Monday, November 1, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Beyond a Reasonable Doubt
I found
a bruise on my right hip today.
It lends its sea foam green
and plum purple
to my web of pale stretch marks, the
unwelcome evidence of age.
I’ve learned
to love these creases in my skin,
but what I really need is
for my body to reflect its witness of you and me.
I need the outline of your hand
on my right cheek,
your fingerprints on my neck
and collarbones,
a broken nose, two black eyes.
Sometimes I wish
that you painted a deep gash of velvet red on my thigh,
or left a cut under my left breast so that
little by little I could watch myself heal
without this immobilizing fear to forget.
I need more.
Than tangled sheets at noon,
your tie hanging on my bedroom door,
your name and number saved as contact in my phone.
I need to know I am not insane,
that this bed is where you used to lay,
these lips you used to kiss,
hand you held,
ribcage you strummed your fingers along like Mozart
on a harp.
I found a bruise on my right hip today,
pressed my thumb into it until it hurt,
because I need the truth of these past days
to be recorded
in an indelible mark.
a bruise on my right hip today.
It lends its sea foam green
and plum purple
to my web of pale stretch marks, the
unwelcome evidence of age.
I’ve learned
to love these creases in my skin,
but what I really need is
for my body to reflect its witness of you and me.
I need the outline of your hand
on my right cheek,
your fingerprints on my neck
and collarbones,
a broken nose, two black eyes.
Sometimes I wish
that you painted a deep gash of velvet red on my thigh,
or left a cut under my left breast so that
little by little I could watch myself heal
without this immobilizing fear to forget.
I need more.
Than tangled sheets at noon,
your tie hanging on my bedroom door,
your name and number saved as contact in my phone.
I need to know I am not insane,
that this bed is where you used to lay,
these lips you used to kiss,
hand you held,
ribcage you strummed your fingers along like Mozart
on a harp.
I found a bruise on my right hip today,
pressed my thumb into it until it hurt,
because I need the truth of these past days
to be recorded
in an indelible mark.
Friday, April 30, 2010
On the astral with a dead painter (feedback pls!)
I
A tourist falls on me
when the train jerks, literally,
across my lap--so sue me
for being a New Yorker
but I am hot today
and not amused.
I only forgive him
upon inspection
of his fine
philosopher's beard,
which I stare at the whole ride.
He'll have to accept that
as penance
for falling on me, something
I might have welcomed
on a different, frigid day.
II
The sound of coffee
percolating at 4am,
the sunrise in the kitchen.
I'm huddled in a blanket
on the floor, stoned,
but surrounded
by politics notes.
In the morning,
I'll discover
that there is no hot water,
I'll put on a t-shirt
and braid my hair,
I'll have slept
through my class. I'll spend
two hours pacing
the High Line, looking
for my friends
but never finding them.
There is a kind
of misfortune
that is amusing,
even reassuring,
about my life.
III
When I get home, my roommate
and her boyfriend
will be smoking
in the living room, listening
to Sublime. I'll have taken the train
from 23rd street, moved out
of the way for a man
with a box much bigger
than the car was wide,
watched a middle-aged man
with watering eyes, wondered
if he had a cold
or his wife had just left.
A girl my own age
with a child will look so tired
or so punk rock
she could be 50. I'll have considered
the soft frown
in the corners
of her mouth
while her child counts.
She'll stare back at me,
trying to gauge
our similarities
from behind my sunglasses.
IV
In the apartment, our
dead flower collection
catches ambient light,
the roses on the wall
hang upside down
on a nail, and fan out
like fire. I think if I came back
in five years, the kitchen
would still seem
like sunrise, like the mornings
I'd stand naked
over the sink with Frida Kahlo
reigning from our tapestry,
from the shrine where
she'd watch men
emerge from my doorway,
cupping their skins
so the neighbors
wouldn't see. She'd gaze back, alive,
from the sacrificial flowers
and burning bushes, with my blue fish
below her, from the basket of ashes
from Tepoztlán, from the brown
bananas and daisies waiting
to go into the collection.
She'd watch men scurry
to the bathroom, to piss
with the pride of young boys,
with their chests puffed out
and porous.
V
When the last embers fall,
I'll go to bed at daylight.
I will feel the heat
leaking in from tomorrow
and Frida will come down
from the wall again
in a lucid dream
and I'll let her. She'll show me
how dark
the brushstroke, the opening
of flowers, how to move
your eyes
and nothing else,
she'll hold
a dead rose
between her knees
and it will open.
A tourist falls on me
when the train jerks, literally,
across my lap--so sue me
for being a New Yorker
but I am hot today
and not amused.
I only forgive him
upon inspection
of his fine
philosopher's beard,
which I stare at the whole ride.
He'll have to accept that
as penance
for falling on me, something
I might have welcomed
on a different, frigid day.
II
The sound of coffee
percolating at 4am,
the sunrise in the kitchen.
I'm huddled in a blanket
on the floor, stoned,
but surrounded
by politics notes.
In the morning,
I'll discover
that there is no hot water,
I'll put on a t-shirt
and braid my hair,
I'll have slept
through my class. I'll spend
two hours pacing
the High Line, looking
for my friends
but never finding them.
There is a kind
of misfortune
that is amusing,
even reassuring,
about my life.
III
When I get home, my roommate
and her boyfriend
will be smoking
in the living room, listening
to Sublime. I'll have taken the train
from 23rd street, moved out
of the way for a man
with a box much bigger
than the car was wide,
watched a middle-aged man
with watering eyes, wondered
if he had a cold
or his wife had just left.
A girl my own age
with a child will look so tired
or so punk rock
she could be 50. I'll have considered
the soft frown
in the corners
of her mouth
while her child counts.
She'll stare back at me,
trying to gauge
our similarities
from behind my sunglasses.
IV
In the apartment, our
dead flower collection
catches ambient light,
the roses on the wall
hang upside down
on a nail, and fan out
like fire. I think if I came back
in five years, the kitchen
would still seem
like sunrise, like the mornings
I'd stand naked
over the sink with Frida Kahlo
reigning from our tapestry,
from the shrine where
she'd watch men
emerge from my doorway,
cupping their skins
so the neighbors
wouldn't see. She'd gaze back, alive,
from the sacrificial flowers
and burning bushes, with my blue fish
below her, from the basket of ashes
from Tepoztlán, from the brown
bananas and daisies waiting
to go into the collection.
She'd watch men scurry
to the bathroom, to piss
with the pride of young boys,
with their chests puffed out
and porous.
V
When the last embers fall,
I'll go to bed at daylight.
I will feel the heat
leaking in from tomorrow
and Frida will come down
from the wall again
in a lucid dream
and I'll let her. She'll show me
how dark
the brushstroke, the opening
of flowers, how to move
your eyes
and nothing else,
she'll hold
a dead rose
between her knees
and it will open.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Said I Was Pure Gold
He blew his whistle for a half-hour
break, but made me stay. Said I
was his star athlete. Said I
was his mixed-race mermaid. Said
small waist, wide hips, bridged
nose, and skin the color of first place
gold. I swelled, pushed off strong against
blue tiles. He timed my movements to the millisecond. Held
me down till I mastered my breath. held
me till my ribs came together like
a closed up shell, sealed
off from the touch and tread of him. Held
me in more ways
than one, so that by
the end of month three I
watched bubbles surface one
by two by fifty until someone
pulled me up and my lips matched
the sky's pale blue. I swam on the
line to exhaustion, to propel mind
away from my own body. Arms held
high into a swan's dive, legs
pressed firm on board. Heard him blow
his hard whistle, said I
was pure like sun kissed gold
I drowned
before he finished.
*feedback por favor!
break, but made me stay. Said I
was his star athlete. Said I
was his mixed-race mermaid. Said
small waist, wide hips, bridged
nose, and skin the color of first place
gold. I swelled, pushed off strong against
blue tiles. He timed my movements to the millisecond. Held
me down till I mastered my breath. held
me till my ribs came together like
a closed up shell, sealed
off from the touch and tread of him. Held
me in more ways
than one, so that by
the end of month three I
watched bubbles surface one
by two by fifty until someone
pulled me up and my lips matched
the sky's pale blue. I swam on the
line to exhaustion, to propel mind
away from my own body. Arms held
high into a swan's dive, legs
pressed firm on board. Heard him blow
his hard whistle, said I
was pure like sun kissed gold
I drowned
before he finished.
*feedback por favor!
Hip Hop, R U There???
I-95 ripped thru the South Bronx, leavin it lifeless
For gangs n dealers to prey upon the crisis
Those vultures had the righteous left wit tight lips
Handin kids gats or crack like, "yo, ignite this"
People lookin for a light, at the end of the alley,
But it just comes from a gun, or crackhead rally
Tho when everybody had already given their hopes up
Like, fuck life, ready to put ropes up
From the rubble rose a phoenix a glorious art form
Now know as Hip Hop, to keep hearts warm
Trash can souls transformed into firepits
Flowers sprouted outa concrete environments
Gang alliances broken down by Bambataa
If u don’t know who that is u aint Hip Hop partna
The divided were united for all to bear witness
A liberating force, then along came big business
What happened to Hip Hop-- our saving grace?
Heard rumors shes in a tomb with her name engraved,
I wouldn’t be surprised, the way this games been played
Last I saw she was in an office another dame enslaved,
Restrained by iced out chains she wonders how,
These rappers are allowed to pillage and plunder crowds
But im comin for u hunny like a rollin thunder cloud,
Let my call to arms ring throughout the underground...
So here come the corporations to rape ya ass,
Steal whats yours, n create a tax
That got u paying with ya soul jus to take it back
N even then u aint spittin for the sake of rap,
Rhyming about what they tell u will sell the most,
Gota be rich or go to jail to boast
So u try on their ideals like a new outfit
Lost in the money, u don’t know nothing about shit
If it was just u fine, but now u a role model
Acting hard cuz u smoke and swallow the whole bottle
Misleading the people, getting em to follow lies
Like u did, deceived by ya labels hollow eyes
They manipulated u into making urself a monster
Ya just like George Bush--reading off a teleprompter
Like Goodfella mobsters, got ya ass on lock
Just cuz u wanted to piss, n they passed a pot
What happened to Hip Hop-- our saving grace?
Heard rumors shes in a tomb with her name engraved,
I wouldn’t be surprised, the way this games been played
Last I saw she was in an office another dame enslaved,
Restrained by iced out chains she wonders how,
These rappers are allowed to pillage and plunder crowds
But im comin for u hunny like a rollin thunder cloud,
Let my call to arms ring throughout the underground...
