I BE: reverse in falling

Water Poem

2006-05-08T00:24:00.000-07:00

i am writing you from the bottom of the sea.
the weight of all this water,
poseidon's body atop my own
overwhelms,
then soothes.

my name has been washed away,
all the letters were written in sand.
dead with the brush of a mermaid's hand.

down here
down here
words mean so little
i throw them around like pocket change.

humming siren songs,
swaying back and forth
as i whither and shift.
my left arm is red coral.
my feet are star fish.
perhaps tomorrow
or the tide after that my hair
will turn to seaweed.

the subtle death of it all
under the weight of all this water.
such a grave,
down here
down here.

blue (undefined)

2006-04-21T20:02:00.000-07:00

I wrapped myself in the bluest blue today
beyond color; it was a state of mind; it was a new skin
glistening / wet / bright.
i was hopefully reborn in that bluest blue
because the skin of my skin was singing
arias in the tongue of unknown lovers
aida echoed through the egyptian sands in me,
and my heart responded
the very blue of me was a voice
deep / resonating / transformative
i saw the holy ghost in my self
black church women with decadent sundays hats
and work gnarled hands were praising my name, my blue
and this blue of mine became me
more than a name (blue)
a beat (blue)
a rhythm (blue)
and i was harmonizing,
i was rhapsodizing
i was funk-defied, sanctified, and holy fulfilled
praising my self in my new skin
with my new name.
my mother became every mother,
i loved her in a thousand faces.
my father became every father,
i adored him in a thousand arms.
the air between us became roots
thriving, moving, living roots
not a state of mind,
a reality
blue allowed me to drop the sorrow,
to laugh at the hurt
and to go beyond color
i was the name of the name
the sound of the sound
all encompassing, all loving
WHOLE
and blue became the veins and arteries
running through the tree of me
leaves burst green,
reaching toward the sun
that was my sun
shining on the tree called me
and my family
see, miles davis was reborn as my son
and i loved him today
nina simone was reborn as my daughter
and i loved her today
you are my children
and i am your child
because today your voices have become my own,
my blue
MY BLUE
my reincarnation, transformation, overdue reformation
give me a name
and i'll give you a new one
give me a name
and i'll live you a new one
because to define me is to know me
and to know me is to condemn me
there are no words for a blue like mine
so i will be blue undefined
and i will live on
loving and whole and healthy
without you
the you in you
without you
because today i was blue
beyond definition.

Warning

2006-02-10T16:27:00.000-08:00

warning -

keeping our days alive
under glass
watching them twitch and sigh
can be dangerous

like looking through
an old man's attic
expecting dust

and finding swastikas instead

keeping our days
(the minutes, the hours)
alive against their will
hooked up to a breathing machine
is reportedly fatal

says the brown eyed poet
says the laurel haired nymph
says the uncompleted sonnet

all of them

say that keeping our days
is for the lepers, the exiled

leave our days to them
or the nights will find you.

Prometheus Reconsiders

2006-02-06T14:44:00.000-08:00

I feel like I was not made to live,
exist in this time:
the gods had something different in mind for me
the promise just failed to bloom into fruition

all the same, as modern falls into post-modern
I lie here
tied to this rock -
bird wound gaping
the taste of metal on my tongue
the stench of fire in my hair
thinking of the time intended
for me

just before genesis perhaps,
in the time of air
when the water had not yet made up its own mind
as to where it wanted to settle and live
and the land was still infantile and fickle
roaming over and under air
never staying in one place for too long.

if you had known me then,
you would have watched me rise from
clay that was still warm
with the heat of creation
breathing out visions of formation

hills giving birth
falling in love
merging
dividing
into mountains that would rise
and remember the land that had birthed them
because in those moments
before time had a name -
mountains had memory

as do I
of a life I walked away from
cradling the regret
benevolence left behind

I watch as modern falls into post-modern again
and sigh -
should have kept the fire to myself.

Fluidity

2006-01-25T16:00:00.000-08:00

flowing easily isn't so simple
always comes with a price
remember: we broke our bones,
loosened the twine of our sinews
so that we could move
like Harlem smoke visions
brothers slipping through brick walls,
swimming through chain link fences
like it's nothing

the flow is everything
boiled down
stirred with a tin spoon
until our words don't move
but glide across, through,
and between dreams
hitting wind chimes
kissing ohm bells

in the now
our words don't move
they bend their backs
becoming curves
then waves of sound
washing up on nirvana

in the now
we may flow easily
but it isn't so simple.

I BE: reverse in falling

2006-01-18T12:12:00.000-08:00

i fell through the sky today
delicate kind of icarus
kissing, licking the clouds on my way down
teasing raindrops with my gossamer feathers
the gods say that i'm a tease of the worst kind,
not to be trusted
staying in one dream long enough to moan
then dance on my way down through the clouds
i say: don't blame me for moving,
for being moved
so much sky to roam,
to taste
if you saw what i saw,
you would fall too
but i left you snoring beside a moon,
i left you after three lifetimes
and i fell through the sky
the wind pulled me apart
this way and that and that
rat tatta tat scoo bog de doo de
doo don't blame me for falling apart
into pieces
children will mistake me for snowflakes tomorrow
i don't blame them
let them taste me on their pink tongues,
let them throw me,
let them make angels out of me
i could use a change
maybe snowflake mistakes are just what i've been looking for
just want i've been falling for
so like nina simone
i wanna swing low over piano key dreams
and martini soaked music sheets
play me like snowflakes,
play me like the women you manipulate
and leave
but you won't leave me
no, no, no
i will leave you
isn't that what i do wop do wop
diddy diddy do skit de skat
rat tatta tit that is the way i roll,
the way i fall
delicate kind of icarus
kissing clouds
telling secrets
i fell through the sky today
tomorrow i will fall in reverse.

a funk i can sing about

2005-12-29T11:45:00.000-08:00

you're so vain
my poems want nothing to do with you
smell you coming from three pages away
my words start running

rings around planets
stopping long enough to gaze at those baby blues
before they skit to get away from your scat

like urea meeting oxygen
spits out ammonia
your words smell funny
and your satanic smile ain't sweet enough
to change the taste
of your truth

did you think i would forget
the stakes you claimed,
the land you named
in honor of your ego

waxing monumental
some wounds are un-forgettable
i remember

the game you spit
the spell you spun
spiderwebs are beautiful
not when you're a fly
caught up in the deception

sometimes i be a fly
but ain't gonna be your fool
cuz your words smell funny

glowing neon red
if funk had color properties
we'd see your shit before we smelled it
cuz your truth is ugly
as the day you were born

did you think i would forget
the vanity in your perpetual self-reflection
enough arrogance to make that mirror crack

druggies could do lines
and get high off your bullshit
keep selling it
sell your soul for all it's worth
get your own shelf at the dollar store
and find you some value
99 cents goes a long way
a long, long ways thes days

but you probably know all of this
don't you
don't you

you're so vain
my poems want nothing to do with you

i see their point

Family: An Aria

2005-12-22T11:59:00.000-08:00

it ain't no secret
some of our bombs are ticking in double time

beating the band like it's a bad habit
because the origin of our frustration
is elusive as our fathers

sometimes the we only stop screaming
because we've run out of air
or can't remember why we were fighting in the first place
yet, like veteran warriors
we still know how to unlock the door
within ourselves
and unleash all manner of stubborn determination

self-destruction can be beautiful
if you let it

the way pieces of ourselves break fall
fall to the ground in crystal shards
crawl back together again
and fight each other toward regeneration
because destruction and rebirth
are interchangable
jumping back and forth
skitting, scatting, rat-tatting
in a struggle for survival

imagine that we were born as phoenix feathers
and this beautiful brown skin is the outcome

how else could you explain the voodoo magic our mamas wrap us in?

placing gentle veils over our eyes as children
through which we only see
love in every nook and cranny
every pot and pan
every rat and roach
within our brokedown palaces

this is something
that goes beyond words
and even description
it goes down to the very spine of your soul
sweats its way out of your pore
leaving a reside of hope
on your beautiful brown skin

and though we cannot always find the root of our frustration
or even the prime suspects
we can laugh down the tear drops
that nourish the rebellious parts of our whole
we can kiss the blue spots and black eyes
as we turn in a new direction again and again and again
we can sing our prayers like they are lullabies
giving each other a silver cloud to rest under

sometimes we all gotta go back home
to realize that the strongest levee against the storm
is the embrace of loved ones

and there
gathered around that soul-filled table
like forgotten angels in a chorus
we can remember the leaves and branches,
bud and blossoms,
the trunk and roots
of our purpose

reminding our brothers and sisters
and inevitable cousins
to be grateful that our never ending story
is worth telling

it ain't no secret
some of our bombs are ticking in double time
but at least for the time being
that ticking

has a beautiful melody.

