From the STCU stage at KSPS, its Inland Sessions.

[I have a problem.]

[Technology is my problem.]

Poet Shantell Jackson shares a variety of poems from her collection, [And the big ish city I chose was Spokane.]

On this unique episode of Inland Sessions.

Shantell's poems range from amusing and silly, [Where the hood?

Wheres the burbs?]

To introspective and thoughtful.

The poetry of Shantell Jackson.

[Most importantly, we're all the black people?]

Right now on Inland Sessions.

I stand in a way almost like a doorway behind me is light.

Ahead of me is darkness posed as light.

I'm intrigued by the light.

And as I step closer, I am tranced by the darkness.

I hold out my hand to this darkness.

I'm handed a cup to drink from.

The cup is cold and the elixir is bitter.

It goes down hard.

I walk to the darkness.

My heart beats in fear.

But the elixir beckons me to come.

I walk in deeper behind me the light.

Ahead of me the darkness shining as light.

Though it is dark.

I see all I've wondered.

I'm intrigued by this darkness posed as light, leaving behind the true authentic light.

I go in deeper and drink more from the cup, the cold cup of bitter elixir.

The fear is fading fast.

My heart beats harder, faster.

Almost to a beat.

My heart beats on beats of a big drum that I hear in the distance, almost in a succinct rhythm.

Before I go deeper, the light I saw in the darkness fades away.

The light behind me is further away, but not yet gone.

Slow motion.

I walk in deeper.

I take another natural swig of the bitter elixir.

The elixir is now sweet like honey.

It beckons me further.

The beat becomes more intense.

There is a low humming sound in a dramatic, muted trumpet.

I finish my elixir, drop the cold cup and want more elixir.

I walk in further with my hand out for more and giving more until my deep beating heart's content.

Show me more, I say.

One more swig and euphoria sits in Darkness ahead and what I wanted to see doesnt matter because I can feel.

I am trance by feeling.

Thoughts are far.

I want to dance in euphoria to the beats of my heart.

Low hum in big drum.

I take one more look back and there is that authentic pure light still there, far but not gone.

I'm far in and I am gone.

Consciousness is distant but feelings are present.

I dance and I dance and I dance to the low hum and big drum.

Hi, my name is Shantell Jackson and welcome to Inland Sessions.

I have a problem.

Technology is my problem.

It's not technology being what it is.

No, no, no.

It's me being who I am.

A human giving superhuman power.

I have abused and misused technology.

More specifically, social media rules me.

My smartphone is my saving grace.

I can't smart without it.

How else would I find information or directions from here to there?

Social media is my guide.

I wake up, grab my smartphone, and check with all its infinite wisdom, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat and now Tik Tok.

They tell me how to feel from cut cat videos to political satire and spitfire.

I can scroll and say amen and I will be blessed with riches from the almighty.

For if I keep scrolling, then I will surely die.

My house will catch fire, and a myriad of other disasters will befall me.

It's like my technology knows me better than I know me.

Sometimes when I go to Facebook, I get a prophetic ad with deals for the things I just search for in the Google.

Algorithms get me.

No, literally, they get me.

At night or on the weekends, I watch and watch and watch Netflix.

It fills my soul, well into the season ends and I'm left feeling abandoned.

I got Hulu, Max and now Paramount.

How many shows have you watched this weekend?

Listen, I'm juggling two series at once and my nightly binge of old shows to swoon me into slumber.

One time.

Well, the only time, I watch “Making A Murderer ” in two days, I go back to Facebook, sometimes I'm watching Hulu and then Snapchat.

Instagram, Facebook.

Does Tumblr still exist?

I Google my opinion so that I can be informed.

I check to see if anyone likes my status or saw my snap or hearted on my insta.

Get stuck in Tik Tok.

It literally never stops.

Blue and white thumbs, red hearts validate me.

I have a problem.

Technology is my problem.

It's not technology being what it is.

No, it's me being who I am.

Insecure and afraid.

A product of the technological age.

Let me check Bing.

Just kidding.