She craves the independent, a few enraged Rambos
That’ll massacre these phony, new age Sambos
Hip Hop was treadin water, amidst greedy stars
Then drowned in the mainstream in need of CPR,
I’ll blow the breath in her lungs if u provide the beats
Over her heart, hard enough to divide the streets
Cuz this smothering monotony’s weighin down on top of me,
Glamour n gangsta rap’s got a monopoly,
Radio has made a mockery of democracy,
N im here to expose their fucking hypocrisy,
Ya cant cop a plea--no bailout for big businesses
That swing bling in our faces like, hypnotists
Mesmorize us so we can be easily brainwashed
Hip Hop’s tired of being embodied, by the same props
On a set path, but this is where the train stops,
Lets find our own way, don’t be afraid of the rain drops
What happened to Hip Hop-- our saving grace?
Heard rumors shes in a tomb with her name engraved,
I wouldn’t be surprised, the way this games been played
Last I saw she was in an office another dame enslaved,
Restrained by iced out chains she wonders how,
These rappers are allowed to pillage and plunder crowds
But im comin for u hunny like a rollin thunder cloud,
Let my call to arms ring throughout the underground...
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Day 18, Poem 18: 30/30 Breakdown (lol)
This shit caught me off guard
Thirty poems in thirty days
Shit wasn't supposed to be this hard
Schoolwork and phone calls
Ruminations necessary
Film project stalls
This wasn't supposed to be
so frustratingly hairy
Still poems swim free
But don't jump on the page
the way I need them to
This mission fails in two more days...
Ugh
Ugh
Ugh
Ugh
This shit caught me off guard
Thirty poems in thirty days
Shit wasn't supposed to be this hard
Schoolwork and phone calls
Ruminations necessary
Film project stalls
This wasn't supposed to be
so frustratingly hairy
Still poems swim free
But don't jump on the page
the way I need them to
This mission fails in two more days...
Ugh
Ugh
Ugh
Ugh
Climbing
It's stifling.
Rifling through sheets
My prison grip on her wrists
and give a twist.
I hover
and hit
and hover
and hit
and dive down dog
like a yoga pose,
boiling muscles
and a twitch.
Another flip of the switch.
Face pushed across.
I am boa,
snake and constrictor.
Vampire bat and
I bit her.
Toes twist twelve ways,
like larvae
emerging from dirt.
A hug so hard
it hurts so good
as nail draws
red across a shoulder
blade. Sharpened tip.
Lip and
ears and lips with
tongues and teeth on
smears of tongues and
licks and smacks of spit.
meager words stripped
from heaving breath
hot and huffed by...
Everything
constrictor and
released and
back again.
Then rigid like
a rubber band puled
tight. Strum it
and a rippling, no, like,
ten seizures to
the fevered pace of
an outstretched face
open mouth
and then at peace.
rigidity and
release.
Now ceased.
Fall through, blood full
and boisterous.
Nerves, firing squad going
"Rat Tat...Rat Tat!" and
busting cotton caps
from way down deep
toward the middle.
Spread like an extacy pill.
Lid off the pot.
No thought.
I lay to rot.
Nothing to do but to die today.
Rifling through sheets
My prison grip on her wrists
and give a twist.
I hover
and hit
and hover
and hit
and dive down dog
like a yoga pose,
boiling muscles
and a twitch.
Another flip of the switch.
Face pushed across.
I am boa,
snake and constrictor.
Vampire bat and
I bit her.
Toes twist twelve ways,
like larvae
emerging from dirt.
A hug so hard
it hurts so good
as nail draws
red across a shoulder
blade. Sharpened tip.
Lip and
ears and lips with
tongues and teeth on
smears of tongues and
licks and smacks of spit.
meager words stripped
from heaving breath
hot and huffed by...
Everything
constrictor and
released and
back again.
Then rigid like
a rubber band puled
tight. Strum it
and a rippling, no, like,
ten seizures to
the fevered pace of
an outstretched face
open mouth
and then at peace.
rigidity and
release.
Now ceased.
Fall through, blood full
and boisterous.
Nerves, firing squad going
"Rat Tat...Rat Tat!" and
busting cotton caps
from way down deep
toward the middle.
Spread like an extacy pill.
Lid off the pot.
No thought.
I lay to rot.
Nothing to do but to die today.
Day 17, Poem 17: Stuck in the parking lot
Push against me
gentle yet firm
confident
nudging laughter from me
like rainwater
from the treetops
expecting
it showers on you
begrudgingly
This is how you get me
Unrelenting
smiling in this
stormy weather
even though I know
that I should know better
random letters
strategic phone calls
through space
traffic signals
and car horns
blare warnings I
don't fear
I'm walking here
Push against me
gentle yet firm
confident
nudging laughter from me
like rainwater
from the treetops
expecting
it showers on you
begrudgingly
This is how you get me
Unrelenting
smiling in this
stormy weather
even though I know
that I should know better
random letters
strategic phone calls
through space
traffic signals
and car horns
blare warnings I
don't fear
I'm walking here
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Dusted Snow Angels
A dusted don/ a dusted angel
with some rusted arms
that I've been cutting on
from dusk to dawn like nothing's wrong.
Puffing palms in this cold world's
snow swirl--
hoes hurl after the globe's pearl
made their toes curl...
Impregnate them with hurt
so they revert to the dirt.
Why's pleasure so painful?
Lost in this desert of dessert--
where beauty drives you berserk
under the sky's wristwatch.
Shit, wish I could split
its lip-lock with Hitchcock.
Coolly calculated cutey
sipping a Diet Pepsi.
Heart palpitated cruelty,
down n' out, she side-stepped me.
Why she left me? I don't know,
maybe 'cause I liked coke instead...
Stayed smoking cess while stroking stress
with a broken head.
Dead already, somebody bury me
n' get it over with.
Said she was ready so I popped
her cherry tree with a loaded clip,
where the posh dwell. She was
more dusted than the top shelf,
but I delved into that inverted
volcano to clog Hell.
Couldn't stop it, she dropped spells--
look what the witch doc did.
Nothing but a power hungry whore,
craving the cockpit.
Heart of Black Ice
I'll write dark shit as long as
there's black ink in my pen--
but it's time to pick myself up--
rethink n' begin.
Again... Damn man,
a phoenix in my own right.
Swimming in the flames,
the love to be alone type,
'cause of fake friends like,
"Cop a vile, here's
sickness in a sack
to stop the wild fears!"
Right-hand man playing doctor
while he jeers...
Bitch, I hope you drown
in your crocodile tears!
Put the rock in rock a smile,
stretch scaly snake skin.
Crush n' light it up--
inhaling my daily patron.
Searching for serenity
my soul summons sounds,
to defend the whole in it
from the rain running down.
Grudges drum with my ribs-
ain't my heart that pumps n' pounds-
'cause what goes around
never seems to come around...
Take my pain n' dumb it down,
in hopes you understand,
their answers won't do nothing
but escort you to Wonderland...
Haunting memories
creep on like centipedes.
Men are beasts, when the wind blows
catch the scent of enemies.
My life's centerpiece?
The stress my pen released...
Remember me?
Heart of black ice like December streets.
Speak to the beat 'cause I got
no one else to talk with--
caught conversing with myself
just another distraught kid.
Shit, you got me acting
like I own a Bluetooth--
looking crazy on the block,
to play the part I cop a new suit.
Struck instrumental strings
sing in the silence.
The only thing that stands
behind me are these violins.
Sigh through the violence--
it ain't nothing new,
find pleasure in pain
love sirens coming through.
Hop on that ambulatory
bandwagon,
'cause life's a beach
n' I tried to slay the sand dragon.
Caught up, chance lacking,
but armed with Excalibur--
removed the sword from the stone
they sold me in algebra.
Next challenger,
tossed aside like a rag doll--
mad small in the scheme--
in need of pads ya'll.
Chilling with my man
I ain't seen since last fall--
rehash trash stashed,
hear the past call...
Haunting memories
creep on like centipedes.
Men are beasts, when the wind blows
catch the scent of enemies.
My life's centerpiece?
The stress my pen released...
Remember me?
Heart of black ice like December streets.
Ensoulment or the Omaha Pebble Society
We landed on the sun
and realized we were
actually built on butter.
The problem wasn't our
uneven coloring but
we kept melting
and losing collagen
to the big boy.
Plastic surgeons
are innovative but
come on lemonade
is a far aisle
from those fancy,
refined carbs.
We landed on the moon
and it felt like a soccer cleat.
We would just be
quickening to the moon's entombment.
Reminded of tubes
that feed jelly,
too primordial and
too futuristic,
pediatrics and geriatrics,
all using the same entrance.
We landed on the sea.
It was the first time
reflections mattered.
I got so into my eyes
looking blue
I nearly drowned.
Then I sucked up
the salt and I couldn't
tell the blue sea from red capillaries.
The rock landed on us.
It leavened, hardened,
and we divided.
The First Supper
or maybe the last.
I skip my pebble,
all flat nosed,
smooth skin,
and remember evaporation.
You'll spend your
whole life
trying to evaporate.
Stay in sweat lodges
until feathers bend.
Run marathons
before central air.
Maybe if we drip
enough salt
we'll be sucked into
the rock.
It's inconvenient,
really, we find a home
and we find transformation.
and realized we were
actually built on butter.
The problem wasn't our
uneven coloring but
we kept melting
and losing collagen
to the big boy.
Plastic surgeons
are innovative but
come on lemonade
is a far aisle
from those fancy,
refined carbs.
We landed on the moon
and it felt like a soccer cleat.
We would just be
quickening to the moon's entombment.
Reminded of tubes
that feed jelly,
too primordial and
too futuristic,
pediatrics and geriatrics,
all using the same entrance.
We landed on the sea.
It was the first time
reflections mattered.
I got so into my eyes
looking blue
I nearly drowned.
Then I sucked up
the salt and I couldn't
tell the blue sea from red capillaries.
The rock landed on us.
It leavened, hardened,
and we divided.
The First Supper
or maybe the last.
I skip my pebble,
all flat nosed,
smooth skin,
and remember evaporation.
You'll spend your
whole life
trying to evaporate.
Stay in sweat lodges
until feathers bend.
Run marathons
before central air.
Maybe if we drip
enough salt
we'll be sucked into
the rock.
It's inconvenient,
really, we find a home
and we find transformation.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Scarification
He's dressed just like his father:
A Yankees fitted cocked
slightly to the side. A hoodie
two sizes too big unzipped.
Sneakers that probably cost
twice the price of my vans
even though they could fit inside.
His big eyes of ripe citrus
look up out of a stroller
at me and wonder with
fear and awe who in God's image I am.