The Way I See It

2005-12-19T12:41:00.000-08:00

the color spectrum
don't mean shit
without all its colors
red has its place
among all the others
just like rage can be salt to the ocean
best believe
we need this emotion
and sometimes a man wants
needs
deserves to suffer
so the next time
i come in raging
give me space
give me time
but don't you dare
try to give me a hug
i don't think i could take it
seeing that scrunched up face
brimming over with pity
and those godforsaken open arms
the very thought of it stops my pulse
do not hug me
do not pat me
do not offer me comfort
love me enough to let me burn
smolder
crackle
let me run into the woods
howl at the moon
let me bare my teeth
like a madman
give me the luxury of temporary insanity
of barbarism
of rage
a lotta shit is fucked up these days
and sometimes you gotta lose yourself
if you wantto find yourself
there are gossamer wings
under these repitilian scales
there are diamonds
deep within this cold mountain
but genesis is a process
a chore
respect that
and marvel
give me time
poision in time becomes medicine
destruction in time becomes rebirth
i am crazy
but not so crazy as to believe
that rage puts us beyond redemption
there is hope for me yet
trust that
so let me scream
let me fight
but please please PLEASE
do not hug me
do not offer me comfort
i don't think i could take it
not a minute
not a minute more.

Silence is Respect

2005-12-19T12:29:00.000-08:00

this poem speaks of apology
it waits for the perfect hour of mourning
bows its head
humming lyrics of regret
under its breath

this poem admits that
sometimes we go too far to prove our points
and usually in the wrong direction
think of caskets we unearth so conveniently
the history students have become grave robbers
sinking our bold fingers
into our heroes
freshly packed loam
sifting through ashes and bone
searching for yet another limb of our legacy
to exploit
ravens and sanity hover overhead
telegraphing disapproval on wind-speak
if we put down our shovels
we might hear the sound of
spirits being aborted
vacuumed out of the universal womb
they were returning to
their after-life has been put on hold
as their skeletons are manipulated
their opinions are articulated
by us -
our heroes are tired
the way we drop their names like bombs
exploding ground
this graveyard ain't never gonna have peace
all those years alive
spent using their lives as leverage
for a greater cause
for our cause
don't our heroes deserve silence?
respect in the least
we gotta let our heroes sleep
the skulls of malcolm, martin, and the rest
carried around on parade
serves no greater purpose
so let them fulfill their respective prophesies
let them live their own deaths
it will be for the best
so give our heroes a rest
relinquish this hallowed ground
and return to the living
instead of speaking to the great beyond
speak to the breathing

this poem urges you
to come walk with us
there is an entire ghetto
multiplied to the tenth power
that needs you -
not the names of deceased heroes
but living warriors armed with
the knowledge,
the hope,
the strength,
living warriors armed with
the spirit,
the vision,
the voice,
to breathe life into our broken homes
and finish what our heroes started.

Holy Smoke

2005-12-19T06:38:00.000-08:00

If the thought is a joke
then the prayer is a hoax
conveniently concocted
just enough time
to pull the wool over truth's eyes
and get in one more punch
the spaces between your amen's
and oh lords
hiss as wind blows between them
sunday can't come soon enough
for you to rip another verse out of the bible
put in your greedy mouth
and spit out a curse
don't miscontrue holy lyrics
to build a cage in which to put me in
empty words stay empty
regardless of the hot air you're blowing
next time
pray for a saxophone
so at least you can make some music
and no -
i will not bow down before your religious piety
fool, don't pity me
and don't come half-stepping with rhetoric
from a bible you never took the time to read
so run to the altar
fall at your preacher's feet
suck his dick
if it will give your soul relief
and maybe i will walk on water someday
if water is fire
and someday is damnation
because i would rather make love to lucifer
than suffocate in heaven
with sick ass sycophants like you
cuz your hate and holiness
were made for each other
if the thought is a joke
then the prayer is a hoax
you pray for divine intervention
hoping that intervention
results in your enemies being smited
how holy-
how sanctimonious-
and anyone who disagrees with you
and your venom
becomes synonomous
with sodom and gomorra
i see
that's the way it's gonna be
god has become our hitman
summoned to do the dirty work
while we wash the blood from our hands
how graceful-
how convenient-
alpha and omega
have been adjusted to fit our busy schedules
if the thought is a joke
then the prayer is a hoax
our souls are laughing at us
as we choke
caught up in all this
holy smoke.

Precious

2005-12-08T20:29:00.000-08:00

my precious
i wish that your story was a new one
not some regurgitated morality tale
that old black women whisper to young black women
trickling down
cautioning buds before they blossom
end result
you are a martyr
a walking demonstration
demolition
destroyed
all that remains of you is a lesson
to our daughters
outlined with pink chalk on the sidewalk
unmistable portrait
of what and who to avoid
and the lovers say
knock. knock.
how does it feel?
knock. knock.
too wrong to be real
but there is an edge here
sharp enough to cut your hope on
and like hamlet we shake our heads
and say, "there's the rub."
i know how your story ends
irrevocably clear
there are writings on every wall of my house
some truth has been unleashed here
hitting a pitch that breaks hearts
that bitch deserves everything she gets
hope becomes the rope you want to hang yourself with
swinging back and forth from the glass ceiling
perfect barrier
standing between who you are
and who you wanted to be
two very different women
but there is a baby within you
kicking hard enough
to match all the blows society has dealt you
if you had a dime for everytime a door had slammed in your face
you might be able to afford a clean hospital room to give birth to your baby in
i knew you when high school was still two years away
and college was a fantasy
you had no chance of acheiving
now
nine months was between us like an ocean
it will only be crossed with middle passage
maybe this child will be named amistad
the water is treacherous
my precious
you don't fool me for a minute
i know you are counting trimesters
how long before the only option for abortion
is a trip to mexico
and a red dress
keep the child
leave the child
keep the child
leave the child
keep the child
leave the child
the lullably makes my soul shake
and i recognize that there are limitations
i know where your story is going
my precious
your story is a chorus
my momma sang it for nine months
and then i was born.

Breaking Jezebel

2005-12-07T12:26:00.000-08:00

the first time i felt the earth shake
rumble
and heartbreak
i saw jezebel's name in the bible
time has made her picture fuzzy
but i remember thinking that she wore a scarlet dress
a deep violent red
like the apple eve sunk her teeth into
phenomenally beautiful
like my mother
i wondered if the bible was big enough
for a woman like jezebel
and all those men
how soft her hand must have been
luring the love
luring the lust
of all those men
i read on
and the earth bagan to tremble
black ink letters began to tremble
my little brown hands were shaking
they were going to kill her
and all those men
with their barking dogs
ripping that violent red dress to shreds
littering the ground like rose petals
i prayed that an army of angels
would step down from heaven
trumpets blaring
holiness blazing
enough glory to push
all those men away
from this phenomenally beautiful woman
but that verse never came
leaving those barking dogs
unhindered
unrestrained
tearing that woman apart
everyone woman between
jezebel and eve
must have cried that day
tears raining from heaven
soaking the tattered bits of that violent red dress
washing away the blood
and that phenomenally beautiful woman
the earth was rumbling
rocking
wrecking itself
as my tears stained the pages
i closed the bible
and have not opened it since
the first and last time i felt the earth
shake
rumble
and heartbreak
i saw jezebel's name in the bible

Moonshot

2005-12-07T12:23:00.000-08:00

i will put this poem inside a rocket
shoot it at the moon
and wait for its lyrics to explode
against the sapphire sky
metaphors sparkling like yellow diamonds
before falling back to earth
falling into your hands
as warm sheets of notebook paper
this poem was born
so that wherever you are
as long as you have these words
and that sapphire sky
you will know that my lips are shaped
like thank you
whispering those words in my sleep
hoping they will float across dreams
and into your ear
thanking for breaking my concentration
having focused on the same spot for so long
reality almost faded entirely
but your hand on my shoulder
gentle like the hills of tuscany
pulled me back
and these mocha honey amber lips say
thank you
for bending the moan of my ohm
into the awe of oooooooOOOOh
open eyes
all the better to see you with
my dear, perhaps we could ride one of those rockets
right past pluto
perhaps we could find new planets
and name them after our favorite songs
so we'd have something to dance to
while we waltzed through the cosmos
and if for some reason
we were ever separated
i would follow a trail of supernovas
back to your neck
back to your smooth back
and the continual sigh of exhalation
at last..
somebody to defy gravity with
through reincarnation we can embrace eternity
imagine: our lips locked for entire lifetimes
breathing love
back and forth back and forth back and..
four thousand different forms in which to be reborn
maybe we could speak to each other as twin stars
bouncing light waves across the northern hemisphere
humming stellar sonnets
in a language only stars understand
even as a whirling ball of light and gas
i would not want you any less
thank you for twisting my brain waves
into roads and rivers
forever leading to your nirvana and nerve endings
and i know that if i put his poem
inside a rocket
aimed at the sapphire sky
there is a chance
i will miss my mark altogether
but i have broekn myself enough times to know
that regardless of the form in which i reside
the pulse remains the same
and this poem was written in the shape of my lips
saying thank you
for making this possible