No one uses Bing.

Rather, let me Google and see if I have a problem or not.

A little bit about me.

My name is Shantell Jackson.

I've been in Spokane, Washington for 18 years, originally from Buffalo, New York.

And what got me into poetry.

I, its been my creative first love.

Like, I just always wanted to write and figure out words and how to put words together.

And so I remember filling like notebooks in college or just like college bad, angsty poetry.

And then from there, I just kept it going.

I never stopped writing.

And so that's kind of what got me into it.

And it's like a journal, you know?

Just, but sharing it in rhythm and maybe rhymes.

Have a seat.

Punch your gut.

Go deep.

Be gentle.

With your hand.

Now turn fist.

Pull out that thing.

It will hurt.

But be gentle.

Scream if you must.

Put that thing in your lap.

You will try to look away.

You will work to avoid.

Let that thing draw you in.

You will try to fill that space.

Don't try.

Just be.

Allow that thing in your lap.

Allow healing to take its place.

We sit around circles, full lips, mouths wide open, vibrating from the chest, holding our wounds, stomachs ache.

Jaws tight.

All teeth, all gums.

Lips stretched across face.

Tears shed, clapped hands.

We sit around circles.

Together.

Safe.

Light.

This is joy.

It's me, not you.

I know why I'm here.

Why I've been ailing, its totally me.

My good and gracious God, forgive me for my transgressions.

Had I been more faithful, more obedient, I would not be ailing.

Was it one too many nights of sipping elixir, cut in my heals, grinding my body to the rhythm?

It's you, punish, it's me.

It's guilt, is shame.

It's been years.

I'm learning about my ailing body.

Turns out...stuff just happens.

It wasn't you.

It wasn't me.

My good and confusing God, it just was.

It just is.

My body.

This body has turned on me.

The closest thing to me on this earth.

This body is all I have.

Sometimes it quits.

Not completely, but half assed, much like my many attempts at living.

Like not an entire hand, but a finger will go numb.

Like not the whole tongue, but half will lose its sense about it.

And everything I taste is half salt, half flavor, half assed, like not both sides, but just one side decides to be weak.

Classic me, classic body, imitating classic me.

It's not you.

It's not me.

It just is.

Sick.

Just sick.

Pray.

Just pray.

Live.

Just live.

What I love about poetry as an art form is its ability to paint pictures with words.

And I am also a visual artist.

But a lot of times my paintings don't necessarily paint a picture.

Where's my poetry does paint a picture.

So, using words and rhyme and rhythm and different techniques, just super fascinating to me.

She sits.

We stand.

It's intimate.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Fingers intertwined.

Knuckles knock.

Her crown is soft.

We delicately, quickly pull Untwine.

Stick our fingers through each twist.

Fingers weave in and out We are careful, wavy, soft, coiled, smells sweet.

Like only we can.

Like coco butters.

Like how we do Brown sugar Even home, and hands washed, I smell her sweet scent.

I run my fingertips across my nose Smile Remembering our night.

We listen to sweet soul We are sweet souls.

We speak of life and our own death What we require We feel young love, The joy, the heartbreak With each soulful lyric It's kindred This space It's sacred This act It's love It's care It's us.

When I say “Never Forget ” It's a lament for what was It's a lament for what is It's a declaration of our existence.

It's a constant.

It's a whisper from those before Once stolen people on now stolen land Our DNA runs through the fabric Painfully, yet beautifully wound There is no fabric without us.

We are the fabric.

Never forget, is to say, be aware, fear less.

Never forget the survival of those before creating hope for what is now.

Never forget, in survival to thrive.

This is the key to the generations to come.

May they never forget.

May they lament for what was May they rejoice for what is Never forget So this next poem that I'm about to perform, I wrote a long time ago and I was in this really dark place.

And the reason why I'm sharing this poem ah, for the first time is because I think a lot of us kind of go there sometimes, and I just don't think we talk about it and what that feels like.

So.

I wanted to share this poem and hopefully it's a way to build connection with one another um, and have conversations that sometimes we don't have.

