3030 Cypher

Dreampoetrydream

2010-09-12T23:21:00.001-04:00

September 12, 2010

Dreampoetrydream

You know what I love?
Waking up in the middle of the night to write a poem
because I know if I don’t write it, it’ll be lost forever.

You know what I hate?
Waking up in the middle of the night to write a poem
because I know if I don’t write it, it’ll be lost forever.

What happens to poems
that end up trapped in the vortex
of my sleep deprived mind?

Are they forced to sit in the audience
of a bad poetry slam and listen to all the poems
while sober?

Do they haunt my dreams
and fill my mind with beauty
only to escape me as I wake up
and grab for my pen?

Do they hang there like a sneeze
that never happens?

I woke up and wrote this poem
because I don’t want to know.

moving on

2010-09-08T11:01:00.001-04:00

August 15, 2010

moving on

like time
we must continue.
nostalgia ain’t nothing
but an opiate
that stops us from living
presently.

drunk text message to god

2010-03-02T13:59:00.003-05:00

after george watsky

dear god:

on the fifth day, you created birds. on the sixth, man and the animals

on the seventh, you rested, and on the eighth, i am convinced

that you created alcohol as a way to play truth or dare with me

on nights like tonight. tonight your kingdom is this party,

a warm dizzy midnight laying claim to something inside of our chests

a beer pong table built of natty ice and bleeding hearts

tonight your kingdom is this dance floor of a chapel

please forgive us

because this church was built on an r. kelly song

and what we will wear as regret tomorrow morning

is a crown built of magic tricks tonight

and i am too busy baptizing myself in somebody else's sweat

to notice you standing in the corner, god, but you're there

you bridge over troubled waters

you infinity batting average

you sunset graffitied wishing well of a thought,

you beautiful ghost, you.

when the party gets ugly where do you go to?

when the keg runs low and tensions run high

and my roommate is on the floor and whispering

into the porcelain ears of our apartment's plumbing

for the fifth weekend in a row

are you meeting with the scientists to try and prove your existence?

are you hiding yourself in the question marks of somebody's suicide note?

i could try and put you into every word of every poem i write and you

would still look best tucked into the "holy" of "on holiday"

dear god,

i'm trying to learn how to talk to you

because i know you can't be inside of me if i refuse you

but how can i love a god who creates frat boys who don't understand that idea?

who defy it on the weekends, whose alcohol tolerance is surpassed only by their egos?

these college kids are losing their dignity,

have left it dangling like a dotted line somewhere

in between their student loan agreements and their vodka-induced blackouts

truth or dare, god?

if a picture is worth 1,000 words and if man was built in your image,

then what are the other 999 words that describe you after "womanizer"?

guess two might be "drunk driver", another two "underage alcoholic"

just show me what the compromise between my faith and this culture

is supposed to look like and i'll make it.

i'm tired of building my faith on this indian graveyard.

dear god,

once i wrote a poem about how prayer was like putting a jukebox

in a home for the deaf and i told you that

i couldn't keep putting my quarters in

because i was going broke on silence

but just because no one's listening doesn't mean i won't talk

because i just chased vodka with moonlight

and in a minute, i'm going to go drunk dial my childhood

and she has an early bedtime

dear god

i know that you don't get this request very often

but maybe i could learn something in college

maybe i could learn to be better

tattoo me with boldness and the right things to say

make me honest like a plus-sized model

and hopeful like a lottery ticket

in a pair of blistered hands

give me faith that flows as abundant as their budweiser does

i swear i will drink it

strong woman's anthem

2010-03-02T13:54:00.005-05:00

you told me that i couldn't do what you hadn't done

because i was a woman, but then i did it.

and better than you.

and i guess all along, it was like your penis:

that whole time,

i didn't even know i had it in me.

haiku

2010-01-24T07:06:00.002-05:00

1. you're crazy as a

pinata, but i'll still

hit that every time

2. transcribe your sleeping

patterns into tongue twisters:

she sleeps slow and shy

2009-12-10T22:31:00.003-05:00

You see,

the difference between pessimistic

and depressed is that it's never really

a question of half-empty versus

wait. where--

what...

my cup. I put it right

here just a second ago.

what??

where's my cup?!

day 7: he doesn't know it

2009-12-10T05:39:00.005-05:00

He doesn't know it, but he is her tangled dream jungle of late night bedsheets, her goodmorning sleep language and her browneyed lullaby, her cigarette smoke promises, and her pounding black bass-tempo Monday morning -- a heartbreak laid heavy with tears.

He widows her when the weekend is over, doesn't meet her eyes when they pass between classes.

He doesn't know it, but he is her religion, and her prayers are always made on all fours.

