My Brother Dan, Who Doesn't Do Drugs

Hey, Mom.
I don't smoke too much weed.
I used to think I smoke too much weed.
You used to ask me how often
I sit down, roll up, and take off.
I'm glad you don't do that anymore,
because I still don't have an answer.
Counting the times doesn't come to mind;
it isn't like that- I'm just not like that.
I like to hit a bong before going shopping, Mom.
Visit a vape before taking the train, Mom.
Roast a bowl before responding to emails, Mom.
Bang a blunt before both breakfast and lunch, Mom.
Join hands with a crossjoint just to listen to music, Mom.
Laugh like a crackhead after anything involving a gas mask, Mom.
Wrestle with a clip while taking a shit, Mom. So,
don't ask me how many times a week I smoke weed
as if anyone on earth could ever handle that kind of math.
And don't worry about Dan, who moves in with me this month,
because we both love you. I love you.
I love weed
but I love you, too.


From our last class! My two lies were (1) Maybe I smoke too much weed and (2) My brother and I will never have anything in common. Enjoy!

Day 8, Poem 8: Call Center Purgatory

Ears ringing, yuppies breathing hard
exasperated, needing cars
to take them home
keeping me from my thirty poems
please hold

Airs of entitlement, sucking teeth
hanging off the corporate teet
Decipher drunken slurs through thick accents
erroneous addresses, a parade of career sycophants
one moment, please

Purple Heartless

Went to war with myself--

now I got Post Traumatic Stress.

Can't do anything without remembering

a close climatic death.

Used to toast the savage mess

n' boast the 'matic's breath;

bought into the propaganda

'til I approached the ravaged depths.

Tried to leave the front--

too many indignant tombs.

Reminisce as I look at scars

from self-inflicted wounds.

Established reps,

but I ain't no decorated soldier--

they missed the ultimate chipping

of my decimated shoulder.

Reparations over

before their estimated closure.

Shell shocked,

docs wana investigate exposure...

Thousand Fragments

A thousand fragments

of broken glass...

Stagnant on the rocks of reality

where my hopes were dashed.

Forty crashed, shorties laughed,

take it out chokin' grass--

stories stab, better watch ya soles

when pokin' past...

Lappin' liquor out backpacks

when I be Breakin' Bad--

chewin' on smashed glass--

rushin' forsaken fads.

Jakes be mad at my rat pack;

Dean Martin on the scene.

While you still believe in karma,

green, too scared to harm a thing...

Disillusionment settled

on the lunatic fellows.

When that Juno bitch mettled

I was soon to hit petals.

Torch my harvest--

this world's too cold to support a seed--

so abort the beat

before another heart's born wit greed!

Damn man... When did I become

so sure of things?

Started with explorin' drinks,

now, I'm whorin' fiends.

All I ever wanted was

to bring back that first inhale.

Exhale. An old soul,

n' my breath's stale-

reekin' of mustard gas n' roses-

recall my death wish.

Give that Slaughterhouse Five,

late night drunken calls to Xs.

The rest is, miswritten in history,

PTS is,

the centerpiece of my identities--

energies misdirected...

Drunk on the Edge of a Cliff

Help me,

somebody help me!

Drunk on the edge of a cliff

thinking it's healthy!

I hope you felt me...

I know I didn't...

'Least my rising soul

won't recognize me when I'm finished.

Eyes timid, the fire in 'em

'bout to die cynics--

my limits, 'bout as high

as I am, but I'm livid.

Why scrimmage, when I can play

a real game with death?

Fuck razor blade checkers,

Imma change to chess.

Cuttin' off poker hands

with aces on my wrist.

Forget Russian Roulette,

stationed at the hip.

Time to seal the deal for real,

end my dance with chance...

Take the hands of the Reaper

n' prance, entranced.

Spinnin' near the ledge,

inchin' closer.

Trippin' on my own feet,

kickin' boulders.

