtabor.cargo.site/the-altar-mirror Wed, 06 Apr 2022 01:49:47 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/the-altar-mirror winner of the Edith A. Hambie Poetry Prize (2021)—awarded at Spelman by the Academy of American Poets University and College Poetry Program. guest judge Kimberly A. Collins selected [my] poem "the altar mirror," noting the excellent "use of form, imagery, and language" and “the depth of [my] promise as a significant writer someday” (written by Prof. Strange of Spelman College). “the altar mirror” and bring the grandma again eats swallows gone persistent repeats hunger ends elongates and widens she sings &nbsp; the triptych holds &nbsp; my faces close &nbsp; stain-glass colored skinand i reachout for trufflesrich and sickeningi am smallin the mirrormy face dirtywith the pleasurefor something sweetin the mirrori am largebarely observable, nolight or candlecaptures my faceat grandma’s vanity&nbsp; words watch while together something presses —something calls pressure from&nbsp; glass mouth big mouth gone mouth tongues https://jdtabor.cargo.site/note-to-self-oxtails Wed, 06 Apr 2022 01:49:37 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/note-to-self-oxtails accepted by aunt chloe (2021): &nbsp; “note to self” a sunflower &nbsp; &nbsp; conjured &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; out of the dark soft wholesomeness buzzing &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; in My fantasies; fully celebrate everyone’s absurd things and smile from one extreme to another Tender my darling tenderness “oxtails” thanksgiving, christmas, new years eve my parents (daddy) churn time in a pot, all the fats sinking to the bottom, the smells running through the house until the oxtails soon melt in my ears—soft chews, the only alarm able to seat us all at the table in sync is my mom pouring the sparkling juice and daddy taking the top off the caramelized sizzling of centuries of hardwork and recent gentrified grocery store prices driving tradition further and further away. https://jdtabor.cargo.site/butchering-a-chicken-annotations-from-the-cookbook Wed, 06 Apr 2022 01:28:03 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/butchering-a-chicken-annotations-from-the-cookbook accepted by stellium magazine in 2021 and was nominated for best of the net anthology (2021). “butchering a chicken: annotations from the cookbook” Step One1: Focus as the squawking turns to inaudible squeals to silence, reminding me of braindead guts buried in the backyard, prayed over, sermons preached, reminding me of taking a child's neck in my hands and pressing (down and out down and out down and out), reminding me of cracking my neck, reminding me of a more “up and out” movement—of gasping, of breaking of bones out of place, of silence.&nbsp; Sub-step: Death's shock does not prevent the chicken from the very lively ability of its goose pimples bleeding while plucking each feather. Though the sink shall rinse away the fluff until the basin turns pink and white like the scars of past cystic acne picked at, since burst, and gushing with excitement until wiped away. Step Two2:⁠ the body will jerk compulsively after death and the movement will splatter some blood; it will make me shiver, it will sit with me—the mess that i am creating. blood like catching &nbsp; a mosquito on your arm near the Savannah River; all mucky, and the blood smearing against your skin (warm. sticky. new. consumed but no longer belonging to anyone. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; i cannot take back what i took and it cannot give back what i gave). Sub-step: smack a fly with my bare palm. it landed on the table next to me&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; like mom said it would. splinters appear in my hand, but she will not take a tweezer to it. i deserved it. Sub-step: do not rub the blood away. i hold it in my hands, warm like what flows out when the moon is high and my tides flush unbidden from me and i grab towels, but nothing stops it from rushing to my hand. like teeth pulled, like teeth punched out and gums broken so young, like tears that follow alone until companioned. shouldn't i have been there; my hand could have caught them too.&nbsp; Step Three3:⁠ let the last of death's convulsions stir you, jerking the chicken until it slowly eases into death on the cutting board—feel disorientated, feel reckless, and feel dizzy bodies stutter sometimes at the most inopportune times Step Four4:⁠ things will spill out and out and out and out and out and out Sub-step: collecting into a puddle at my feet while i butcher this chicken &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; at the kitchen counter Sub-step: it will be like a fast river gushing and slippery on the tile floor i will clean it up because mom will get mad if dad saw it would turn my neck backward Sub-step: it is dripping and i know a mess is being made i know it is&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; because my feet are wet not sticky yet as the blood hasn't congealed&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; in that nasty way i always admired about blood coming