We, Who Breathe

2005-11-13T09:54:00.000-08:00

breathe with me
the sigh that sings
reclaim your heart
your lungs your bones
reclaim your veins
and breathe with me
the sigh that sings
go into the house of you
walk through the hallways
and dusty rooms
reclaim all windows
and lightswitches
you abandoned
so long ago
and breathe with me
the sigh that sings
today - we live for our selves
we live for our selves
we live for our
selves.
today - our pulse, our electricity
will be the measure of all things
the sun will rise and set
according to the logic of our eyelashes,
clouds will dance across the sky
like slaves
the day after emancipation
because we have willed it to be so
this is our declaration,
our manifestation manifesto,
our reincarnation revolution
we are breathing
like atlantis has finally surfaced
as water drips away
from our glistening arms
and legs
we are breathing ourselves
back to fruition
becoming our own gardens of eden
we are the tree of knowledge,
we are the serpent that climbs that tree,
we are the god that made that garden
we are god and goddess
we are our own isis
sailing over burning egyptian sands
gathering up the pieces of our lover
and remember on this day
that the only lover that matters
is the self-lover
breathe with me
the sigh that sings
because we are the everything,
the all encompassing ohm,
we are shiva with fire in our hands
and creation in our hearts
we are the bridge that will lead
palestinians back to their home
we are the mirror that will allow
politicians to see the prisons they've built,
the wars they've waged,
the people they ignored,
we are judgement day personafied,
we are nirvana epitomized,
we are the reclaimers
of the shadowland and the swamp,
the desert and the damned
our ancestors can finally rest in peace
and our dreams can finally roam the earth freely
because finally
we are breathing
the song that sings
and the song sings
of us.

Said the Bullet to the Romance Novel

2005-11-07T22:28:00.000-08:00

i know that you're not the enemy,
your words were never intended to grow fangs
and haunt me in my sleep
but your words have done quite a number,
quite a number indeed
spelling out a four letter word in smoke
blowing love in my face
it came out of nothing,
because it was nothing
forgive me for being so human
so desperate, so vulnerable
but that word must die
don't try to talk me out of it,
i will not be persuaded
the gun is loaded,
my mind is set in concrete
there is no more thinking,
only action
i will walk to love's bed side,
stand over its night time sighs,
and i will point the gun at its head
love will die tonight
don't try to stop me
i have nothing to lose.

Ode for the Heroes (Homophobic as They May Be)

2005-10-17T14:56:00.000-07:00

a minute for the men who
will not be moved,
standing firm even when quicksand
is bubbling at their waists,
wherever would we be without
your determination,
and your rock hard
chests?
we, the feeble fashionista faggots
living limp wristed
on the margin you have so kindly
constructed for us,
how long you must have labored,
dragging - heaving - pushing
stone blocks,
building such a beautiful wall,
so artfully made
oh, to have such vision
knowing that barbed wire
would be the perfect touch
so perfect, so very perfect
we, the feeble fashionista faggots
thank you for your protection
your guns, your bombs, your muscles
working out every time
flexing your biceps and precepts
carrying the burden of the world
on your shoulders
carrying us
on your shoulders
were it not for your efforts
where would we find the time
to die by the millions
in the four letter word
we choose not to name
where would we find the time
to be strung up like scarecrows
in the fields of wyoming
to taste the curb
just before a boot bursts open our heads
like a hard candy
oh, you beautiful brave warriors!
achilles would be so proud
hercules' heart would swell
and explode
how fortunate we are to live in your palms,
to sleep in your tightly clenched fist
it's so warm here
it's so comfortable here
we, the feeble fashionista faggots
will sleep quietly in our caves tonight
don't worry - we will never want for power
or knowledge or power that comes with knowlege
have no fear - we are far too busy fucking each other
to read about politics,
to notice how artfully you slit our throats
who needs equal rights,
who needs the right to love,
who needs inclusion,
who needs sanity,
who needs a voice
when everything is in your big strong hands?
surely, not us -
forgive the few of us who whine and complain
pay them no mind
because everything is perfect
everything is fine
defend your marriage if you see fit
keep us from your children at all costs
lock us out of the classroom, the courthouse,
and the whitehouse-
we, the feeble fashionista faggots
enjoy being tied and bound
with a gun to our heads
afterall, we like it rough
don't we?

Untitled

2005-10-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

i have seen children born into upside down dreams,
hanging onto the ceiling of delusion,
in fear that survival in a rightside up world
is not possible,
i have seen children breathe underwater,
scratching their own skin to make gills,
because they had no other options,
i have seen children devour entire nations,
cradling empires in their bellies
attempting to prevent their own
colonization.

Stories We Tell Ourselves

2005-09-28T22:29:00.000-07:00

i have dreamt of being a magical kind of something,
complete with wings and sparkling eyes,
living in enchanted woods
lit with glistening red apples,
my cabinets would be scrawled with
all manner of wickedness:
eye of newt,
demon's tail,
new born giggles
i have looked into the smoking cauldron,
fallen into swirling clouds of night
and heard the murmurs of
nightmares turned inside out
and sent packing into the daybreak
but the veil is always lifted,
and the dream always laughs
as i sit up in bed
coughing as if thunder lived within my lungs
lightening cracking ribs, piercing holes
liberating this power,
ripping the cage that is me
apart.
i have dreamt of self-destruction,
of lifetimes that end at sunrise
or with the gleam of a pure mirror,
but hecate is not my mother
and there is a pulse here
no smoldering, simmering, crackling wickedness
or spells and potions,
no poisoned apples
leaving me to exist as a very real kind of nothing,
there are no fairy tales about me and my brethren,
we don't live on those pages,
we live in the paper cuts,
the thin red reminders that there is a life beyond the enchanted forest
you continue to sleep in,
out there beyond the apple orchards,
there are five thousand other kinds of poison
we know this because we stare them down
every time we walk down the street,
see a woman hold her purse a little closer,
feel a cop pay a little too much attention
to us, there is a life of wickedness
but it is more real than blond damsels in tall towers,
and beauties who sleep on ten mattresses,
the stories our parents told us
were painted with colors more vivid
than we are willing to admit,
colors heated by overnight stays in jail,
summertime lynchings,
and the ocassional flooded levee
yes - we have read your fairy tales,
know the line between your fantasies
and our existence,
we know you don't have a place for us
in your enchanted woods
so sleep there,
and we will write our own stories,
cradling our future a little closer,
whispering promises of
redemption into its ear.

Hip-Hop Meditation

2005-09-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

we make people vanish
into the midst of their own clamor
crackling, sizzling into grease
until their distractions become smoke
and their smoke becomes
silence.
this ain't no shaved head orange toga mountain top meditation,
we aint got no illusions about our state of mind
tibet is just another dream held captive,
today is just another day held captive,
this ain't no walden pond body electric thoreau solitude,
this is solitary confinement, locked down,
and chained..
by the snap, crackle, pop of platinum tinted television people,
who go around with ultra-violet smiles,
arms flailing, proclaiming two decibels above roar
that meditation is for the weak
and noise is where its at, where its at, where its at
but the voice in my heading is gasping,
strangled by irrelevance,
all this noise pollution got to stop..
so we make people vanish into themselves,
make 'em choke on all the shit they be spewing
and we pull into ourselves,
taking back the cords and connections, veins and arteries
pulling into the center
of this 5'11" universe
into the chill down, slow down, calm down brain wave
this ain't no shaved head orange toga mountain top meditation,
we aint got no illusions about our state of mind
tibet is just another dream held captive,
but - today won't be held captive
cuz you be we be i be taking it back,
staking a claim to my own moments,
using cirrus clouds and ohm
constructing a peace i can live with
a peace i can live within
this ain't no mountain top meditation
no...
this is peace of mind by
any means necessary.

so WRONG for each other

2005-09-10T18:41:00.000-07:00

cuz your smile is bad for my health,
reducing me to quivering bones
that click-clack melodies like lovesick xylophones,
we fall against blue star bedsheets
strangling water from our fantasies
'til our feet are wet with droplets of
honeysuckle gold dreams
until cigarette smoke becomes the screen
we hide behind together,
living as siholettes
that walk across the bedroom walls
of virgins and sinners alike,
standing in deadlocked corners
long enough to get our titanium claws in
sinking like teeth into those flesh tasting walls
ripping the skin and the bones
the rhetoric, the cages apart
we be the wolves who shuck and jive in sheepskin,
under moons that drip blood -
your mommas wake up in cold sweats
cuz they see our red tonguesin their third and fourth eyes
but your big daddy long legs aren't long enough
to carry you away
cuz our roots run deep enough to grow upside down apple trees,
complete with serpents that will find you,
jezebal is our older sister
she taught us everything we know
how to sneak out of windows,
have sex in public places
and to slip notes into back pockets,
close your eyes sweet baby
and dream a little dream of me
cuz my moans are the clouds
that fog your judgement,
my kisses are the quiet
just before the wave crashes.. breaks.. destroys..
your innocence
is mine for the taking
cuz my chest be empty
and i am looking for a beating hurt to replace it with,
sing me to sleep with lullabies of your insanity,
fall apart so i can put you back together,
i wanna pull the lover's moon out the sky
and hit you upside the head with it
because love is just another myth
the romans stole from the greeks,
but i have taken care of all that,
cuz aphrodite is hanging in my closet
and cupid is dead on arrival,
close your eyes sweet baby
and dream a little dream of me
cuz the kinda love i got in my pocket,
will fuck you up -
it be the only love i know,
that breakdown, shaking voice, trembling lips
kinda love,
that sleep all day and drink all night
kinda love,
cuz your smile is bad for my health
and i am bad for you.