His jaw is on a hinge and suddenly
the Nintendo DS has become obsolete.
To stare back at him from above my book
could mean a multitude of things:
Tears
A smile
A bashful turn or
Irreverent words hurled like
a squeaky bike tire
and fingers pointed.
To this day I can remember
some of these moments from
my own irreverence.
I wonder if my counterparts in these
childhood observances can still
remember, as vividly as I can,
the time when my mother first told me
how to say "No, thank you"
instead of just "No"
Or how mortified I was when I hugged
my mom's friend's leg instead of hers
because my face was three feet below
or that when they hit their own child
with an open palm that I
felt that slap on my face and
it was me who cried though.
I wonder if the other little kids
I knew when I was little
still remember the day in pre-school
when I brought my father's knife
to show off or
if they remember when my teeth sunk
into Collin's back because
I had tripped and fallen
or his blood stained shirt
or my blood stained mouth.
Or if my third grade classmates remember me
being on crutches for three months
because of a tumor in my leg
and the resulting surgery.
How I had to hop up stairs on one foot
How ashamed I was if I fell.
I wonder if it struck them as hard
as it struck me.
I wonder if I ever flipped this on
it's head and scared the shit
out of some grown-up when i was small.
Drove them to tears, made them
turn away embarrassed.
But probably not because
I was different then.
I didn't have this scar on my lip
from when I fell on dad's toolbox
or the one on my arm from when
my brother hit me with a paint roller
and had to watch five stitches be
woven into my arm
in a sterile hospital room
on Christmas day.
I wonder what he thought to watch his
fourth grade brother be held down by his
father; he was in sixth grade.
Talk about scars.
I probably didn't scare anybody because
I didn't have this want-to-be
beard of peach fuzz on my face
I didn't have the anxiety I do now
I didn't have the consciousness or the
cunning or the twisted mind I do now.
I didn't have the friends I do now
or the fantasies or the lies or desires I do now.
These have molded and added to
and chipped away at me like
some kind of fleshy Jackson Pollack now.
I'm a boogie man now,
a specter, a goblin now
haunted by his actions and
haunting the lives of those he sees now.
I held open a door today for an old couple
even though I was in a rush
but I'm sure they don't know
that it was a demon who held it for them.
But I wonder if they did
because they've been there
and that's why their eyes
looked like raisins instead of grapes.
A Yankees fitted cocked
slightly to the side. A hoodie
two sizes too big unzipped.
Sneakers that probably cost
twice the price of my vans
even though they could fit inside.
His big eyes of ripe citrus
look up out of a stroller
at me and wonder with
fear and awe who in God's image I am.
His jaw is on a hinge and suddenly
the Nintendo DS has become obsolete.
To stare back at him from above my book
could mean a multitude of things:
Tears
A smile
A bashful turn or
Irreverent words hurled like
a squeaky bike tire
and fingers pointed.
To this day I can remember
some of these moments from
my own irreverence.
I wonder if my counterparts in these
childhood observances can still
remember, as vividly as I can,
the time when my mother first told me
how to say "No, thank you"
instead of just "No"
Or how mortified I was when I hugged
my mom's friend's leg instead of hers
because my face was three feet below
or that when they hit their own child
with an open palm that I
felt that slap on my face and
it was me who cried though.
I wonder if the other little kids
I knew when I was little
still remember the day in pre-school
when I brought my father's knife
to show off or
if they remember when my teeth sunk
into Collin's back because
I had tripped and fallen
or his blood stained shirt
or my blood stained mouth.
Or if my third grade classmates remember me
being on crutches for three months
because of a tumor in my leg
and the resulting surgery.
How I had to hop up stairs on one foot
How ashamed I was if I fell.
I wonder if it struck them as hard
as it struck me.
I wonder if I ever flipped this on
it's head and scared the shit
out of some grown-up when i was small.
Drove them to tears, made them
turn away embarrassed.
But probably not because
I was different then.
I didn't have this scar on my lip
from when I fell on dad's toolbox
or the one on my arm from when
my brother hit me with a paint roller
and had to watch five stitches be
woven into my arm
in a sterile hospital room
on Christmas day.
I wonder what he thought to watch his
fourth grade brother be held down by his
father; he was in sixth grade.
Talk about scars.
I probably didn't scare anybody because
I didn't have this want-to-be
beard of peach fuzz on my face
I didn't have the anxiety I do now
I didn't have the consciousness or the
cunning or the twisted mind I do now.
I didn't have the friends I do now
or the fantasies or the lies or desires I do now.
These have molded and added to
and chipped away at me like
some kind of fleshy Jackson Pollack now.
I'm a boogie man now,
a specter, a goblin now
haunted by his actions and
haunting the lives of those he sees now.
I held open a door today for an old couple
even though I was in a rush
but I'm sure they don't know
that it was a demon who held it for them.
But I wonder if they did
because they've been there
and that's why their eyes
looked like raisins instead of grapes.
88th street, between Columbus and Central Park West
On 88th street, the ginko trees
glow green, illuminating,
they seem somehow to be lightbulbs
that cast impossible, midday shadows
against every stoic brownstone;
a bulldog sniffs my feet
and the man on his leash says,
come on, come on,
and in a second the thing
comes back from behind me
so excited I want to haul up
a big bundle of sticks on the curb
at our feet, we're both eyeing them,
and throw them into the air
like batons, want the whole block
to run from their houses shrieking,
mouths open wide, clamoring over each other
to collect the splendor of spring,
to clean their teeth on its branches,
to run circles around each other yipping,
to roll in the streets, bounding naked
and muddy! A happy golden retriever
trots by, then, a big braided
treat in its mouth, hurrying to the park,
and stops at the corner--a New York City
dog with a concept of traffic--and his owner
comes up laughing, an old lady
wearing appliqués, wow! what a smart dog,
I say, the ginko trees glittering back
from her eyes, she's a rescue! she says,
an explanation that makes much sense
to me, what with all the spring salvation,
and I'm still standing here by the sticks
alone and again I have the urge
to fling the twigs, sticks bouncing and bumping
the cars, want their owners to come out
of their beautiful, expensive homes
and race me towards the branches,
stuff them in their yapping mouths, hungry,
all of us running towards the park,
not bothering to stop at corners.
glow green, illuminating,
they seem somehow to be lightbulbs
that cast impossible, midday shadows
against every stoic brownstone;
a bulldog sniffs my feet
and the man on his leash says,
come on, come on,
and in a second the thing
comes back from behind me
so excited I want to haul up
a big bundle of sticks on the curb
at our feet, we're both eyeing them,
and throw them into the air
like batons, want the whole block
to run from their houses shrieking,
mouths open wide, clamoring over each other
to collect the splendor of spring,
to clean their teeth on its branches,
to run circles around each other yipping,
to roll in the streets, bounding naked
and muddy! A happy golden retriever
trots by, then, a big braided
treat in its mouth, hurrying to the park,
and stops at the corner--a New York City
dog with a concept of traffic--and his owner
comes up laughing, an old lady
wearing appliqués, wow! what a smart dog,
I say, the ginko trees glittering back
from her eyes, she's a rescue! she says,
an explanation that makes much sense
to me, what with all the spring salvation,
and I'm still standing here by the sticks
alone and again I have the urge
to fling the twigs, sticks bouncing and bumping
the cars, want their owners to come out
of their beautiful, expensive homes
and race me towards the branches,
stuff them in their yapping mouths, hungry,
all of us running towards the park,
not bothering to stop at corners.
Friday, April 23, 2010
last night
sorry i haven't been posting, guys...i totally FAIL. anyway...
last night
officer
i swear
im sober
im sorry.
i promise
i didn't mean
to hit that ed hardy wearing fool
in the face with my blackberry
a la naomi campbell.
its just that
he called us prostitutes.
doesnt a girl have the right
to wear a slutty outfit
out in hoboken
without having ugly guys
with acne hit on them?
im sorry.
they tried to get us
to talk about doing dip.
didnt realize
that telling him to leave
would cause 45 minutes
of slut jokes
on the path train
at 3 am.
officer
i swear to drunk
im not god.
and im sorry too.
last night
officer
i swear
im sober
im sorry.
i promise
i didn't mean
to hit that ed hardy wearing fool
in the face with my blackberry
a la naomi campbell.
its just that
he called us prostitutes.
doesnt a girl have the right
to wear a slutty outfit
out in hoboken
without having ugly guys
with acne hit on them?
im sorry.
they tried to get us
to talk about doing dip.
didnt realize
that telling him to leave
would cause 45 minutes
of slut jokes
on the path train
at 3 am.
officer
i swear to drunk
im not god.
and im sorry too.
Day 16, Poem 16: Braggadocious Rantings? or WTF?
Keep runnin' on
'cause they can't win-
if they can't catch us
And they can't beat us -
'cause they can't match us
Somebody call Miramax
- they need to adapt this
Won't retract this
And if you sue me
for the record
don't redact this
Let 'em know the truth
Baby, I'm blunt, not tactless
And I might start slow
but I finish hard
-just out of practice
You lack this-
kind of energy
word art synergy
But baby I'm a renaissance woman
I ain't done yet
-just beginning
I got new stores
of stories
and imagery
restoring me
all guts and glory
all or nothing-spurring me
can't discourage me
My cohorts
All upstarts
Alcs Poetica
Whatcha want?
Pick a font
Comic Sans, Engravers Go-thic
or Helvetica
It don't matter
Your world-we shatter
All haters and fake asses
scatter
'cause our words bleed
fuck our demons
they can't read
insanity shifts
and flows and riffs
like a symphony
or the lyrical
go for the gut
no sympathy
Baby,
it's all cyclical
Keep runnin' on
'cause they can't win-
if they can't catch us
And they can't beat us -
'cause they can't match us
Somebody call Miramax
- they need to adapt this
Won't retract this
And if you sue me
for the record
don't redact this
Let 'em know the truth
Baby, I'm blunt, not tactless
And I might start slow
but I finish hard
-just out of practice
You lack this-
kind of energy
word art synergy
But baby I'm a renaissance woman
I ain't done yet
-just beginning
I got new stores
of stories
and imagery
restoring me
all guts and glory
all or nothing-spurring me
can't discourage me
My cohorts
All upstarts
Alcs Poetica
Whatcha want?