I had to go, Explained Distorted pictures.

Who is it to?

What's it for?

Where will you leave it?

Why now?

How will you do it?

Its to you the left behind To experience the range of emotions denial, anger, pain, despair, joy.

I hope that you find joy.

Please find joy.

I'm not weak.

No, it's an assurance.

You are not at fault.

You are loved.

I believe I loved you.

There were so many good times.

There were bad times.

It's not the bad times, I promise.

It's just that I can't quite remember.

Or maybe I never knew the why.

Look, Take this assurance To know it wasn't you It's not about you.

Don't worry.

I'll leave it in plain sight.

No need to make the grief weird and convoluted.

Why ask why now?

The form, I know to follow The who, not the band May you find the humor.

The what?

The where, the why?

The Goddamn why?

Isn't the why and the what?

Not who is or was on first.

May you find the humor The how Why It feels too much Its too loud I'm resolved.

I've done things You'll say the things I've done You'll say how I've had some impact.

If I have one impact, then was this life not lived?

How?

We always want to know the how How doesn't even follow form But we want to know How?

It will be peaceful I hope.

A slumber, not a death.

No need to code it.

Death is.

I don't know, what's on the other side.

I don't know that I will awake again Be reborn A different carrier for the soul.

Just know that it's not a fault You were loved I'm resolved.

Art, in all of its many forms, has the ability to change our world, change our futures.

Because we get to imagine outside of this box and put it into something for people to engage with.

And so, I'm here for the arts and like engaging and hoping that people get into expressing themselves through many art forms.

Poetry, visual art, culinary art, dance, all those things can really change our world and change, change our future.

As a child, I dreamed big dreams.

When I became an adult, I moved to a big city, live in a high rise condo Host fancy dinner parties And everything I needed would be a walk away The condo connected to a cafe Well, I became an adult, graduated college, and the big-ish city I chose was Spokane.

The dream I had as a kid was feeling kind of fuzzy.

Where's the hood?

Where are the burbs?

What separates the rich from the poor in this fair city?

Most importantly, where are all the black people?

Does this city have a zoo?

Is there an aquarium?

Where is the nearest target?

I mean, I was a kid from a big, kind of big city Where we had a zoo and aquarium And targets were in every corner of the city Funny, here I am almost 18 years later, and I consider Spokane my second home.

716 will always have my heart I will confess, Spokane has given to me in small ways.

The first time I went to Manito Park, I was reminded of my young dream of being surrounded by nature and beauty.

Then I discovered my deep love for the rushing waters of the Spokane River And every time we meet, it eases all my anxiety I go to cafes and write poetry or meet friends For the first six years, I rode the bus everywhere.

Just like a big city.

I've been to many cities and I still protest that upper left USA has the best sunsets.

So no, I'm not in a high rise, but I do live downtown.

Just a hop, skip and jump from Main Street.

I enter my apartment through the alleyway Where those in extreme poverty frequent Most are friendly I lay in my bed with windows open and listen to the cars Sirens and nostalgia of my childhood dream Hits me And I know I wouldn't have it any other way I actually wrote that for an art installation, and so it was at the Spokane Public Library.

And I, um, what happened is the artist, every time you use key words, something would pop up on the screen.

And so I, it had to be Spokane specific.

And I was just thinking about my childhood of like what I wanted, like living in a condo and like, the busy, mean city, you know, I think I had New York City in mind.

And where it ended up is Spokane.

So I wrote that as like an artist's installation, but also just real truth of like, what is this city that doesn't have a zoo?

Or like, where's the aquarium?

So just my reflections and musings since I've lived in Spokane of like questions that I've had.

I'm going to read a poem out loud to people in a place into a microphone.

The room will be small and dimly lit with candles and fancy Christmas lights.

I'll go up there with my poem.

I'll be a little shaky.

I'll be awkward like I am.

I'll try to tell a joke to which no one will laugh.

To which I'll say.

Tough crowd.

Still, no one laughs.

I'll try to break the awkward up and say something predictable.