The Lifespan of Heroes

2005-09-04T00:25:00.000-07:00

i beat my fists against the earth today
because the lifespan of heroes
is too short,
we send men into fire
watching them fall like sparrows
by any means necessary,
pressing our ears to telephone receivers
so we can hear another chorus of death threats,
rising to a house ablaze,
we write the names of our heroes
in blood.

i still hear a man in the audience,
screaming "get your hand out of my pocket"
my clothes reek of gunsmoke and blood,
i have stood on the balcony
marked with chalk
in memphis, tennessesse,
i have heard dreams shot down from the sky,
and watched them get buried,
marked with an X.

we pull our roots out of the ground
and strangle each other with them,
chewing shards of glass
ground by our grandfathers' masters,
we eat our words
and choke on them,
passing out in public
with X's across our eyes
and speeches on the tip of our tongues,
not far enough to be heard,
only contemplated.

i beat my fists against the earth today
because the lifespan of heroes
is too short.

see betty crouched over a dead body,
fists clench
wishing she could breathe fire,
see coretta croched over a dead body,
eyes drench,
wishing her tears were the elixir of life,
our heroes live on repeat
pause
and stop.

i beat my fists against the earth today
because the lifespan of heroes
is too short.

and because we don't stand a chance.

heartBEAT

2005-08-30T19:30:00.000-07:00

let us take a moment, dear
for all the broken glass pieces
we sweep under our bed
or tuck between our dirty sheets
because my legs are nicked and sliced and marked
with the scarlet signatures
of misgiving (yours and mine)
i remember when ever after was still possible,
when pastel colored story books never closed
floating around the room
when my eye lids got heavy
once upon a time,
my dreams lived their own lives
but i traded those stories
in exchanged for the tower i now live in,
surrounded by the clouds you have built for me
meticulously - well intended, i'm sure
but..
my ears are ringing with the click, click, clicking
of camera flashes
as i hit my mark,
striking sumptous pose after pose after pose,
i am not a betting man,
but i am willing to gamble
that there is room in my head for more
than creative sex positions and pillow talk,
whisper sweet SOMETHINGs in my ear
because this heart is full to overflooding with sex-coated nothings,
for once,
make me believe that i am more than my weight in gold
adorn me with praises of my existence, my vivacity, my heart
feed me more than
"you were good last night, baby."
"you're a hot little slut, baby."
"you're just another fuck, baby."
i want to be more than the box of trinkets
your hand rummages through
when sparkles strike your fancy,
i want to be worth more than
the way i glitter in the sunlight
when held at the right angle,
hold me like a moonlit lover
rather than an academy award
because i deserve more than a prewritten acceptance speech,
an off stage pat on the ass,
when your hands sail over my body,
let them look for more than
gleaming treasures
to steal
and flying carpets
to ride
because i remember when your love for me
was a house i could live in,
raise dreams in,
i remember when my body
was just a blade of grass
in the field you loved me in,
and don't call me a fool
for picking up these broken pieces of glass,
one by one by one by...
trying to put them together,
because i need a mirror
with which i can see
myself again
because the image you have constructed of me
is warped
and the words you hand me just won't do,
baby,
if you love my lips so much,
read them:
love me the way i deserve to be loved,
i'm not asking i'm telling
because i will tear this relationship limb from limb
and build my OWN temple
from its ruins
love me
love me
LOVE ME
because when the smoke clears,
and the moon rises,
when all the dreams have gone to sleep,
it will be my head against your chest
listening to your
heartBEAT.

My Thighs (as in MINE)

2005-08-20T14:42:00.000-07:00

do not touch - don't pass go - cease and desist, muthafucka!
my thigh ain't a resting place for your hand,
so don't expect me to sit mute
while your aryan hands invade this brown kingom -
turn this crusade the hell around,
shoot it to the moon,
watching christian knights hit starts face first
before they slide down like cartoons
into old-fashioned, hanna barbara mediocre oblivion -
you are not / will not ever gonna be a king,
all the kings are dead now - or, doomed to antiquity,
so, don't treat my thigh like a throne
for your hand to rest upon
because there is no rest for men
whose touch is the death of five sparrows,
the hiss of ten snakes,
shoot it to the mooon,
and stay there
i ain't virgin Africa waiting to be colonized,
my skin will not be pock-marked with your flags,
my villages have already been pillaged,
and the people
have been enslaved, set ablazed, and then extinguished
STOP - i can see the meat of my thigh
reflected in your hungry eye,
consider vegetarianism,
because this skin, these bones still smolder, still crackle
with the grease of five hands that crawled
before you
and i'm still cooking,
so, shoot it to the moon
picture your severed hand,
floating idly through space
glistening with spots of your blood,
i be violent as you be horny,
trust: i am as angry as all my stereotypes,
multiplied to the power of three -
watch your hand, you hand..
because these beauxom brown thighs
are not yours to touch
are not yours to conquer
i will wrap my legs around your neck,
becoming an angry black vice
strangling you before i submit,
because this is about more than your
sleazy swarmy GROSS HAND
caressing my thigh,
this is about the thighs that didn't speak / didn't scream
when all manner of varmin
invaded countries, kingdoms, people, thighs
know that i am weighed down with emotional baggage,
and i won't hesitate to throw these bags at you
so, back the fuck up
do not touch - do not pass go, cease and desist
because the crusades are over
and i'm as pissed as all the arabs you fucked over,
shoot it to the moon
before i shoot you
whatever your fingers are searching for,
ain't here -
i am more than a pantry,
wasn't born to be opened and then emptied
don't go there,
and by there, i mean here
because you are not welcome -
ain't got none of that good nigga' love for you,
but i do got angry past
and an angrier present -
the history is all etched into my skin
so, shoot it to the moon
because these thighs are holier than thou,
and i will fuck you up
if you touch me again.

For Daryl

2005-08-19T17:49:00.000-07:00

if i could summon the strength,
i would reach through the heavens
until the sun itself was
clasped in my hand -
and looking down at you like a vengeful deity,
i would hurl it in your direction,
with all my might.

we are not pawns,
this is not a game.

if i could summon the magic,
i would call forth hecate and her sisters
from the grave,
sending the shards of their wickedness
towards your home.

we are not pawns,
this is not a game.

if i could speak to insects,
i would stand beside a wasp nest
and tell them of your vileness,
in hopes that they would come for you
like a buzzing red storm.

we are not pawns,
we are demons -

how foolish you are to have crossed our path-

this is not a game,
this is yet another stanza
i will engrave on the walls of my heart,
promising never to forget
your treason.

Ode for the Heretics

2005-08-15T15:34:00.000-07:00

- Dedicated to Pat Robertson

because we soar across smoggy heavens while sleeping and awake,
runing sprinting racing across gray faces,
leaving a trail of our footprints across the sky's neck,
because our smiles are like cracks of lightning,
morphing graveyards into ultra-violet edens,
blinding those too timid / too cold to handle our heat,
becaue we know the power of our lips - seen the doors they can kick open,
full, brown, and dangerous - our lips are
weapons of mass persuasion,
and there you stand in last decade's kitchen,
checking off your list of reasons,
trying to justify -
make permanent -
make stand -
our being tied and bound to the earth.
you watched us jump out of childhood's frying pan -
hoping demanding praying that we would perish
in sweet licking flames,
but instead of consuming, those flames became us
and now we return to set your house on fire.
you, who wanted to make a lesson of us:
"see children, this is what happens when you talk back,
stand too tall, call a bluff, grow the fuck up."
and out rolls exhibit A:
our frozen bodies behind glass,
locked into the drastic postures
of broken boxes,
with a look of regret etched into our faces.
well, wake up children! wake the fuck up!
because we refuse to be put on display,
your lead menagerie cannot contain us,
the bible-poisoned circles you try to dance around us,
are futile, are ancient (like your beliefs)
because we are stubborn as you are stupid
because we are brave as you are barren -
long after you have lost your century-old battle with cobwebs,
we will be stirring your ashes up,
as if the earth itself were our cauldron
and you were just another ingredient to be added to our potion -
we will pluck you out of the mason jar you died in
and drop you into the fire and brimstone you always preached about
because like the witches and bitches,
like gargoyles and gangstas
WE ARE
we will use your hate against you,
conjuring a spell that will wipe out the
vile tracks you have laid
and the cement cages you have built,
pushing, pushing, pushing -
your stone-aged heart away in hopes that it will perish,
long before we do,
and it shall because we are eternal,
another bullet to the head (we welcome it)
another hole in the heart (we welcome it)
regardless, we are still standing / soaring / laughing / living
be afraid -
because these aren't lyrics,
these are demands
we chant them over and over in our sleep
until our melodies merge into an army of one sound
and we are coming your way
be afraid -
because when we speak,
the universe won't just listen,
IT
WILL
TREMBLE.

