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.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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...
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