Like you didn't come here to hear me tell jokes.

Then that's where I'll begin to read my poem.

I would imagine it would go something like this.

You didn't come here to hear emphasis on hear me telling jokes, Ramping up, I say Oh no, You came to hear the toils, troubles and triumphs of my soul.

You want to see me, Hear me speak emphatically about love, No hate, No, the current state of affairs and United States of America.

You, yes you, Want to hear my angst, disgust, my hope Then I ramp down.

Well, because I've seen it done like this.

In a whisper, I say no.

You came here for your soul food to have your souls fed by the words that are written.

These words that are written, that grip you bring you in.

I speak.

You listen.

You wait for the connection of this rhyme and that rhyme in the point to connect to the plot.

At this point, boy, am I ramping into a beat.

I speak precisely in passionately and vision myself with one hand half in the air and eyes half close, Speaking the beat, speaking louder, Without taking one breath, confidently, I am going forth on what I know and the feelings I feel.

I draw you in with my use of words that make you think and feel.

I bring it down to above a whisper And say, and now I've read a poem.

I'll put my head down, and full step away from the mic to indicate that I'm finished.

The crowd will go wild with snaps Some will hoot.

Some will holler.

Some will sit stone faced, cause well.

Awkwardly, Ill fold my paper And walk back to my seat, never making eye contact with members of the audience.

Then I'll come back to reality and realize it was a moment I made up when thinking about reading a poem Out loud, to people In a place Into a microphone.

People with opinions, tweet their opinions, write articles of opinion, Facebook opinions, find articles to post that match their opinions.

People with an opinion about opinions retweet their opinion, write articles of opinion about opinions.

Facebook counter opinions to their opinions with others opinions.

People with experiences share stories of personal experience.

Personal experiences of being human.

People with opinions.

Counter experience with opinion.

Claiming the need for facts and figures.

Yet when given facts, figures and experience, People with opinions still counter with opinions and ignorance.

Cause America, we are really, really, really great.

The best People with facts And experience counter ignorance with facts.

Facts that corroborate lived experience.

Yet, Ignorance prevails in the world wide web of opinions.

And here I am, a person with an opinion Speaking of opinions.

What I would tell other people who want to get into poetry, is to do it.

Write.

It's an expression.

It's a feeling.

Like if you have an imagination like imagine these worlds, imagine things, scenarios.

Just write.

Maybe join some poetry groups or writing clubs.

Experience, nature.

Nature is a beautiful way to really open yourself up to what's around and take in and observe.

So, I would say go forth in poet [Laughs] It went off with the white flesh.

The alarm sunk my heart to the floor.

I contemplated if I should go or if I should stay.

It was a cool Saturday morning and with an alarm ringing at 4:44 a.m., I thought to myself, At last, I can watch the sunrise.

The sky was a cool blue and on the horizon you could see warm hues of light orange, indicating that the sun was starting its ascent.

I decided to follow the warmth, but the more I drove, the further it moved away.

I sat, and waited for the beautiful rise.

But houses, phone lines and stoplights blocked my view.

I headed back to where I started to see the sun in its beautiful hot glory.

Then somehow the sunrise was chasing me.

I could see the sky get warmer and warmer with each second.

The sun made its ascent One look over my shoulder.

And there it was, Deep orange Illuminating the sky in the clouds around it.

As the sun chased me.

We finally met on a hill.

There it was rising.

And there I was watching.

I see the sun shine through your windows.

There's frost from the cold.

This frost distorts the trees and the skies.

And all I see Frost be damned I still see the sun shine through your windows.

Once again, my name is Shantell Jackson.

Thanks for listening to some poetry.

Some moods, some feelings.

And a big shout out, Thank you to KSPS, Inland Sessions, Thank yall for having me.

Death to the weekend starts right around Sunday evening.

I reminded that here comes another Monday of mundane madness task.

Sadness of the death of yet another weekend.

Hear more from this artist from this program, on the Inland Sessions podcast.

Available now at KSPS.org/podcasts