Meditation on the Straight Boy I Fell For

2005-08-15T15:13:00.000-07:00

i just don't want to fall
onto my own sword
- watering the ground with my romance-poisoned blood
this is not the love i imagined for myself,
nor are you the man who can give it to me
but - painfully beautiful
you wound me - unknowingly
you stab me - subconsciously
got me pulling my nappy, curly hair
wanting to cry a sweet, liberating cry
because it feels so damn good
to hurt this bad - for you
give me the gift of my own tears, please
let me lay my head on your masculine shoulder
use my saltwater crystals to draw an escape
against this wall-shaped romance
(destination: no fucking where)
i beg you, give me the tools
to reach up, reach out
bring this shit down
mama neglected to inform me of
arsenic laced butterfly kisses
and love so sick
some doctors mistake it for malaria,
some boys mistake it for homophobia
baby, baby, BABY - you done dealt me a fatal blow
thought you were fucking me with something
warm, throbbing and real
turned out it was
cold, metallic, and metaphorical
bring this down
reach up, reach out
bring this shit down
baby, baby, BABY - your romance may be too strong for me
last night, i dreamt i saw 'laramie' across your forehead
so, i guess it should disturb me that your sex
reeks of burnt wood, gasoline, and rejection
and there it is,
like the light that struck
paul on his way to damascus,
i realize..
this shit ain't romance,
this is survival -
love ain't a choice, it's a strategy,
so,
leaning beside a sword
prouder than i am
i am begging you for the gift of my own tears,
in exchange for your
beautiful aresnic laced butterfly kisses
flipping through a scrapbook of wet dreams,
trying to recall how i managed to conjure
a brokenheart
as delicious as you.

Lessons in Adjectives

2005-08-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

i am editing papers on varios subjects
all written by various teenagers
and i am perturbed and a little pissed
by their poor word choice -

why are all their bad days black?

black as in evil, no-good, devilish, damned -
black like devil's food cake
and black mail and black friday/tuesday/sunday..

shit, it is bad to be the word that follows black,
can't no good come of it
but if we want to make it better,
we WHITE that black out,
scarf down some angel food cake,
sit pretty and wait for the white knight to come save us

flip, flip, flipping through these pages,
i see the minds of teenagers reflecting
a warped white way of writing -
aimed at moving them away from evil black thoughts
and towards the light (white, right?)

see, it's a conundrum of a different color (two in fact)
so i take out my red pen
and start marking that shit up -
circling black problems, underlining white solutions
spitting out the same note over and over:

"you aren't racist, so why are your adjectives?"

A Chorus of Shackles

2005-08-15T15:09:00.000-07:00

Tonight,
floating on top of a dead summer
i be taking a vow
to conjure the dreams of
drowned ancestors,
using the rusted shackles still clasped around ivory ankles,
pulling these kings and queens
and thieves and warriors
pulling these kingdoms back to the surface
i be breaking those rusty shackles,
and hanging them on my wall
listening to the metal clanging banging chorus
singing, "remember me."
i be closing my own eyes - trying to remember me
and my people,
resting on the bottom of the atlantic ocean -
never made it - made it where-
free from polluted dreams of the big house
and yella skin - high, high yella skin
watching entire languages get pulled into a dead blue sea,
as the new white god - rises like a vengeful sun
beating, bashing, beat, beat, beating
heads filled with nothing but cotton
and rusty memories
i be we be you be
back there,
just before tthey tossed us overboard
alone in our plummet
save the metal clanging banging chorus
of our soon-to-bee rusty shackles
and the crash of waves
like armies of drowned mermaids,
arms thrashing - weighed down by our own shackles,
forged by men too cowardly to go swimming,
drowning, crashing, thrashing, die, die, dying
DEAD
like our villages, like our gods, like our warriors,
enough holes - to make a sky filled with corpse stars
not shining, but sighing - as they watch
yet another empire choke within the iron grasp
of philosophers by day - murderers by night
you be we be i be
floating on top of a disturbingly still ocean,
afraid to open my eyes
for fear of who or what
might be floating with me
in this dead summer,
there be an ocean filled with NEW ships,
ringing with the chorus of NEW shackles,
as they sail onwards,
towards new empires and victims,
floating on top of a salt water graveyard
that still sings, "remember me."
i be you be we be
taking a vow
to remember.

Among Other Things

2005-07-25T16:26:00.000-07:00

i went to sleep
listening to stevie wonder,
dreaming about ribbons in the sky
and empty hotel rooms,
sliding into clouds glazed with salt water
until i realized that i wasn't dreaming at all,
and stevie had changed his tune
i decided to hit the street,
go looking for a poem that wasn't mine to begin with,
steal it and give it a fitting title
because i know this hotel room
has seen its share of lonely boys
in the middle of los angeles
in the middle of santa monica
in the middle of dusk
so i decided to hit the street
and give that lonely room a break -
seemed like it was getting tired of me.
walking past apartments as empty as me,
smelling the army of gardens that patrols this boulevard,
listening to a man standing beside his car
yelling at a passerby
'bring it on, i'll fuck you up!'
he's old enough to be my father,
gray hair, polo shirt, and khakis -
seem to be an equation for threats these days,
he looks at me because i'm looking at him,
i look away
suddenly finding my feet to be quite intriguing.
if the city of angels, lost all of its cherubs
would it have to change its name?
if a boy who only exists in the company of others,
finds himself alone
in santa monica
on friday night,
would he have to change his name?
'bring it on, i'll fuck you up!'
wish i could yell like that,
fists blazing - tongue wagging
instead i'm walking down this smoggy boulevard
feeling like a gigilo with too many clothes on,
wishing i was in a lonely hotel room
dreaming of ribbons in the sky
among other things.

The Smell of Leather

2005-07-25T16:25:00.000-07:00

sometimes i wish
i was one or two months back,
just enough to remember (and appreciate)
the torture of being alone.
one or two months back
when romance left me fit to be tied,
and i would lay
stretched out against your adorations,
blind folded and smiling,
and romance still smelled like sweet leather,
one or two months back
sometimes i want to hurt that way again.

Driving After Sunset

2005-07-08T14:26:00.000-07:00

something about driving just after the sun goes down
through a countryside losing its fight
quickly becoming suburbia
driving through fields and then neighborhoods that used to be fields
with the windows cracked open
because sometimes i want to hear the roll of tires,
the traffic, the noise
and the radio is on just loud enough to be background music
never a distraction
i'm driving by a church,
the sign says "we care about you."
my foot presses on the gas a little harder
leaving that lie behind
the car in front of me is going the speed limit
so i pass it
and i think of my boyfriend while doing so
wondering why i feel more myself
when i'm driving alone at dusk
than when my ear is pressed to a phone
with declarations of love on the other side
maybe it's the imminent danger,
knowing that one careless moment
and this ton of metal could be a smoking coffin
or perhaps it's just the idea of driving away
from anything.

A Prayer for Carol

2005-07-08T14:25:00.000-07:00

my mother is praying in the other room,
i imagine her prayers turning into bricks
that will form the walls of the house i hope to build her someday,
it will have huge windows and beautiful balconies -
all with long flowing drapes
so that when she wakes up before dawn each morning,
her prayers will glide through the house
and then out of the house
and through the trees
and into the air
and back again
because her prayers have filled this two-bedroom apartment to overbrimming,
in this apartment with no secrets,
i lay awake in my bed
lit by a dawn that tip-toes into my window
and spreads its plummage like a bird of paradise
while my mother prays her way from twilight to dawn
and greets the full sun
with her muffled sobbing
in this apartment with no secrets,
i lay awake in my bed
walking through the catacombs of my mind
trying to remember if there is something i have
or maybe not done enough,
because i know that if i do walk into that living room
and confront my sobbing mother
i better have something to say,
and "mommy, what's wrong?" isn't going to cut it this time,
some new born instinct is stirring in my stomach
and i feel like i need to do something
so i lay awake in bed
waiting for wings to sprout from my back
so that i can carry my mother away
from whatever beast is summoning her tears,
waiting for my transformation
into a gilded warrior made of light
so that i can cut her sorrows in half,
waiting for the strenghth,
for the wisdom,
for the wealth
for the son a goddess like my mother deserves.
but no - i'll lay awake in my bed
while dawn mocks me with its exotic plummage,
and i'll listen to my mom sobbing in the other room
because i have heard her cry before
and i still don't know how to comfort her.