together sticking together like a solid almost but right now it runs freely Sub-step: i don't want her to see i cant have her see if she sees her little heart will be devastated that i have killed this chicken that i have done it with my bare hands her little mind will not see that she eats chicken nearly every week &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; all she will see is my willingness to kill and cleave to take a friend&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; when she needs a friend Step Five5:⁠ do nothing else Step Six: remember you do not get to be nourished anyway the footnotes:&nbsp; 1 Kill the chicken by decapitation or shooting it. Decapitation can be done by hand by grasping the chicken's head &nbsp; at the base of the skull and holding the body in the other arm, snap the chicken's neck in a down and out movement. If you chose the shooting method, hold the chicken down to the ground while wrapped in a towel, and aim the pull towards the head. 2 You can do one of two things: skin the chicken or pluck the chicken to save the skin. Plucking feathers from a chicken should be done immediately after the chicken has died whilst the body is still warm. Sit the chicken in a bucket while holding the legs upward with the head hanging downward. Start from the back by pulling several feathers at time, downward and quickly, drawing them out from the reverse way that they lie with a sharp tuck but not enough to tear the skin and carry out this process quickly. Do not pluck the feathers around the neck. 3 Cut the legs and the tail. 4 Do not spill the guts but remove the innards (the intestines) and toss this material aside. 5 Wash the chicken thoroughly and then vacuum seal the chicken for later. https://jdtabor.cargo.site/when-he-dies Wed, 06 Apr 2022 01:49:45 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/when-he-dies accepted by abolition feminism journal in 2021. “when he dies” when our brother dies, we tie pretty ribbons to our hats sit in the back of the parlor and pet the funeral home cat wait til the hot pie is pulled from the oven, baking hot and touch the fork to our tongue, heat producing snot running down the front of our cardigans because its better to make a mess than cry again when our father dies, we press flowers to his casket listen to the pastor tell us eternal sins awaits us while we toss quarters from the ground into the basket we hold his handkerchief in our hands, must sniffle into the initials—being ladylike enough to mask it: the sadness while we adjust when our husband dies, we lose a sense of self as we fade impolitely into the wallpaper, the grievances left for them while i think, too, did my mother not die last year? her shelf of books left to me as her mind turns to vapor and my tears lost to the moon’s view when i go, it will be nothing of the ceremonies i witnessed in my life as my pacing was peaceful (ulcers here, stress scars in my brain, my knees needed replacing, my hands are coarse) in comparison to all the bullet holes, the broken necks because longevity beats short term somehow https://jdtabor.cargo.site/me-at-my-first-funeral Thu, 07 Apr 2022 01:39:48 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/me-at-my-first-funeral an accepted finalist of agnes scott’s college poetry contest in 2020 and subsequently published in agnes scott writer’s festival magazine. “me, at my first funeral” when my momma lay me down to rest, i hope my grave black as me-- the colorless epitome of brown i'd ever seen, a wash of endless light when you gaze my casket, as ashy as can be like stepping out of a shower not meant to clean yourself in but cleanse yourself in: an absolving shower, the soap + shampoo + oils in the crevices and i attempt, for maybe the third time this week (it’s only tuesday) to drown myself in these waters so shallow my reflection doesn't compare like it would on a casket as black as me when my baby plants lawn flowers, i pray those sunflowers stretch farther than my smile towards our star-- the petals melting in our charleston, old plantation heat beating on her tiny hands while she toils and my brown skin, turned purple, lights up for a moment in the depths of the dirt under the worms + swamps + bodies of unclaimed bones just as baked as my brown, maybe darker; the roots grow tall and the stem touches a freedom, a peace of mind so fine its seeds split open in a grin, spilling on my white smile, stretched in a laugh when daddy sits this parade out, my small washed up body delivered before the soft, creased hands of the women in my life while they cook all the things i'd wish to eat: the gator's fatty insides, the call of the deer cooked in rice, the mashed sweetness of those orange potatoes, the sugar rush of rainwater + lemonade ; and when they are done, he gobbles it up and prays, in the lord's name, that no baby was his baby like this baby my sister will have to dig me up when she brushes off the debris, pats my curls of the uncleanliness, kisses my forehead, and closes that grave, she'll whisper into my chest your heart beats different, your voice sounds changed, whatever happened under there you're blacker after losing your chains. https://jdtabor.cargo.site/IIIIIII Thu, 07 Apr 2022 03:51:43 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/IIIIIII CYAP teen organizers' showcase art installation, making a case against the school-to-prison pipeline, July 1st, 2017. as seen in the video of our art installation, several organizers and myself created a minature prison cell from plywood, props brought from home, chalk, and speakers to play sound effects and my poem (which is transcribed below).