Pick a font
Comic Sans, Engravers Go-thic
or Helvetica
It don't matter
Your world-we shatter
All haters and fake asses
scatter
'cause our words bleed
fuck our demons
they can't read
insanity shifts
and flows and riffs
like a symphony
or the lyrical
go for the gut
no sympathy
Baby,
it's all cyclical
Day 15, Poem 15: For Constance McMillen Grand Marshall at NYC PRIDE, 2010
Once upon a time,
Summer of '69
Dykes and Queens
seized the streets
Stonewall Inn
Gay revolt
One night
we chose to fight
not crawl away
See, Constance
this is why we celebrate
They had government files on us, Constance
called us UN-American
They called us Communists
anarchists
evil
You couldn't walk the streets
of Greenwich Village, NYC
hand in hand with your lover
No touching allowed
They charged us with indecency
No kissing
No cross-dressing
If stopped by police, by law -
women had to have 3 articles
of feminine clothing
on their person
or risk arrest
Businesses weren't allowed
to serve us
or let us dance
If they did and got caught
they were shut down
They raided the bars
every week
They put our names in the local papers
publicly outed us
called us unfit parents
obliterated us
and it was all legal, Constance
On the regular the police harassed us
They protected those who beat us
or helped
They refused to protect us
Constance, they called us crazy
and it was a clinical diagnosis
until 1973.
They institutionalized us
experimented on us
with electric shocks
and mind-altering drugs
and lobotomies
We were fired from our jobs
in the military
the government
the post office
Constance, they took God from some of us
But who would want
to pray to a God they
said must hate us?
Our families disowned us
They called us indecent
perverts
abnormal
Constance, you knew better
even in Mississippi
And we love you
and your girlfriend
and your predisposition to
men's clothing
and vagina
Come on, sister
But as you parade down 5th Avenue
and turn down 8th Street
towards the river
remember those Queens
in a bar on Christopher Street
locked up for being queer
and because of them we're here
Rock on, baby girl.
Word.
Once upon a time,
Summer of '69
Dykes and Queens
seized the streets
Stonewall Inn
Gay revolt
One night
we chose to fight
not crawl away
See, Constance
this is why we celebrate
They had government files on us, Constance
called us UN-American
They called us Communists
anarchists
evil
You couldn't walk the streets
of Greenwich Village, NYC
hand in hand with your lover
No touching allowed
They charged us with indecency
No kissing
No cross-dressing
If stopped by police, by law -
women had to have 3 articles
of feminine clothing
on their person
or risk arrest
Businesses weren't allowed
to serve us
or let us dance
If they did and got caught
they were shut down
They raided the bars
every week
They put our names in the local papers
publicly outed us
called us unfit parents
obliterated us
and it was all legal, Constance
On the regular the police harassed us
They protected those who beat us
or helped
They refused to protect us
Constance, they called us crazy
and it was a clinical diagnosis
until 1973.
They institutionalized us
experimented on us
with electric shocks
and mind-altering drugs
and lobotomies
We were fired from our jobs
in the military
the government
the post office
Constance, they took God from some of us
But who would want
to pray to a God they
said must hate us?
Our families disowned us
They called us indecent
perverts
abnormal
Constance, you knew better
even in Mississippi
And we love you
and your girlfriend
and your predisposition to
men's clothing
and vagina
Come on, sister
But as you parade down 5th Avenue
and turn down 8th Street
towards the river
remember those Queens
in a bar on Christopher Street
locked up for being queer
and because of them we're here
Rock on, baby girl.
Word.
A light between my houses
Run along the river ink,
take the GWB,
take the D--
smell all the flowers,
the garbage men swinging off
their trucks in the night.
Pass tugboats on the water.
Move your feet faster.
Shake the cherry blossoms
from their stems,
it's springtime, do it to me, sing.
Suck the salt from all the benches,
pet the dogs, if there are any.
Sing to me of the slate,
of the grey river slipping,
of the seagulls diving
towards the pavement or water;
fleeting as they are,
the ground is still thawing.
Sing to me, sing,
out in the open,
talk about thirst, the aether,
the earth, sing to me, softly,
I'll drink the whole river.
Sing to me, keep going,
the flowers keep growing,
sing to me of the sea,
of the food in the body.
Sing to me, salty,
move down Manhattan,
sing to me, sleeping,
the river's still flowing,
sing to me, sing to me,
the animals all able,
sing to me, sing,
I'll swig the salt
from your navel.
take the GWB,
take the D--
smell all the flowers,
the garbage men swinging off
their trucks in the night.
Pass tugboats on the water.
Move your feet faster.
Shake the cherry blossoms
from their stems,
it's springtime, do it to me, sing.
Suck the salt from all the benches,
pet the dogs, if there are any.
Sing to me of the slate,
of the grey river slipping,
of the seagulls diving
towards the pavement or water;
fleeting as they are,
the ground is still thawing.
Sing to me, sing,
out in the open,
talk about thirst, the aether,
the earth, sing to me, softly,
I'll drink the whole river.
Sing to me, keep going,
the flowers keep growing,
sing to me of the sea,
of the food in the body.
Sing to me, salty,
move down Manhattan,
sing to me, sleeping,
the river's still flowing,
sing to me, sing to me,
the animals all able,
sing to me, sing,
I'll swig the salt
from your navel.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Happy National Poetry Month
We had just finished chalking the
stone studded cement sidewalk
that hugs the field.
Our scratches of poems caught from
the minds off-guard passers by littered
the path that hundreds walk each day.
I stood, hands dry and suffocating
with a panoply of multicolored particles
wedged in the creases and groves on my hands.
I was a true hippie: a smudge
of North Carolina blue across my thigh,
a bubble gum streak on the sleeve of my t-shirt
a lemony blur on my right hip.
She, on the other hand, was wearing a suit.
It was beige...
Enough said.
I stood speaking with an excited class mate
who, having no commitments, chose to spend
his afternoon scraping off shards of chalk
in to what he wanted to be poetry.
None of us could stop him.
Her heels clopped on the sidewalk
like a horses hoves. She clipped and
clopped like a mounted cop
and just as ready to bust.
"Have you gotten permission to do this?"
From who?
"Every time someone submits to do chalking
on the sidewalk, it's always rejected."
Then why submit?
She interrogated me, her lackey
steadfast narc
shifting eyes toward fellow students
and passers by who stood around
appreciating our work
and our commitment to this
project.
She asks me to wash it away
and i say, "You get me a hose,
and I'll spray it all down."
because it's not about the destination
the journey already happened.
She took down my name
and my professor's name
and I took down hers.
Bitch.
Then, from six
thousand feet up in the sky,
a cloud shed just one little tear.
I think it was laughing at how stupid she looked
talking to me, the chalk master
the builder of street verse. Box of colors on my arm.
The tear careened through sky and wind and
trees and thoughts above my head until
it exploded on impact with the breast of her jacket.
A splotch of revenge.
We both looked up and saw the dark cloud
dividing the sky with menace
and that good old "fuck you" spirit
that only a cloud, brought to tears from laughter
could throw down with wet and furious hands.
A laugh of thunder and
BANG
my hose became obsolete. I had buckets.
And she was soaked.
And I laughed, because clearly
if there is a god, he liked what we did.
I stood before her with my arms outstretched
eyes skyward, as she put her lunch over her head
and ran back to her cubicle
tucked into a dark corner of the ugliest building on campus.
I went back later to get pictures of the smudges
that our creativity had left on the road. It all had
blended together into a glorious chalk dust tye-die.
Our efforts had become one and the same
holding hands and wrapped in each-others smiling embrace.
I looked up over the field at the boisterous black cloud
hovering over the East Bronx. I waved and thanked him.
And this hippie, was happy.
stone studded cement sidewalk
that hugs the field.
Our scratches of poems caught from
the minds off-guard passers by littered
the path that hundreds walk each day.
I stood, hands dry and suffocating
with a panoply of multicolored particles
wedged in the creases and groves on my hands.
I was a true hippie: a smudge
of North Carolina blue across my thigh,
a bubble gum streak on the sleeve of my t-shirt
a lemony blur on my right hip.
She, on the other hand, was wearing a suit.
It was beige...
Enough said.
I stood speaking with an excited class mate
who, having no commitments, chose to spend
his afternoon scraping off shards of chalk
in to what he wanted to be poetry.
None of us could stop him.
Her heels clopped on the sidewalk
like a horses hoves. She clipped and
clopped like a mounted cop
and just as ready to bust.
"Have you gotten permission to do this?"
From who?
"Every time someone submits to do chalking
on the sidewalk, it's always rejected."
Then why submit?
She interrogated me, her lackey
steadfast narc
shifting eyes toward fellow students
and passers by who stood around
appreciating our work
and our commitment to this
project.
She asks me to wash it away
and i say, "You get me a hose,
and I'll spray it all down."
because it's not about the destination
the journey already happened.
She took down my name
and my professor's name
and I took down hers.
Bitch.
Then, from six
thousand feet up in the sky,
a cloud shed just one little tear.
I think it was laughing at how stupid she looked
talking to me, the chalk master
the builder of street verse. Box of colors on my arm.
The tear careened through sky and wind and
trees and thoughts above my head until
it exploded on impact with the breast of her jacket.
A splotch of revenge.
We both looked up and saw the dark cloud
dividing the sky with menace
and that good old "fuck you" spirit
that only a cloud, brought to tears from laughter
could throw down with wet and furious hands.
A laugh of thunder and
BANG
my hose became obsolete. I had buckets.
And she was soaked.
And I laughed, because clearly
if there is a god, he liked what we did.
I stood before her with my arms outstretched
eyes skyward, as she put her lunch over her head
and ran back to her cubicle
tucked into a dark corner of the ugliest building on campus.
I went back later to get pictures of the smudges
that our creativity had left on the road. It all had
blended together into a glorious chalk dust tye-die.
Our efforts had become one and the same
holding hands and wrapped in each-others smiling embrace.
I looked up over the field at the boisterous black cloud
hovering over the East Bronx. I waved and thanked him.
And this hippie, was happy.
The Dogma of Artificial Running
The treadmill has a
holy rhythm.
It's speed button
carries the plight
of generating
an electronic pulse.
The computed corpse
knows the struggle of stride,
the ambition of a size four,
the gluttony of late night shwarma.
It measures your saturated fat
in bowls not tablespoons.
The sin of Body Mass Index
blinks in flashing lights,
mocking your five mile entry.
The only thing in common
with your psychiatrist
is loneliness.
It doesn't understand
the death of an iPod,
the flesh of thighs
peanut-buttered together,
or pink blood spooning
light blue cotton.
Pity is an emotion
foreign to a CO-2 generator.
It only knows
failure and success.
An oxygen exchange,
hard enough for a back alley,
guilty enough for a blurry mirror
with an unlimited horizon.
Just step,
melt,
breathe,
beg.
holy rhythm.
It's speed button
carries the plight
of generating
an electronic pulse.