Jezebel's Hand

2005-07-08T14:24:00.000-07:00

this is the hand of jezebel,
outstretched toward your soft cheek,
the same hand that was ripped to pieces
by the teeth of dogs sent to attack her,
this is the hand of jezebel,
caresssing and stroking your bedroom window,
running its fingers up and down the cool glass
as if that window was your spine,
as if those glass particles were flesh and muscles and bone
and if they were - oh, if they were
electricity would consume you
and your body
because this is the hand of jezebel -
never to be ignored
or brushed aside
because even the rabid dogs sent to attack her
paused for a moment when her hand stroked their manes
because even the most wicked are capable of a tender caress
and this is the hand i am giving to you
passed down from one whore to the next
and the next and the next and the next
the hand of jezebel.
use it without caution
because regardless, you will be consumed by passion
and eaten by rabid dogs sent to attack you
that is the fate of women with hands like these
and minds like ours.

The Beat We Done Forgot

2005-05-28T07:39:00.000-07:00

i wanna sing tonight

cuz where i come from

music ain't optional

music ain't decoration

music is the time and the place,

the memory and the photo album.

we don't remember a year in which we heard a song,

we remember the song in which we heard a year.

i come from music.

my people sang when they couldn't speak

because their words meant nothing

if there wasn't a beat, a rhythm, a move -

it started in the balls of their feet

and then the thighs began to rock

and sway.

the sound of brown feet on brown earth,

kicking up dust

that's the music i come from.

and there we were in smoky lounges,

down on beale street

and there we were - not stumbling, but dancing

beside the Mississippi river.

i wanna sing tonight

because where i come from

you don’t pay people to write lyrics for you,

you don’t go on TV to make your band,

you don’t sing if there isn’t a story to tell.

cuz music ain't optional

cuz music ain't decoration

for your lame-ole, same-ole paternalization.

we been whored enough,

and now we gotta whore around our music too?

Naw.. I wanna sing tonight

And tonight I’m singing for myself

cuz i ain't the only one who remembers,

the streets we done left behind,

and the melodies we done forgot.

i come from music.

rag-tag music, dusty Mississippi mud music,

lady-singin'-the-blues music,

get up off yo' ass and shake somethin' music.

i wanna sing tonight

cuz too many of our Ellington’s

have been mistaken for niggas,

and too many of our Holiday’s

have been mistaken for bitches.

i wanna sing tonight

cuz home ain't never gonna be that far away

cuz music ain't optional

cuz music ain't decoration,

i wanna sing tonight

so will somebody please please PLEASE

reach into the chest

that we let get all dusty and chipped,

reach into the chest

that we done forgot all about

AND BRING, I said

BRING, I said

BRING THE BEAT BACK.

Cuz I wanna sing tonight

And you do too.

Eulogy for a Night Sky

2005-05-26T06:26:00.000-07:00

sometimes i stare my bedroom ceiling
wishing in vain that it was the night sky
knowing very well that it does not matter.
even if the ceiling above my head was
made of space and dust and cosmos
the view would probably be the same
because the night sky has given up on us.
she got tired of putting on shows
that would go unnoticed
night after night
after taking the stage,
one last time
she took off her velvet dress,
put it on a hanger
and walked away.
relegating us and our children
to a night sky no more vivid
than our bedroom ceilings
because not even the sky will wait forever
she had watched us long enough to know
that when a decision is made
- in these lands -
it is written in the wet cement of our hearts
only becoming more firm with time
a quiet night sky is not good enough
for us because she will not sacrifice her dignity
just to bring a smile to our hungry faces
the night sky chose sophistication
rather than stripteases and lapdances
so we forgot about her and her brilliance,
left her to be studied by scientists
and dreamt - only dreamt about - by our children
but what of us - her children?
who walk the street
with shades of night in our eyes
and in our heads
looking for the stars that have long since burst
and faded
what of us - her children?
who sleep under the wrath of a sun
that refuses to relent, restrain,
and remember
for an omen was once seared into the sky's back,
foretelling that the children
who forgot about the dust and cosmos
of which they were made
would cease to be made
the stars have begun to fall,
and - it seems -
so have we
because the night sky has given up on us
relegating our evenings to be spent
staring at bedroom ceilings
and each other
desperately searching for the stars
and the night
and the sky
we failed to notice.

Love Potion #2

2005-05-24T18:29:00.000-07:00

this picture is me pulling letters off my bedroom wall,
i imagine you left them there for me
as if you tossed alphabet soup here and there,
hoping that fate would spell out something worth remembering.
a declaration of love perhaps
or maybe an omen of the reciprocity you've long desired
sometimes i feel like sleeping beauty
without all of the make-up and glamor,
stripped of the pastel castle tower
and left to sleep in the thicket of thorns
i want to wake up
and grab you by the shoulders
and shout into your handsome face
that you are not a prince
because i never wanted a prince
that your kiss will not break the spell
because there is no spell to break
granted the feeble attempts at romance
are endearing, maybe even sweet
but you don't go from cement to utopia
in one word
the english language and my mind are too complicated for that
fine with me
because utopia was never intended for people like me
with crazy notions of love like mine
don't miscontrue my lyrics -
this poem wasn't meant to be a slap in the face
or a slap on the ass
it was meant to be picture
of me pulling letters off my bedroom wall
because L-O-V-E will not form in my soup or on my wall
until i am ready for it to
and for all my self-declared eroticism and electricity,
i am green
and have been green for a while
romance hasn't bloomed in this dirt in a long time,
and in this village
a long time means ever
so instead of fucking around with my cans of alphabet soup,
instead of treating my mind like a smoky cauldron to be stirred
do not try to conjure love
because the spellbooks have turned to dust
and sorcery died the same day romeo and juliet did
so let us sit here
you and i
and stare at the blank wall
allowing the letters form
all by themselves
because emotions that form with time
are the only ones strong enough
to become the letters strong enough
to withstand the fire, the acid,
and the aggression
of this thing
we call love.

The Time Intended (for me)

2005-05-24T14:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes i feel like i was not made to live,
exist in this time,
as if the cosmos had something different in mind for me
and the message, the promise
just failed to bloom into fruition
all the same, as modern falls into post-modern
and regenerates again,
i sit here
with the taste of metal on my tongue
thinking of the promise unfulfilled
and the time intended -
for me.
just before genesis perhaps,
in the time of air
when the water had not yet made up its own mind
as to where it wanted to settle and live
and the land was still infantile and fickle
roaming over and under air
never staying one place for too long.
if you had known me then,
in those indecisive days
you would have watched me rise from
clay that was still warm
with the heat of creation
in those moments,
before time had a name -
i spoke to no one
but the butterflies that accompanied me
on my solemn trek across the sky
made of land and water
floating across possibilities,
breathing in the potential of a world yet to be
and breathing out visions of formation
hills giving birth
and falling in love
merging, dividing, breathing
into mountains that would rise
and remember the land that had given birth to them
because in those moments,
before time had a name -
mountains had memory
as do i
of a life i never got to live
but was promised
cradling the solitude of past edens
in my heart,
i watch as modern falls into post-modern
and regenerates itself,
attempting - unsuccessfully - to mimic
innocence.

Old Men Like Trees

2005-05-08T23:10:00.000-07:00

three days ago an old man asked me a question
that took me two days to understand
and one more day to answer...
see, i was walking down a crumbling side walk
thinking about the heat
when this old man handed out his wrinkled and gnarled hands.
his fingers looked like the branches of a tree doomed to die
and i found myself wanting to know
what turns old men into doomed trees?
then my mind was in the middle of some desert,
watching young soldiers become old soldiers
as they loaded cartridges into big machines
watching young soldiers become old soldiers
as they shot holes into the sky
making stars that promised never to fall down
then i was back on the sidewalk
and the old man said:
"go back further, son."
then my mind was in an apartment in some town
watching a man sitting on the couch
staring at the clock
and a clock staring at the man
waiting for a phonecall from a daughter
who had left three years ago
she wasn't going to call
so the clock and the man just stared at each other
frozen.
"go back further, son."
then my mind was on a dirt road in the south i think,
watching a man run on by
leaving my mind alone with rising dust and humidity
my mind didn't understand
until it heard and then saw a group of white men
marching down the very same road
my mind saw one man holding a rope.
"now, come back, son."
see, i had been standing there for two days
pondering a question the man didn't even have to ask
he knew i was searching for an answer..
what turns old men into doomed trees?
i thought it one more time
and like the flash of light
that struck Peter on the way to Dasmascus,
i saw every question and heard every answer.
when you drop boys in the middle of the desert
with nothing but a gun and an agenda,
when you leave fathers in the past
while you voraciously eat away at your future
when you forget the mobs and the heat and the ropes
that our father's fathers and father's father's fathers
have outrun,
YOU you you turn them into doomed trees
'cuz the only thing worse than life on this earth
is cuttting, fighting, and biting your way out of hell
only to be forgotten in heaven.
and the old man said..
"stay here, son."
and the old man said..
"find me, son."
and the old man said..
"remember me, son."
and i listened.

