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.

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.

...