The computed corpse
knows the struggle of stride,
the ambition of a size four,
the gluttony of late night shwarma.
It measures your saturated fat
in bowls not tablespoons.
The sin of Body Mass Index
blinks in flashing lights,
mocking your five mile entry.
The only thing in common
with your psychiatrist
is loneliness.
It doesn't understand
the death of an iPod,
the flesh of thighs
peanut-buttered together,
or pink blood spooning
light blue cotton.
Pity is an emotion
foreign to a CO-2 generator.
It only knows
failure and success.
An oxygen exchange,
hard enough for a back alley,
guilty enough for a blurry mirror
with an unlimited horizon.
Just step,
melt,
breathe,
beg.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The scene in Wit when Emma Thompson, who is slowly dying, is read The Runaway Bunny.
Reading The Runaway Bunny
to the tiny girls
I babysit, they climb,
eager, entranced, over each other
to crane towards the page,
their mouths agape,
like the extraordinary
wobbled shapes of a strawberry
or tomato, the little cosmic
knob or notch, and each one
glistens
with the salt-water
of the earth,
and is christened.
I hold them
close, wipe their drool
away; the clouds
are just dabs
of butter
in a saucepan.
to the tiny girls
I babysit, they climb,
eager, entranced, over each other
to crane towards the page,
their mouths agape,
like the extraordinary
wobbled shapes of a strawberry
or tomato, the little cosmic
knob or notch, and each one
glistens
with the salt-water
of the earth,
and is christened.
I hold them
close, wipe their drool
away; the clouds
are just dabs
of butter
in a saucepan.
3 Office Haiku
Typing in rhythm
like taps of rain on thin cover.
Equally boring.
I'm supposed to find
information on something.
I forget what though.
My phone is calling.
It's next to me flashing texts,
all of them invites.
like taps of rain on thin cover.
Equally boring.
I'm supposed to find
information on something.
I forget what though.
My phone is calling.
It's next to me flashing texts,
all of them invites.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Playing Rugby in Limbo
My neck won't twist.
I've taken four painkillers
and melted three ice packs
but this corkscrew won't budge.
My neck looks perfect
compared to my volcanic knees.
Smudged pebbles
on white snow,
my shin reeks the
rubble of a thousand broken cliffs.
The boned bumps
complement my
mom's own jewelry collection.
Her Bronx childhood
tattooed into her calf.
Schoolmates would take
an antique pole
and throw it at
a moving target.
A regular
duck, duck, goose.
When mom became
the prey
her short legs,
soft squeal,
branded her
before the first shot.
She bled.
Cleansed.
Wept.
The wound of
fifty years,
a motherless school girl,
broken steel in her bone.
Doc, what is your prescription?
There were no stitches,
or social workers,
or suspicious teachers.
The indent changed
cartilage with the light,
the composition of her toes,
and the validity of the story,
but her father
remained unscathed.
The hand print on my
own bicep
is it's own celebrity.
It remains intimate
but mysterious.
A mark by a stranger,
a woman's fading fingerprint,
close enough to my chest
to seem dangerous.
The bruise is a blurry siren
but it holds innocent truth.
My failed ruck,
lazy sprint,
skipped squats,
and unwrapped tackles.
The mark on a body
has feminized
into magical cover up.
I show my own
for those
whose gripped
impressionism
is jailed.
For a body
that reminds
me of laying on grass,
watching the clouds pass by.
The nebulous vein
and it's flooding rapids,
trapped and caught,
held for a week.
I've taken four painkillers
and melted three ice packs
but this corkscrew won't budge.
My neck looks perfect
compared to my volcanic knees.
Smudged pebbles
on white snow,
my shin reeks the
rubble of a thousand broken cliffs.
The boned bumps
complement my
mom's own jewelry collection.
Her Bronx childhood
tattooed into her calf.
Schoolmates would take
an antique pole
and throw it at
a moving target.
A regular
duck, duck, goose.
When mom became
the prey
her short legs,
soft squeal,
branded her
before the first shot.
She bled.
Cleansed.
Wept.
The wound of
fifty years,
a motherless school girl,
broken steel in her bone.
Doc, what is your prescription?
There were no stitches,
or social workers,
or suspicious teachers.
The indent changed
cartilage with the light,
the composition of her toes,
and the validity of the story,
but her father
remained unscathed.
The hand print on my
own bicep
is it's own celebrity.
It remains intimate
but mysterious.
A mark by a stranger,
a woman's fading fingerprint,
close enough to my chest
to seem dangerous.
The bruise is a blurry siren
but it holds innocent truth.
My failed ruck,
lazy sprint,
skipped squats,
and unwrapped tackles.
The mark on a body
has feminized
into magical cover up.
I show my own
for those
whose gripped
impressionism
is jailed.
For a body
that reminds
me of laying on grass,
watching the clouds pass by.
The nebulous vein
and it's flooding rapids,
trapped and caught,
held for a week.
White Girl
Hello love, I can’t
hold you up anymore.
My back and shoulders are sore,
collarbones like crushed strawberries,
black and blueberries
painted on the canvas of my brown skin.
My friends ask me about you all the time.
I think they can hear the lie of you
on my parched breath,
starved from the drip down your throat,
licked from the grind of your teeth
that settles
in your tongue’s pores.
Whenever you step down from the strength of my omissions,
and shrink into the truth of you
I close the blinds,
draw the curtains,
kill the switches,
and fill the kitchen sink with lukewarm water
to let my heart slowly thaw
until I feel a pulse in my left wrist.
My daily habit of despair.
The take up and let down
of you and me which usually
ends with the sound of your rock on the step
and the rapidly syncopated beats of your strained muscles.
But today,
you didn’t come home.
Back from the roll of your white girl’s sack
and I escaped from the choke of you.
Will the Real Prim Lady Please Sit Down?!
Girls love me-
say I remind 'em of Eminem-
well, that is until
they realize I'm a gentleman...
This schoolyard bullshit has gone way too far.
GROW THE FUCK UP...
Sorry I won't treat you like you're worthless
and insist on making my motives clear.
Straight shooters are mate-losers.
Those who quit playing games with her heart
will never hold one anyhow.
Nice guys finish last?
HA!
Nice guys don't make it past the starting line!
Guys are only liked by younger girls-
yet, I cannot stand these younger girls...
Where the fuck are those mythical cougars?
Guess it's just me and Palmela Handerson
until these trendy feminists are no longer enticed
by wannabe men who don't like,
let alone love.
Please, get off of your pedestal of premature maturity-
you can't see who's truly down to Earth
from that heroine high horse.
Damn my mother for raising me right...
My conscience is an insurmountable cock-block!
MY PRODUCER IS A GAPING ASSHOLE
Aint even grazed the game
n' I'm done wit this shit!
False promises got me wishin'
I still had one in the clip,
but I wasted 'em all
on One-Hundred n' Sixth.
Park ya pRide
or I'll be runnin' the shit-
son in the whip
looking like a blunted infant-
squints at the sky like he pissed
he aint got the sun in his grip...
Baby blue eyes emo
added a L, now they eLmo-
bloodshot like he caught
an elbow or a shell toe.
Hell no, I won't
tickle your fancy!
You giggle like a lil chick
on a middle school dance team!
Oh, u antsy
to fiddle wit Nancy?
Well I'm here to stay,
n' I'd hate to have to belittle you, pansy...
I whittle wit hand speed
that'll set a real flame-
all I need is some drumsticks
to get a meal made.
Plus, the deal's paid,
so stop pullin' my chain!
And let's make some music
before I ruin ya name!
Treasure Hunt of ’93 in Lola’s Formal Kitchen
Two wooden doors with hard glass cutouts
hang on both sides of this chilled room.
Screened door swings and lands
with a bang
against the metal-lined doorframe
as impatient horns squeal from
the space beyond her ancient gate.
The other one swings
on whooshs and whisps of gossip and
the frequency of bells and buzzers
from damp green counters
to an intricately carved
dining table
with its sixteen solemn chairs.
The sunlight in this room
is always white.
Rays stream in at dusk
to rest on two
frostbitten
childhood treasure chests.
A race to the X.
Six little feet tapped
slid along bleached tiles
charged into doors
to arrive
at intended destinations.
Without the key.
Ran.
Knocked furiously.
Turned brass doorknob.
Stepped into Lola’s room.
It smelled like
air-conditioner air,
helmet hair hairspray
and talc powder.
Jumped.
No, climbed six steps in total,
three for barely-worn shoes,
one for party heels
two for never-worn designer.
Retrieved gold key from curved copper finger.
To unlock two treasure chests
of chocolate-covered icicles,
lemon-coated cubes,
shaved ice fruit,
mixed-milk particles.
...
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Stress Test
1. What is your heart rate at present?
2. Do you exercise regularly?
3. Do you sleep at least 7 hours a night?
4. Are you a smoker?
5. Do you have more than 5 alcoholic beverages a week?
6. Are you pregnant?
7. Have you recently changed residences?
8. Do you own your own home?
9. Are you currently employed?
10. Is your line of work fulfilling?
11. Do you receive a regular paycheck?
12. Do you often pay bills late?
13. Do you have a strong support system of friends or family?
14. If yes, why?
15. Have you recently experienced a major personal achievement?
16. Have you recently experienced a change in your financial status?
17. Have you recently experienced orgasm?
18. Have you recently experienced the death of a close family member or friend?
19. Did your spouse die?
20. Did you get a divorce?
21. Did you get married?
22. Did you enter retirement?
23. Did your child leave home?
24. If yes, why?
25. Do you ever have thoughts of suicide?
26. Do you ever imagine your own funeral?
27. Do you wake up in the middle of the night running lists through your head in a cold sweat?
28. Do you often interact with someone and think, 'The world would be better if this person were dead.' ?
29. When you are with the people you love do you push them away?
30. Have you ever had a dream in which you had a physical altercation?
31. Have you ever been in a physical altercation?
32. Hypothetically: If you were in a physical altercation with another identical embodiment of yourself, which of you would win?
34. Do you make more than $20,000 a year?
35. Do you make more than $30,000 a year?
36. Do you make more than $40,000 a year?
37. Do you make more than $50,000 a year?
38. Do you make more than $60,000 a year?
39. Do you make more than $70,000 a year?
40. How much are you worth?
41. How much is it costing society to keep you alive?
42. Are you giving back?
43. Do you ever pay it forward?
44. Do you ever steal?
45. If someone was getting beat up on the street by a group of thugs and you were the only person who knew about it, thereby making you the only person able to stop the crime from happening but you knew you were outnumbered, out-sized and you were already late for an appointment would you try to do anything about it?