Fuck This Verse

2005-05-06T23:17:00.000-07:00

this is the verse
that fools sing on those mornings
after those foggy nights
spent with those five minute lovers
when the sun is shining too early and too bright
and the previous night is a blur.
this is the verse
that fools sing to those five minute lovers
and the beds they lay in
when white sheets aren't white enough
to hide the stitches of rushed judgment
and lust lust lust lust lust LUST LUST
must we remember those foggy nights
when three drinks was enough to make us kiss
and three more was enough to make us fuck
FUCK UP. fuck each other. FUCK.. oh, fuck!
this is the verse
that fools sing to the toilet
and the friend holding their hair out of the way
because the five minute lovers are never there for the vomit
just for the licks and spit and thighs and lies
of those foggy nights
this is the verse
that fools make out of hangovers and truth
a frankstein of a memory
that stomps around the room of their minds
arms out and eyes open
with angry villagers not too far behind
this is the verse
that fools need to remember
the next time those foggy nights
and five minute lovers come rolling back around
because regret sleeps but not nearly long enough
this is the verse
that fools like me have sung three/four/five too many times
after having woken up suddenly alone
on top of shag carpets as dirty as we are
with stains on our shirts
and guilt in our hair
this is the verse of
fools that fool themselves into believing this is not about them
but it is and will always be
the verse of fools like me
who don't know how to stop singing
or fucking.
oh, fuck..
this is the verse i keep singing
this is the verse i keep singing
this is the verse i keep singing
it's a verse too good to stop.

Penelope's Prayer of Time and Distance

2005-05-04T19:53:00.000-07:00

standing in the palm of time's hand,
watching time raise and lower her fingers
threatening me with the potential all giants have,
to crush me like a crumb between her fingers.
i look down to see the miles between us,
one after another like threads of a great quilt
or chords of a harp
or veins in an arm
the miles stretch and contract,
and begin to throb with the vibration of time
for she is walking across this earth,
her feet leaving dents
that one day will become great lakes
all the while i am standing in her hand
in the crease of her palm
dreaming the dreams of distant lovers
praying the prayer that penelope once uttered.

The Ballad of the Brokenhearted

2005-04-29T21:57:00.000-07:00

Walking through wet streets,
cement shining under the moon like leather
i gather up sheet music
shoving the wet folds of paper into back pockets
and side pockets
into cracks and crevices
so the ink can run and drain and swim
into me
staining my skin blue and black
with the forgotten notes
walking through wet streets,
past dead houses
i look at one window after another,
rain hits the glass and runs
like tears down an icey cheek
and i hear the whispers
of women crying into pillows
and i hear the regrets
of men who stare at those women
as they stand by - helpless
with nothing but sheet music in their hands
because the ballad of the brokenhearted
is but a chorus of cries
that we all utter on those rainy nights
as our verses are flung up at the sky
only to fall back down
like dead leaves on deaf ears.

for you.

2005-04-25T21:02:00.000-07:00

you move me,
like a great hand upon my shoulder
i toss in my sleep
because i feel you pushing me
a hand upon my shoulder
caressing, caressing.
you move me.

i go to sleep each night
with your ghost,
i lay down next to the imprint of your body,
against the cheshire cat of your back.
i go to sleep each night
with your ghost.

The Song of an Angry Poet

2005-04-22T10:12:00.000-07:00

this is the song of an angry poet
yeah - you know the kind,
someone told someone else
that slam poetry isn't really poetry
multiply statement times three,
use anaphora,
and there you have it: ANGRY POETRY.
then again though, you always think the gun
is just a gimmick 'til you're looking down the barrel
and it was there in that barrel
among the tar and muck of acamedic assholes
i saw one sentence covered in molasses..
"slam is the chick-lit of poetry."
and faster than you can say def jam,
my fingers are click, click, clicking away
at a poem that will sha, sha, shut you the fuck up
because it just so happens that i like chick-lit
Confessions of a Shopaholic got me through high school,
and so what if i happen to think that
The Devil Wears Prada,
so yeah - i kinda feel like an angry poet right now
which is better than how i felt three minutes ago
cuz even though i don't like the b-word
i sure as hell was about to be one
but i wasn't.
fuck, i even managed to smile
who cares if my braincells were already za, za, zapping away
sending morse code all up and down my spine?
who cares if my calf muscles started to tighten
because i was ready to ki, ki, kick your ass?
and here it is, asshole.
the message, the morale, the point of this chick-lit poetry,
from me to you:
if you're not good enough to get published in Zeyphrus,
you're not good to be slammin' slam poetry.
don't try to build a pseudo-intellectual perch for yourself,
we're in college - we've got enough of those
don't try to tear chick-lit down
to make your proverbial penis look bigger
cuz it's small
and by small i mean low
and by low, i mean immature, ugly, annoying
a lot like you sometimes
this is the song of an angry poet who recognizes
that every part of every word of every line of every poem
has value
because every poem of every slam of every town
has value.
so you need to re, re, recognize
that when you compare slam poetry to chick-lit
you're insulting them both
and from one angry poet to another
THAT AIN'T RIGHT
this is the song of an angry poet,
yeah, you know the kind..
i just had to get something off my chest.

Friends Don't Call Friends Faggot

2005-04-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

i'm standing here on the edge of time,
waiting for a train called forgiveness
to come zooming by.
it must be late today.
because i'm standing here on the edge of time
thinking - no, hiding - from words that you have flung at me.
i still have scars where these words,
these wicked words,
made their mark on my chest
and on my mind.
still here...
because - in actuality - when words are red enough,
when words are laced with enough poison
arsenic is best..
there is nothing you can do to make the scars fade
from the body of memory,
from the body of pain
they hover like vultures over the decaying carcass of your mind
swooping down from grey clouds,
scratching at your bleached bones with their claws.
so, here i am staring at the words -
the words you typed,
the words i read.
faggot ass..
that's what you called me.
faggot ass..
see, these words aren't human
they reek of demons,
and hiss like snakes.
i said that i was busy
you said that i needed to get my faggot ass over there..
hiss...
what hurts more than the words themselves
is the seething anger that surely lies behind them
how long have you been carrying this hate in your womb
how many times has it kicked you in the stomach,
and ingested your nutrients.
what do you name a child like this?
because this bastard of an emotion
is one that no parent wants to claim.
and i'm standing here on the edge of time
waiting for a train called forgiveness to come zooming by
but i fear that when it does i won't get on it
i fear that instead i'll walk on by
because these wicked words
won't let me sleep,
won't let me forget,
you -
and the hurt you harbor.
i probably am the victim but i feel like the perpertrator
like a martyr who has changed his mind at the last minute,
i stand here with flames licking my feet
asking what have i done?
or, more importantly, what i need to do?
to bring it down -
to reach up, to reach out
to grab, to rip
to bring this shit down.
i'm standing here,
on the edge of time
with a gun in one hand and a dictionary in the other
trying to figure out which one would cause the most damage
because the fire is in my eyes
and i don't just want a hole in your heart
i want a hole in the ground where you were standing..
wait.. here comes my train.

Poetry Ain't Cheap

2005-04-08T17:27:00.000-07:00

i have $3 in my pocket,
and $500 in my notebook
because poetry ain't cheap.
these days,
when poets crank out lyrics like it's crack,
so that judging panels can snort it
and get real.
these days,
when poets page through the new york times,
looking for something to write about,
another village was pillaged in sudan today
-yeah
that'll make a good poem.
another brother was wronged today
-yeah
that'll make a good poem.
who are we?
cause we ain't poets.. nah...
cause this ain't poetry.. nah..
this is a business.
a bunch of broke ass poets get together,
trying when that cash prize
instead touching someone's heart
or worse, touching someone's mind.
poetry ain't cheap
these days,
when you have to scrouge together
$500 to go play with other poetic people
in the middle of the fucking desert.
trust,
i don't have all the answers -
hell, i'm probably part of the problem
because we need to realize
that when poetry ain't cheap
it is the problem
when poetry becomes a means to a monetary end
we've got a big fucking problem.
people (and by people, i mean poets),
we are too young and too smart
too brave and too powerful
to be selling our truth
so that someone can treat it like a stripper's pole
and wrap their legs around it.
we are too hopeful and too important
too smooth and too charismatic
to be stripping ourselves bear
so that we can sell our bodies
and our minds.
these days,
poetry ain't cheap
so why are we?
i didn't write this poem
to critique to what you do
i wrote this poem because i felt like i had to
and that is a problem.