Signallin' vultures, with

horrified screams...

Damn, don't you hate them

glorified dreams?

The Grouch

Back in the day,

I'd cook the crack from the yay.

Never needed a safe--

my veins would stash it away...

In a spectacular way

I'd martyr debris.

Stayed doing drugs

that were harder than me.

In the heart of the street,

a peep squeak on the come up--

a young buck with tough luck,

tipsy n' dumbstruck.

Loved to puff n' pump bud,

hump sluts n' jump fucks,

but no matter what, every Grouch

gotta meet the dump truck...

Hitchhiked with my thumb up--

abducted by the garbage man--

stuck, my tongue tucked

behind my teeth's tartar, jammed.

My scars' heart land

pulses with the blood flow.

Can't trust a soul--

don't think I could ever love, yo.

Some wounds just won't heal

like they're supposed to.

Can't come close, you

the type of chick that'd drive me postal.

Anti-social, got no cover

but fuck weathermen--

I got my covers--

sink into my bed like wet cement.

Behold the Eye of My Beauty

Behold

the eye of my beauty--

in it's the fire that soothes me.

I desire her truly

but was wired unruly.

Although she admired my duty,

she fired me rudely--

found a new recruit

n' hired him coolly...

Retirement's cruelty

with my other half missin'.

In this environment who'll be

my cover's last mission?

who I can woo with a look

followed by passionate kissin'.

Soothe her with my music, like,

"At last, one that listens!"

If only I could stop lovin' you

n' keep my heart open--

scar tissue's a boundary

got me floundering in the dark, broken.

Hard copin' knowin' better

than to wish upon a star, hopin'.

Other fish in the sea, yea,

but I discard oceans.

Passed up a couple of dimes

searching for a perfect ten--

thought it was worth it then

but I wasn't only hurtin' them.

Uncertain when, handlin' hearts

that come with cuffs too--

cuz girl, I don't love you,

I love the idea of you...

Day 5, Poem 5: Letter To a Literary Demigod (draft)

How do you feel
on your throne
of scrolls
containing
enlightenment
pain
sex
fear
God
The Gods
and Goddesses
death
laughter
mythological beasts
jazz
the blues
tropical rhythms
tribal drums
You are
an apparition
mighty warrior
spirit
your breath
words of fire
in their bellies
hard cocks
vulvae twitching
on each
inflec-tion


At your fingertips
golden locks
nappy heads
straight and curled
boys and girls
ripe
open
hungry
eager
adoring you
hanging on every
word
dripping
from your mouth
dripping
for you
they swoon
and coo
and you
you know

How does it feel
a pile of bodies at your
feet
limbs entwined
hungry
searching
wanting
crawling over each other
to get to
you
to have you
consume you
every word
suck you up
like rum
from a bellybutton
douse you with
oil
anoint you with
lemon peels
bathe you
in tequila
and lick
the salt from your
writhing skin

Day 9, Poem 9: Untitled came/stayed poem

I came because I had no choice,
and we were
there
living on the second floor
upstairs, beyond the third floor
we couldn't go,
hippies, gypsies, and junkies
People you could say hello to
People you were steered away from
Fathers and uncles who were okay
when they were sober...
Puerto Ricans who fought and laughed
violently in the halls.
There were families of families

I stayed because
the rush of the hydrant
the music from car speakers
and fire escapes
identifiable whistles
and because we became invisible
but we were always seen
so-and so's kid, right?
It made you boisterous
but kept you honest
Didn't stop the trouble either way


I came because we moved to where
we could barely survive
And somehow we did
Pot lucks and dishes passed hallways
We lit firecrackers in the hallway
We played hide and seek in basements
built forts out of bunk beds
got in trouble together
got drunk together
not always the same thing
gave each other lice in school
and helped each other comb it out
fought each other
became friends again

I came because you don't question
where you're going until you get there
I stayed because I knew no other roads to
travel
Soon, change