46. What is your heart rate at present?
2. Do you exercise regularly?
3. Do you sleep at least 7 hours a night?
4. Are you a smoker?
5. Do you have more than 5 alcoholic beverages a week?
6. Are you pregnant?
7. Have you recently changed residences?
8. Do you own your own home?
9. Are you currently employed?
10. Is your line of work fulfilling?
11. Do you receive a regular paycheck?
12. Do you often pay bills late?
13. Do you have a strong support system of friends or family?
14. If yes, why?
15. Have you recently experienced a major personal achievement?
16. Have you recently experienced a change in your financial status?
17. Have you recently experienced orgasm?
18. Have you recently experienced the death of a close family member or friend?
19. Did your spouse die?
20. Did you get a divorce?
21. Did you get married?
22. Did you enter retirement?
23. Did your child leave home?
24. If yes, why?
25. Do you ever have thoughts of suicide?
26. Do you ever imagine your own funeral?
27. Do you wake up in the middle of the night running lists through your head in a cold sweat?
28. Do you often interact with someone and think, 'The world would be better if this person were dead.' ?
29. When you are with the people you love do you push them away?
30. Have you ever had a dream in which you had a physical altercation?
31. Have you ever been in a physical altercation?
32. Hypothetically: If you were in a physical altercation with another identical embodiment of yourself, which of you would win?
34. Do you make more than $20,000 a year?
35. Do you make more than $30,000 a year?
36. Do you make more than $40,000 a year?
37. Do you make more than $50,000 a year?
38. Do you make more than $60,000 a year?
39. Do you make more than $70,000 a year?
40. How much are you worth?
41. How much is it costing society to keep you alive?
42. Are you giving back?
43. Do you ever pay it forward?
44. Do you ever steal?
45. If someone was getting beat up on the street by a group of thugs and you were the only person who knew about it, thereby making you the only person able to stop the crime from happening but you knew you were outnumbered, out-sized and you were already late for an appointment would you try to do anything about it?
46. What is your heart rate at present?
Fill You Up With Tomato Soup Then Tell Me You Love Me
All I want to do is
pick pregnant tomatoes
from reddened earth,
hold them
in my small hands
feel life within,
bring to my soft lips,
smell scentless skin,
rest upon them,
take a bite of golden seeds
colored soup
into my richly seasoned
summer coated mouth.
pick pregnant tomatoes
from reddened earth,
hold them
in my small hands
feel life within,
bring to my soft lips,
smell scentless skin,
rest upon them,
take a bite of golden seeds
colored soup
into my richly seasoned
summer coated mouth.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
ADD
I decided today that I needed to get rid of anything that reminded me of anything else. Everywhere I look I see only something that represents or tries to tell a story or tells me that it plus me could equal something I want, you know? nothing that just is. I want it all to just be and stop putting up fronts. I need these colors gone and the fancy wrapper and the way it's lying to me. It's all lying because it needs to be loved.
The garbage bag is growing full and all of these symbols of food and paper and ideas are pressing at the sides with their sharp edges, trying to tear the sack. The plastic stretches and changes color as it's pushed. Poked. Prodded.
From the inside.
Just take it outside, put it in the can, and start over without all of this shit cluttering your desk.
The garbage bag is growing full and all of these symbols of food and paper and ideas are pressing at the sides with their sharp edges, trying to tear the sack. The plastic stretches and changes color as it's pushed. Poked. Prodded.
From the inside.
Just take it outside, put it in the can, and start over without all of this shit cluttering your desk.
See
A young man
enters the train.
He looks
like he's been through
a war. His body
is the battlefield.
Something has taken him
apart, gut and bone.
The sadness in his eyes
goes on for years.
He looks to me for money,
I shake my head
and say sorry.
I've seen my father give
the drunkest men five dollars.
My mother, this morning,
opened her wallet for two beggars,
two dollars, I could see
her mind searching
as she looked into
the worn folds
of her wallet.
The man continues
down the car.
The kids don't look up.
When he reaches the end,
another homeless man
in the middle yells, Hey!
He's been talking to himself
the whole time, and rocking,
but the young man
with the profound sadness
comes back.
Seated, the man scoots over
a ripped duffel and places
his old, green garbage bag
of a comforter, or clothes,
on top. He reaches
into his pocket, his large jeans
coated front and back
with a brown sheen, with the spots
from sleeping in a corner,
from never pissing without
his sneakers on.
He pulls out a small bunch
of change, his gnarled hands
sorting, and gives
the sad man
some coins. They nod
at each other, and depart.
enters the train.
He looks
like he's been through
a war. His body
is the battlefield.
Something has taken him
apart, gut and bone.
The sadness in his eyes
goes on for years.
He looks to me for money,
I shake my head
and say sorry.
I've seen my father give
the drunkest men five dollars.
My mother, this morning,
opened her wallet for two beggars,
two dollars, I could see
her mind searching
as she looked into
the worn folds
of her wallet.
The man continues
down the car.
The kids don't look up.
When he reaches the end,
another homeless man
in the middle yells, Hey!
He's been talking to himself
the whole time, and rocking,
but the young man
with the profound sadness
comes back.
Seated, the man scoots over
a ripped duffel and places
his old, green garbage bag
of a comforter, or clothes,
on top. He reaches
into his pocket, his large jeans
coated front and back
with a brown sheen, with the spots
from sleeping in a corner,
from never pissing without
his sneakers on.
He pulls out a small bunch
of change, his gnarled hands
sorting, and gives
the sad man
some coins. They nod
at each other, and depart.
Day 14, Poem 14: Spring Fever (???)
Spring's thaw is late
Rather, it's been taunting
Here one day, gone the next -
Like her
Bathing me in the warmth
of love and compliments
and then
frozen in its absence
wondering...
When she will come again?
A flower grows...
A flower in her hair
Wind at her back
mountain peaks around her
and the sky is blue
Her hair is honey,
eyes are gray azure
Winter
She is crowned with gold
no toga
but a Goddess all the same
Flowing river
through my fingers
mind maps
recognize and
re-traverse her terrain
deep
swooping valleys
glorious peaks...
geysers, rushing
and breezy whispers
guttural growls
howls and claws
Digging
plying
manipulating flesh
and nature
defying gravity
gasping for air
swallowing songs
incoherent
and still understanding
obeying the rhythm
unrelenting
but always yielding
incorrigible
Maybe Spring will come when she does
and they'll both stay a while...
Spring's thaw is late
Rather, it's been taunting
Here one day, gone the next -
Like her
Bathing me in the warmth
of love and compliments
and then
frozen in its absence
wondering...
When she will come again?
A flower grows...
A flower in her hair
Wind at her back
mountain peaks around her
and the sky is blue
Her hair is honey,
eyes are gray azure
Winter
She is crowned with gold
no toga
but a Goddess all the same
Flowing river
through my fingers
mind maps
recognize and
re-traverse her terrain
deep
swooping valleys
glorious peaks...
geysers, rushing
and breezy whispers
guttural growls
howls and claws
Digging
plying
manipulating flesh
and nature
defying gravity
gasping for air
swallowing songs
incoherent
and still understanding
obeying the rhythm
unrelenting
but always yielding
incorrigible
Maybe Spring will come when she does
and they'll both stay a while...
Friday, April 16, 2010
Undercover of Light
We whispered secrets
in the space between blood red covers
and sites of slumber
thick and heavy
safely sealed from the nakedness of apologies.
Bare skin and weightless words
composed truths beneath our songs.
I sang disbelief.
Of actions delivered so naturally,
uncontrived and holy.
He sang loving uncertainty
and kissed my lips
and body away
from learned anxiety,
a mistrust I gathered,
held to my breast
for so long
it is ability.
He only prays for me,
bowed his head,
crossed his heart,
lit a candle
in my vein
for me
to rest
in his peace.
In Her New Place
I was not allowed to drive my car to the center.
They said
1. Only I was allowed to see her
2. I was not allowed to know her location,
her place
in this
metropolitan waiting room
as if I
would help her hasten her death.
The white van came for me
at 7 in the morning.
I had been sitting on my four poster for an hour,
imitating my religiously hungover self, me
as solitary space cadet
I heard the beep
two times
the sound of maids punching in my room code,
“nandito na ang kotse, ma’am.”
I’ll be down in 5.
I surveyed my room,
Reached for a large canvas bag to fill with
- inspirational novels, poetry collections
- good music released over the last two years
- my unanswered letters – each one unopened and deliberately sealed, with words, stickers, tape.
Do not tamper.
- black lace dress I wore to the last masquerade
But she doesn’t need it in there.
She doesn’t need to know
our world goes on without her
and I live my life too.
L
They were at Mo's when
our drug dealer Jay showed up and
Leroy was in his car.
He said "If you don't want it
it's going to end up out
on the street."
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"I don't fucking know."
"I mean,
I guess we'll take it..."
He was a boy.
I had gone home
to vote for Barack
Obama. (who WON, by the way)
And when I walked
into my kitchen after
being home,
Frank had him
asleep in his hood
and told me to reach in
and see what was in there.
I could fit him in
the palm of my hand
and his belly was
swollen from starvation.
He shook constantly but
he would meow and look into your eyes
and you knew that he knew what was going on.
It took us two weeks to name him.
our drug dealer Jay showed up and
Leroy was in his car.
He said "If you don't want it
it's going to end up out
on the street."
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"I don't fucking know."
"I mean,
I guess we'll take it..."
He was a boy.
I had gone home
to vote for Barack
Obama. (who WON, by the way)
And when I walked
into my kitchen after
being home,
Frank had him
asleep in his hood
and told me to reach in
and see what was in there.
I could fit him in
the palm of my hand
and his belly was
swollen from starvation.
He shook constantly but
he would meow and look into your eyes
and you knew that he knew what was going on.
It took us two weeks to name him.
Conduit
After years
of being an atheist,
god has come back to me,
accidentally--a collective god,
the godhead, the great spirit,
a yahweh, whatever.
I still mostly ignore it.
I still only pray
to the shifting soil of ants
and confess to my peers.
Here's a
confession: I dream of holding
my dead dog for hours.
A confession: I want to sleep
on the floor, in a ball, all day.
Confession: a man outside my window
asks his crying daughter, "Are you hurt
or are you scared?" And after
a moment, repeats, "Are you hurt,
or are you scared?"
Scared! I shout from upstairs.
Confession: after class I cry hysterically.
I can't even make it home.
I sit at a bus stop on Broadway
and sob.
Confession: when I see you, unexpectedly,
my heart is a drowning train car,
a free-falling elevator,
a bird in a cage, an empty bus on Broadway.