No, Name Remembered

2005-04-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

my daddy (yes, daddy) always told me to look for/gravitate towards/appreciate
the black men around me
neglected by their country,
laughed at by their own childen
these men deserved/earned/needed/fought for respect.
my daddy (yes, daddy) told me it was up to me entirely to honor them appropriately
for they were the heroes in my comic books,
the priests in my scriptures,
the knights in my kingdom.
walking with me down the street, my daddy (yes, daddy) would point to these men
like he was pointing to the stars above
only his finger was pointed down - way down
to where the bullet shells, empty bottles, and black men lay
look - there is Orion down on his luck (don't you ever forget him),
look - there is Hercules trying to stay clean (don't you ever forget him),
and these men come heroes come stars
would take my hand and be my mentors
they, in their infinite wisdom, would tell me everything my momma wouldn't would
tell me everything my momma couldn't
they, in their alcohol induced rage, would punch life lessons into my stomach
using the thorns from their crowns as chalk,
and their rapsheets as scratch paper for my equations - my ruminations - my lessons
in life
and then my daddy (no, father) walked out of the house
and kept on walking
until the sound of his footsteps became raindrops
and his raindrops became memories
forgotten.
now, staring the period at the end of his sentence,
my mind hits the street and starts running
back towards the doors i have closed, the bridges i have crossed
and there it is back, i said back
on the other side of memories come raindrops come footsteps
looking for a man in the gutter,
looking for a man down on his luck, who resembles my daddy (no, father)
because there is no one around to take my hand
and point to the stars come heroes come men
because there is no one around to show me
how to walk like a man
and so i'm about to stop walking
i wonder if my father has become the men he used to point at on the street
like the great textbook of poverty/drugs/blackness opened its hungry red mouth
and swallowed my daddy (no, father) whole
because as i look around the room among the scattered faces tonight
i see some brothers and sisters(no, orphans)
who like me are looking for that man in the gutter
who like me are listening for the sound of raindrops
who like me are desperately trying to remember what their
daddy.. no, father.. no, dreams.. no, hope..
looked like.

An Apparition Made of Flesh and Time

2005-03-22T09:53:00.000-08:00

i saw it in the past instant -
there, in the world of my mirror ,
that silver place made of me,
i saw the remnant.
a piece of my own flesh,
just to the left of my upper lip
when i smiled just so..
my father.
like the dearly departed,
he stood there in the mirror
(if just for an instant)
real as my own flesh,
and i placed my hand on that mirror
trying to touch the man but he was gone.
all that remains is the flesh
just to the left of my upper lip
it should be mine
and yet...
it somehow resembles the smile
i once saw in a mirror.

The Poem I Can't Write

2005-03-03T06:40:00.000-08:00

i want to write a poem about having aphrodite over for lunch,
about walking eros around on a leash,
grabbing a few stars and putting them in my eyes
but the words will not come.
i want to write a poem about the desire to ride in cars with strangers,
the willingness to do whatever it takes
just to get a few miles closer to..
but the words will not come.
i want to write a poem about turning waffle house into a candlelit dinner for two,
about the divine glory of a glass of water and good conversation
but the words will not come.
because you are not here -
and without your image, your presence
words shrink into shadows of their former selves
becoming as cold as...
i cannot put into words nor can i quantify
your ability to dissappoint and anger me.
my god, you are acting your age
and after having seen the next century through your lenses,
having seen what happens when all of the poetry in the world
cannot prevent blown youth or save a relationship
i realize that like the migration of birds,
the metamorphisis of a butterfly
and the death of summer
our poetry has run its course.
i am walking away from this wreck of a sonnet,
leaving it smoking and sputtering on the side of the road.
there is nothing left for me here.
there are no more words for me here.
so, why don't you try writing a poem
when there is no one around
to write about?
because i have manipulated and constructed,
arranged and framed
the best words of my choosing
and regardless,
the outcome is always the same:
love can never be duplicated or simulated.
i mean, fuck, it barely be anticipated.
at your best, you set me on fire
with your passion and your words and your mind
but the truth is every fire has to burn out
and i'm out of matches
i can't compare thee to a summer's day
knowing full well it's the middle of february
so instead of beating myself up over the poem i can't write,
it's time for me to start looking for the poem i need to be reading.

The Revolution is Over

2005-03-02T20:24:00.000-08:00

i am here to tell you that the incident is over
the so called rebels have been taken care of
for the time being, turn off your televisions and radios
no need to read the newspapers
don't waste your time
your have more important things to do
like work and eat and work and die
ignore the rising number of casualties
it's just a bunch of numbers
ignore reports of hidden agendas
it's just a bunch of lies
don't waste your time
because, as you already know, time is money
our money
we bought you fair and square
you signed the papers
you watched the videos
and now you wear our uniforms
you sell our merchandise
and that is all you do
because your time is our time
so don't waste time taking breaks
don't waste time talking to your coworkers
don't waste time thinking about a better life
just work
because your opinion
ego
mind
doesn't mean anything to the bottom line
our profit shares will continue to rise whether you're happy or not
so just work
work
work through the pain
broken ankle
it's okay
empty stomach
it's okay
sore feet
it's okay
because we only feel pain when we stop to think about it
when we stop working
so you see, working actually is therapy
we are doing you a favor
and will continue to do so
and this is why you don't need to watch the news
this is why you need to ignore the whispers of higher pay
it's all a distraction from what really matters
you do know what really matters don't you
work
that was the right answer.

Eve Knows Voodoo

2005-02-17T12:15:00.000-08:00

there she sits with a cauldron between her legs
stirring devils of smoke and angels of fire
her brew looks like death
and smells like love.

men walk by the display case,
(she has been here for centuries)
and with their wet, red tongues
these men howl and hoot and holler
at this voodoo woman
but she just looks into the cauldron.

and perhaps some day,
the smoke and fire will cool to a sizzle
revealing the wet, red apple
she's been conjuring all these centuries.

on endurance..

2005-02-17T12:06:00.000-08:00

poetry does not end or begin; it passes like a thread through the mind of any and every person who attempts to record the volatile, intangible logic of defining moments; poetry goes beyond the written word - invading images and even sound itself.

poetry - its arms and legs, its whimpers and moans...

poetry is bigger than us.

The Pick-Up Line

2005-02-13T13:17:00.000-08:00

leaning in,
closer than i would like
you attempt to hold my gaze
and seduce me.
despite the fact that my mind is a thousand miles away
i recalling you saying 'i'll give you the world, baby.'

and i laugh because
i don't want the world,
i don't even want the moon.

what i want is for you to hurt for me
as you sit so comfortably
on your well cushioned seat,
propositioning me.
i want my sorrows to become your burdens,
my pain to become the boulder on your back.

as you let liquor slide down your throat,
i want you to choke ang gag
the same way i have choked over and over again
on the promises of too many men
all of them dressing the same,
acting the same,
looking the same,
with the same damn promises.

it's like 'the young and the restless' on repeat
all these irrelevant faces, just passing through
with nothing of value to leave behind.
so yeah, smooth operator
i'm young and i'm restless
and i'm tired and i'm angry
and i'm hurt

and the only reason i'm even sitting here
is to avoid the insane asylum i call my bedroom
so before you waste three more minutes of my life
consider exactly how much you are willing to give me
because the world -
the world gave up on people like me a long time ago.

i want a pound of flesh
to make up for all the flesh that has been cut, chipped, and sliced away
tonight, i'm burning an effigy of you and every jerk like you
warning every bastard who treads too close
that a war has been waged here
and i am not a prospect,
i am not an opportunity,
a warm mouth,
or even just someone who will listen to your bullshit
because i've already heard it all.

so take your lame ass pick up lines,
soon to be broken promises,
and walk the fuck away.

we both know
that i deserve more than you could ever conjure up
your promises of the world
are shit compared to the dreams that invade my sleep
so don't tear me down
like a hussein's statue
for the sake of bringing me to your eye level
because all the alcohol in the world
cannot excuse the fact that i see right through your plastered facade
and into the digusting, yellowing bathroom that is your heart.

and this is why
i am laughing in your face
and this is why
why i will laugh every time i recall your pick-up line
because i've seen the world men like you desire
and i want no part of it.

peace for the drive (a memory)

2005-02-13T12:56:00.000-08:00

it was there
on the road between the bright blue sky of memory
and the ever approaching now,
peace.
like ashes from a burning house
settled on each of us in flakes
one piece at a time
and then we were all covered
then came silence
as we fixed ourselves into the most comfortable positions
we could manage
jackets became pillows,
jackets became blankets,
the roll of tires became a lullaby
and we all heard it
perhaps, peace is still somewhere out there
driving down the highway.