&nbsp; included in the video is the following group-artist statement:&nbsp; “created by a group of multi-racial, multi-gender/queer teens that have come together to promote social charge in SC and celebrate intersectionality with our young people. “IIIIIII” is a statement regarding our prison system. the current prison system is dysfunctional and does not serve all people of all identities, setting most folks who enter a penitentiary up for failure rather than for recovery. too many are sent too soon, especially black and brown youth (girls and boys alike) as well as queer children (especially trans youth). &nbsp;with this in mind, we present you with this experience: modeled after Doris Salcedo’s Shibboleth for its simplicity and interactivity, we hope that you can be spurred to enact change to reverse the school-to-prison pipeline and the serious nightmare that is the American prison system. special thanks to the Carolina Youth Action Project for facilitating and funding our work as well as teaching us how to be the best activists we can possibly be.” &nbsp; “IIIIIII” it’s as though i forget that skies exist blue, unyielding, [and] unforgivingly bright oh, my world is clouded by an un-divine light that glows within these halls i saw a man pulled over&nbsp;brown skin dripping from his white bones the sun was heating him like he was wax hands over his head&nbsp;like he knows only god can save him my throat is closing the words are choking these days are godless days&nbsp;god sits in my heart heavy,&nbsp;watching, heedless of my prayers and un-guiding as i ask: “where is my milk? where is my honey? honey [dear] you promised a land [but] you forsake me to this broken place of stolen dreams and torn skin i smell a tinge of smoky tears and lingering iron and i cant tell you if its the iron of fresh blood or&nbsp;the steely encasements of bullets&nbsp;after its left a body but i do know this one thing: that when my body crawls&nbsp;wasted from these halls&nbsp;jesus looks down tired of me&nbsp; scrambling to make A’s in chemistry when im haunted by memories of&nbsp;nightmares yet to happen in a place so devastating they call it hell on earth” edited for further readability https://jdtabor.cargo.site/RPSC Fri, 17 Jan 2025 17:20:30 +0000 j. d. tabor ♥ https://jdtabor.cargo.site/RPSC Made on behalf of Reading Partners South Carolina, I worked as a volunteer coordinator under Victoria Felder and Danielle Daniels. I specialized in Social Media promotion and developed collateral packages for book drives.&nbsp; Interviews with audio are hyperlinked here: Picture Book Month and American Educators Week. 1. Social Media Posts2. Flyers 3. Business Cards4. Book Drive Guide5. Brochure <img width="1080" height="1080" width_o="1080" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5d74bfc7463b699e34a67b86aa7b09923f73abe605275fc4bb83d672e36a71d1/111124-Veteran-s-Day.jpg" data-mid="224998193" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5d74bfc7463b699e34a67b86aa7b09923f73abe605275fc4bb83d672e36a71d1/111124-Veteran-s-Day.jpg" /> <img width="1080" height="1080" width_o="1080" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1565364fe2f9a39df1a9321231879f7c5260d4a10e2c5590fc1626be754426e6/Recruitment--3.jpg" data-mid="224997986" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/1565364fe2f9a39df1a9321231879f7c5260d4a10e2c5590fc1626be754426e6/Recruitment--3.jpg" /> <img width="1080" height="1080" width_o="1080" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7a16290e574dce6dec1fe6238ccaa8793e0b0d71fc0b783f656819c9eba7ecae/1.jpg" data-mid="224998229" border="0" 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data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4b658d415bce116714aeb7676b1a9173140f8f04c9a6e36903b6aacc4e30ee3e/1.jpg" data-mid="224998224" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/4b658d415bce116714aeb7676b1a9173140f8f04c9a6e36903b6aacc4e30ee3e/1.jpg" /> <img width="1080" height="1080" width_o="1080" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/997e1368c39a13f136512217cfa8383e689ad64fccb5cc5648e4c1377c15139f/2.jpg" data-mid="224998225" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/997e1368c39a13f136512217cfa8383e689ad64fccb5cc5648e4c1377c15139f/2.jpg" /> <img width="1080" height="1080" width_o="1080" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2afb8c38c95f1a2eb2cedabea204fa4711d7c3c761a0b9d4a2b90392a25b1ed6/3.jpg" data-mid="224998226" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2afb8c38c95f1a2eb2cedabea204fa4711d7c3c761a0b9d4a2b90392a25b1ed6/3.jpg" /> <img width="1080" height="1080" width_o="1080" height_o="1080" 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