I reach out to touch you, to feel
a few hairs beneath my fingertips.
My hand does not make it.
Confession: I hugged everyone
too hard. I needed
their hearts.
Confession: when I got home,
my sister held me, thank god
she was there, while I hiccuped
over the sink.
Confession: I slept through
the afternoon, reaching out
for water, and tossing and twisting,
listening to my roommate
move through the apartment alone.
It's cold in here today
with all the broken windows.
Confession: I dreamt of making love
to a woman with a wide,
pale gash on the back
of her thigh.
I will never see her
again. I don't know where
she came from.
Confession: sometimes I think
that's what god is.
When you make love
to an imaginary stranger
but still remember
their scars.
of being an atheist,
god has come back to me,
accidentally--a collective god,
the godhead, the great spirit,
a yahweh, whatever.
I still mostly ignore it.
I still only pray
to the shifting soil of ants
and confess to my peers.
Here's a
confession: I dream of holding
my dead dog for hours.
A confession: I want to sleep
on the floor, in a ball, all day.
Confession: a man outside my window
asks his crying daughter, "Are you hurt
or are you scared?" And after
a moment, repeats, "Are you hurt,
or are you scared?"
Scared! I shout from upstairs.
Confession: after class I cry hysterically.
I can't even make it home.
I sit at a bus stop on Broadway
and sob.
Confession: when I see you, unexpectedly,
my heart is a drowning train car,
a free-falling elevator,
a bird in a cage, an empty bus on Broadway.
I reach out to touch you, to feel
a few hairs beneath my fingertips.
My hand does not make it.
Confession: I hugged everyone
too hard. I needed
their hearts.
Confession: when I got home,
my sister held me, thank god
she was there, while I hiccuped
over the sink.
Confession: I slept through
the afternoon, reaching out
for water, and tossing and twisting,
listening to my roommate
move through the apartment alone.
It's cold in here today
with all the broken windows.
Confession: I dreamt of making love
to a woman with a wide,
pale gash on the back
of her thigh.
I will never see her
again. I don't know where
she came from.
Confession: sometimes I think
that's what god is.
When you make love
to an imaginary stranger
but still remember
their scars.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
day 8, poem 8 - foreclosure
foreclosure
We dragged a car battery, an old mattress, several
empty bottles, back there, to the copse of trees
on the other side of the fence. Jeffrey Tongs
and I were stocking our fort; the one we built
of coconut branches, leaned up teepee-style
around a tree. We had no idea we were survivalists,
preparing to provide for families, protect loved
ones. We packed the earth down hard and tight
to make a good floor under it, and when the rain
began to leak through our make-shift rafters,
we got old rags to stuff the spaces up. And we blocked
the sun out of our makeshift teepee too, and we rolled
up a straw mat and dragged it back there, and found
a couple old pots and pretended we’d made a whole
secret life – and we swore no-one would ever find
it even though we could hear at recess the voices
of the other children, less than 50 metres away.
And when we left it, we drew it closed with one
more branch, like a tent flap, like a door, like a sliding
portal to our own personal Narnia, and we weren’t ever
surprised there, and even when we found one discarded
boot and our tent torn down, we didn’t panic
or run, or even imagine we’d been discovered. We built
it back up, experts now at this task of house-making;
swiftly stacking and leaning the long branches
against the trunk, working quietly – understanding
for the first time that our lives were made of desperation,
that nothing belonged to us, so we were not surprised
or even particularly heartbroken when it was not there
at all a week later when we returned – the mat, the car
battery, our raggedy roof-patching, all foreclosed on,
and so we did the little growing-up that such events force
on children, and moved on. Jeffrey and I had already been declared
the smartest boys in the school, another possession
against which I began a quiet revolt one year later,
with my fists, my feet, my discovery of the most obscene
words possible for a boy to fit his mouth around.
No house I wanted in on appeared buildable; my father
absent, my grandmother’s judgments sure and stern –
now even what my own two hands could make
was gone away.
Of what use was my body, my mind, reportedly
brilliant, my breath, held? I dared the world
in on me, mortgaged by body against its ravages,
began a slow dismantling of anything that seemed
certain in my body, waiting for the next
sure betrayal to find me.
We dragged a car battery, an old mattress, several
empty bottles, back there, to the copse of trees
on the other side of the fence. Jeffrey Tongs
and I were stocking our fort; the one we built
of coconut branches, leaned up teepee-style
around a tree. We had no idea we were survivalists,
preparing to provide for families, protect loved
ones. We packed the earth down hard and tight
to make a good floor under it, and when the rain
began to leak through our make-shift rafters,
we got old rags to stuff the spaces up. And we blocked
the sun out of our makeshift teepee too, and we rolled
up a straw mat and dragged it back there, and found
a couple old pots and pretended we’d made a whole
secret life – and we swore no-one would ever find
it even though we could hear at recess the voices
of the other children, less than 50 metres away.
And when we left it, we drew it closed with one
more branch, like a tent flap, like a door, like a sliding
portal to our own personal Narnia, and we weren’t ever
surprised there, and even when we found one discarded
boot and our tent torn down, we didn’t panic
or run, or even imagine we’d been discovered. We built
it back up, experts now at this task of house-making;
swiftly stacking and leaning the long branches
against the trunk, working quietly – understanding
for the first time that our lives were made of desperation,
that nothing belonged to us, so we were not surprised
or even particularly heartbroken when it was not there
at all a week later when we returned – the mat, the car
battery, our raggedy roof-patching, all foreclosed on,
and so we did the little growing-up that such events force
on children, and moved on. Jeffrey and I had already been declared
the smartest boys in the school, another possession
against which I began a quiet revolt one year later,
with my fists, my feet, my discovery of the most obscene
words possible for a boy to fit his mouth around.
No house I wanted in on appeared buildable; my father
absent, my grandmother’s judgments sure and stern –
now even what my own two hands could make
was gone away.
Of what use was my body, my mind, reportedly
brilliant, my breath, held? I dared the world
in on me, mortgaged by body against its ravages,
began a slow dismantling of anything that seemed
certain in my body, waiting for the next
sure betrayal to find me.
Day 7, Poem 7
…recently discovered all-black penguin seems unafraid to defy convention… biologists say that the animal has lost control of its pigmentation. Other than (that) the animal appears to be perfectly healthy. “Look at the size of those legs” said one scientist, “It’s an absolute monster”
The all-black penguin speaks
17 facts you did not know about me
1. I was born here; raised here, met my mate and warmed my eggs – here.
2. Fully ten seasons passed before you noticed me. Don’t make up theories now, Johnny-come-lately.
3. Penguins are color blind
4. Fuck your bell curve, albino motherfucker – I know that’s not a fact. It’s an imperative.
5. Penguins deliberately don’t read so we wouldn’t have to learn words like assimilate, like discriminate, like mutate.
6. We pray every day. It’s a simple chant
Evolve, Evolve, Evolve
7. Can’t you see it’s getting warmer? Don’t you see the ice melting? (Yes, I know these are questions)
8. I know the word rhetorical, bitch
9. I’m actually the same size as all the other penguins.
10. You suffer from ocular negrophobia, the condition in which all black (all-black?) things look really large and scary. Yes, I know that’s a fact about you, albino motherfucker.
11. I hate you.
12. I don’t believe in the same God as you.
13. Evolve, Evolve, Evolve
14. There are two other all-blacks
We do not know each other.
15. I’m prettier than you
16. I’m making up a song about you. It’s called albino motherfucker
17. We have a few all-white penguins here. We’re cool. They hate you too.
The all-black penguin speaks
17 facts you did not know about me
1. I was born here; raised here, met my mate and warmed my eggs – here.
2. Fully ten seasons passed before you noticed me. Don’t make up theories now, Johnny-come-lately.
3. Penguins are color blind
4. Fuck your bell curve, albino motherfucker – I know that’s not a fact. It’s an imperative.
5. Penguins deliberately don’t read so we wouldn’t have to learn words like assimilate, like discriminate, like mutate.
6. We pray every day. It’s a simple chant
Evolve, Evolve, Evolve
7. Can’t you see it’s getting warmer? Don’t you see the ice melting? (Yes, I know these are questions)
8. I know the word rhetorical, bitch
9. I’m actually the same size as all the other penguins.
10. You suffer from ocular negrophobia, the condition in which all black (all-black?) things look really large and scary. Yes, I know that’s a fact about you, albino motherfucker.
11. I hate you.
12. I don’t believe in the same God as you.
13. Evolve, Evolve, Evolve
14. There are two other all-blacks
We do not know each other.
15. I’m prettier than you
16. I’m making up a song about you. It’s called albino motherfucker
17. We have a few all-white penguins here. We’re cool. They hate you too.
Days 11, 10 and 9
Arouca Presbyterian Church – Genesis Dust
My first pan was not made from an oil drum like the grown-ups’ pans were. We had practice pans made from tin; and painted gaudy red. I learned that year’s calypso on it before I had to be taught. I invented my own arrangement. I taught it to everyone. I played a single tenor. I was seven. I cannot remember any of the notes, but I remember my body swaying behind the pan when I played the hymns.
My hands were an intricate kata .
I remember that.
I remember the ripe adolescent sweat of the director’s daughter. I remember the baby powder on her neck. I invented my own arrangements of things; hymns, arias, calypsos, facts of my becoming.
My first pan made a silly descant of a noise, but I beat it into swing. I beat it into ghost. I beat it into a story I could believe.
Here’s the first chapter: once upon a time there was a boy. He was afraid of nothing. He believed himself invincible.
This was not remarkable in the way of boys, but when he opened his mouth; when he sang, everyone knew – his lungs were made of wolves.
Arouca Presbyterian Church – Psalm 2
The child was born out of wedlock
Naturally.
The child came from another land
Of course.
The child’s lungs were larger than
Wolves.
The child was afraid of everything
But love.
The child was afraid of nothing
But silence.
The child’s limbs would not walk
They ran.
The child gathered loves onto him
They came willingly.
The child sang and sang and sang
He played the drums with the whole
Of his body.
His hands learned the wand of flourish
He stamped his feet when he spoke
Everyone listened.
No one heard a thing.
Arouca Presbyterian Church – the first Psalm
The song rose first from the gut of the morning
all the way to the rafters of noon – song of praise;
song of protection, the congregants bugled the tiny
church aloft. Some said it was the only way the building
stayed steady, betrayed its crumbling plaster and termite
ridden beams. The reverends’ job was easy in the countenance
of such faith. Wade in the water of the peoples’ song. Offer
the prayers of the elders and the children. Preach the sum
of the village gossip and the nicknames of local legends.
Enough lived there in the valley out of which to make music
to God. All they’d need was a preacher with a dance in his
voice; a child without shame, to sing in Jesus’ name.
My first pan was not made from an oil drum like the grown-ups’ pans were. We had practice pans made from tin; and painted gaudy red. I learned that year’s calypso on it before I had to be taught. I invented my own arrangement. I taught it to everyone. I played a single tenor. I was seven. I cannot remember any of the notes, but I remember my body swaying behind the pan when I played the hymns.
My hands were an intricate kata .
I remember that.
I remember the ripe adolescent sweat of the director’s daughter. I remember the baby powder on her neck. I invented my own arrangements of things; hymns, arias, calypsos, facts of my becoming.
My first pan made a silly descant of a noise, but I beat it into swing. I beat it into ghost. I beat it into a story I could believe.
Here’s the first chapter: once upon a time there was a boy. He was afraid of nothing. He believed himself invincible.
This was not remarkable in the way of boys, but when he opened his mouth; when he sang, everyone knew – his lungs were made of wolves.
Arouca Presbyterian Church – Psalm 2
The child was born out of wedlock
Naturally.
The child came from another land
Of course.
The child’s lungs were larger than
Wolves.
The child was afraid of everything
But love.
The child was afraid of nothing
But silence.
The child’s limbs would not walk
They ran.
The child gathered loves onto him
They came willingly.
The child sang and sang and sang
He played the drums with the whole
Of his body.
His hands learned the wand of flourish
He stamped his feet when he spoke
Everyone listened.
No one heard a thing.
Arouca Presbyterian Church – the first Psalm
The song rose first from the gut of the morning
all the way to the rafters of noon – song of praise;
song of protection, the congregants bugled the tiny
church aloft. Some said it was the only way the building
stayed steady, betrayed its crumbling plaster and termite
ridden beams. The reverends’ job was easy in the countenance
of such faith. Wade in the water of the peoples’ song. Offer
the prayers of the elders and the children. Preach the sum
of the village gossip and the nicknames of local legends.
Enough lived there in the valley out of which to make music
to God. All they’d need was a preacher with a dance in his
voice; a child without shame, to sing in Jesus’ name.
The Rhythm of Guilt
I'm sorry
so sorry
real sorry
not sorry
I'm not sorry
won't sorry
feel sorry
for my sorry...
he left
now I left
so we left
when we left
because we left
what we needed to and we left
we left
we never turned twice left
we left
we left.
I'm going places
within places
without places
to stay places
and find places
where I'm places
really places.
I see faces
see me faces
and be faces
that he faces
when we face his
contorted faces.
It will happen
our plan will happen
we will happen
our shit... will happen
don't quit, will happen
"That's it!" will happen.
much more of it will happen.
But so much doubt
I really doubt
we really doubt
our plan or doubt
her man doubt
planned out
scanned out
scream out
screamed out
streamed out
scream out
scream out
scream out
"I'm out!'
so sorry
real sorry
not sorry
I'm not sorry
won't sorry
feel sorry
for my sorry...
he left
now I left
so we left
when we left
because we left
what we needed to and we left
we left
we never turned twice left
we left
we left.
I'm going places
within places
without places
to stay places
and find places
where I'm places
really places.
I see faces
see me faces
and be faces
that he faces
when we face his
contorted faces.
It will happen
our plan will happen
we will happen
our shit... will happen
don't quit, will happen
"That's it!" will happen.
much more of it will happen.
But so much doubt
I really doubt
we really doubt
our plan or doubt
her man doubt
planned out
scanned out
scream out
screamed out
streamed out
scream out
scream out
scream out
"I'm out!'
94 Juniper Lane, Glastonbury, CT, 06033
Upon returning home
I noticed that the counter-tops in the kitchen were
smooth granite.
black diamonds
paving the surfaces of the kitchen
with swirls of geology.
The sink was now stainless steel,
new faucet,
and sunken into the counter top under the window
that frames a painting of the woods outside.
That hawk is in the tree still.
Me and Suzie and
Brian and Robert
and
Wilson himself
no longer Moma Dance in the living room.
2001 already passed.
now nobody plays at all,
except Sporcle or youtube on the
computer.
It's seeming so big so
clean and shiny so wrong
and uncomfortable
like going under the knife.
Dad is snoring on the green couch
and the dog is looking up at me.
He clearly doesn't appreciate how big the television is.
I noticed that the counter-tops in the kitchen were
smooth granite.
black diamonds
paving the surfaces of the kitchen
with swirls of geology.
The sink was now stainless steel,
new faucet,
and sunken into the counter top under the window
that frames a painting of the woods outside.
That hawk is in the tree still.
Me and Suzie and
Brian and Robert
and
Wilson himself
no longer Moma Dance in the living room.
2001 already passed.
now nobody plays at all,
except Sporcle or youtube on the
computer.
It's seeming so big so
clean and shiny so wrong
and uncomfortable
like going under the knife.
Dad is snoring on the green couch
and the dog is looking up at me.
He clearly doesn't appreciate how big the television is.
Day 13, Poem 13: I Don't Know, I got pissed off walking to the train lol
Tonight, I walk the streets
that raised me
grasping how it's changing
Same streets
that chewed me up
spat me out and said,
"bitch, deal with it"
But even that
didn't phase me
Bittersweet 'hood
no good
cheating bitch
heart breaker
same as she ever was
chameleon
still got her hooks in us
we feel 'em
Jigsaw of skyscraper
peppered with Mom and Pops
that belly-flopped
laying dormant for years
Lincoln Lights went out years
before I lived on 10th Ave
two years ago built up a retirement
residence for the haves
who never lived there
who cares?
A&P used to be
corner of 9th Ave and 55th street
Chase bank and luxury condos replace them
and the transplants shop at Whole Foods
and The Food Emporium
Spend their whole check on soybeans
and croutons
put out the circulars, but no use
for coupons
Thinking
we're a dying breed
castle's a cage we're dying in
private club now, can't get in
no way out or light to breathe
still no honor
just new thieves
Used to be when they came
for you, you knew
But it's a new school
And even the old boys
are sweating in their cigar bars
no need for their
country club steam rooms
Shells
of themselves,
like the mighty monolith of
Hearst Corporation,
once so great, it was built
with its doors opening into
the cavernous mouths
of four train stations
built on the backs of
hoods like this one
brick by brick
old school dudes with
union books and shipyard
pricks and mobster cliques
that made the world spin round
flick us all off your back like fleas now
And those outdoor areas polished bright
with benches you can't use at night
With jagged edges on their ledges
around their finely manicured hedges
to secure no clashes with neighborhood
asses, but someone else will come
to maintain them
next time the stock market crashes
Tonight, I walk the streets
that raised me
grasping how it's changing
Same streets
that chewed me up
spat me out and said,
"bitch, deal with it"
But even that
didn't phase me
Bittersweet 'hood
no good
cheating bitch
heart breaker
same as she ever was
chameleon
still got her hooks in us
we feel 'em
Jigsaw of skyscraper
peppered with Mom and Pops
that belly-flopped
laying dormant for years
Lincoln Lights went out years
before I lived on 10th Ave
two years ago built up a retirement
residence for the haves
who never lived there
who cares?
A&P used to be
corner of 9th Ave and 55th street
Chase bank and luxury condos replace them
and the transplants shop at Whole Foods
and The Food Emporium
Spend their whole check on soybeans
and croutons
put out the circulars, but no use
for coupons
Thinking
we're a dying breed
castle's a cage we're dying in
private club now, can't get in
no way out or light to breathe
still no honor
just new thieves
Used to be when they came
for you, you knew
But it's a new school
And even the old boys
are sweating in their cigar bars
no need for their
country club steam rooms
Shells
of themselves,
like the mighty monolith of
Hearst Corporation,
once so great, it was built
with its doors opening into
the cavernous mouths
of four train stations
built on the backs of
hoods like this one
brick by brick
old school dudes with
union books and shipyard
pricks and mobster cliques
that made the world spin round
flick us all off your back like fleas now
And those outdoor areas polished bright
with benches you can't use at night
With jagged edges on their ledges
around their finely manicured hedges
to secure no clashes with neighborhood
asses, but someone else will come
to maintain them
next time the stock market crashes
Caged Words
Peel the clouds from the sun,
this world's my sketch board,
'cause if there was no light
I'd have nothin' to stretch for-
nor grow toward
when I awake to a new dawn.
Blue sky- look in my eye
to see a true storm.
A few yawns, then suit up
for my inner battles.
Might be summer, but you should
see how fast winter travels.
Accumulate splinters of gravel
from road rash-
scarred- won't get no prince
if you kiss this toad's ass.
But shed no tears
for this maimed bird's wing,
'cause not many can say
they know why the caged words sing.
Na, not many know
why the caged words sing,
n' the initiative to live
that those plagued chirps bring-
that stay circling
this enslaved perp's ring-
like a bruise purpling.
A cycle of pant, sigh.
Wounds hurting,
but I recycle the chant by
finding relief in the grief
'cause shit, the demand's high!
So I flow to make up
for the fact that I can't fly...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
untitled second attempt at in class excercise
The night you seeped beneath my skin
I could feel your calloused hands scratching to dig inside.
Strangely showing careful and deliberate tenderness
Restraining the aggressive necessity that throbbed through your veins.
Your calculations were key
Yet you second guessed every move
Like a well studied schoolboy
Fumbling the oral presentation
So your tongue danced a distraction
As the muscles at the base of your spine froze to stone.
Apparently, I’m your medusa, your kryptonite, your luscious poison apple.
I don’t mean to frighten you so
But please let go of your unrelenting judgment
And experience joy with ease for once.
Just this once.
With a stroke of your ink-stained fingertips
Down my arched back I understand your intention is to record
All of me for your next writing session
You’re reveling in the poetic contradictions of this restraint.
I am fuel for your next monologue.
A scenario for a love scene
That will romantically play out better than this.
You’re the Playman, trying to be the Birdman
Memorizing every noise I make to compile
Your opus.
I shouldn’t complain because you’re soft and attentive
But not all for my pleasure, because behind your cavernous eyes
Lies perfection and pain you try to maintain for The Art.
Even at this beginning you’re lying to me and you deceive yourself.
But one part of you knows the truth
And calls you on your shit
As hardened muscles release, refusing to submit.
So I take the blame and ask to stop
To save you the confession of the disappointment you’ve caused.
I roll to my side
And the nausea sets in.
Not guilty for sins before God, or mom or anyone but myself.
Just aware that my Orpheus has looked back too many times,
Leaving me vanished as dust in his arms
To exist only in the grainy, black ink
That stains the pages of your notebook.
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