Her church needs to go through the laundry again.

day 6: rita to bob marley

2009-12-08T05:21:00.004-05:00

the last time we made love before you died

i could feel that it was the last time, and

right in the middle of it

i was angry at you.

i don't know why.

angry at you for being inside of me

like that wasn't just where i wanted you to be

like it wasn't where i wanted you to stay

Poems 14-22 (Fantastic Four Haiku)

2009-12-05T17:27:00.002-05:00

The Thing

Said you want it hard.
I am an M. Effen rock!
Why are you crying?

Big Pun and Fat Joe
found cloths that could fit on them.
So now, why can’t I?

Human Torch

I met a poet
His spit was hotter than me
RIK made me humble

Just cause I’m the torch
doesn’t mean I can’t get burned.
Motherfudgin clap

Yeah! You think it’s hot
My anus is volcanic!
Stop all your bitchin’

Invisible Woman

Reed Says I’m special.
So why the fuck is he in
the Invisible Jet?

If invisible
Reed will not see my finger
Reaching for his ass

Mister Fantastic

Didn’t expect this?
Should stretch imagination
Now you are pregnant

Can’t control powers
libido takes over me
Sorry ‘bout this… booiiinnngggg

day 4: found poem

2009-12-03T05:05:00.003-05:00

Is your roommate gone?

no, but she's asleep, which makes this place fair game because i guess she and louie did it the other day when i was napping

day 3: tradition

2009-12-02T05:02:00.004-05:00

the coward says:

bravery runs in my family

the fat kid says:

i'm just big-boned

the liar says:

truth is golden

the drunk says:

i can stop anytime i want to

helen keller says:

asdfiahwleiufhawef

day 2: dear future daughter

2009-12-01T06:23:00.006-05:00

* tomorrow's poem might be an edit of this.

dear future daughter:

we will be poor. i can tell.

your parents will be in love

and you will be pretty like

michael jordan's jumpshot,

but we will be poor.

don't misunderstand: it won't be severe.

your hunger won't be born of poverty, but of passion,

and you won't know desperation

until the first time it begs you for a dollar

outside of the red line station.

just understand that promises

ain't the same as money

they ain't even the same as credit

so i won't ever make you too many.

someday, you will be a

broke college student at a private university,

like i am now. these are all the worst parts:

sometimes opening my wallet

feels like grinding at the inside of a papercut.

things i want to buy are always singing lullabies to me

from the wrong side of a price tag, and my vanity

is always aching. i am too poor to afford a car,

but if i had one, i would drive down to the ocean on lonely nights,

maybe malibu,

where the broken bottles kiss the beach like dandelions

and the waves rock billionaires to sleep aboard their yachts.

i would drive there and think of you --

of whether or not this poem feel like an apology --

and i would sit in the driver's seat, and i would fall asleep,

and i would dream of owning things that weren't just theoretical.

day 1: haiku

2009-11-30T03:27:00.004-05:00

1. sometimes i feel you

ghostwriting yourself into

my daydreams again

2. the first time she read

braille felt like seeing the rain-

bows go in reverse

Poem 14 (The Reply to I want you back)

2009-11-30T00:43:00.001-05:00

RIK,

I’m sorry. I do love you. But while I never had a boyfriend as sweet as you I just can’t see a future with you. With you, I demand more attention then you have to give. You already give too much. I know you’re willing to make sacrifices. But I don’t want to be a distraction from your goals. I hope you understand, we are just too different. This relationship isn’t a computer you could just fix. You are an amazing man and it’s your work ethic that makes you that. Do you know, I haven’t been out dancing once since we’ve been together? Yes, I have my dance classes, but I haven’t really danced. I know you wouldn’t mind me going out. But I can’t leave you at home while I’m out having fun. It just doesn’t seem fair to me. I know what it’s like to make sacrifices. I gave you my heart when it meant my mom would take hers back. I don’t want you sacrificing yourself for me. For the sake of me don’t feel bad. please don’t call. don’t respond. Don’t love me. I love you. I don’t want me for you. I don’t want this for you. Happiness is all I want for you. We can’t be here. We can’t be.

Sincerely Nali

Poem #13 (the ad)

2009-11-26T05:38:00.001-05:00

I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m a good man looking for a good woman. My last real relationship was a little over a year ago. I’ve been so focused on my professional life I haven’t had a chance to meet anyone. I don’t drink or club. So I’m here on craigslist. I figure since I’m on here then maybe someone as amazing as I am will be on here to. I am not looking for a million girls to do one thing with. I’m looking for one girl to do a million things with.

Me:
Puerto Rican with athletic build
Sensitive, Works with kids
Loves cuddling while watching movies
Believes that dreamers and dreams find each other in this windstorm
Enjoys a whole spectrum of nerdy things
Not good at sports but loves to play
Writes poetry (can I get brownie points)
I enjoy good cartoons
Yes I am Real! I have pictures to prove it

I’m looking for someone special. I can count the number of people I’ve kissed on one hand (out of choice). And if you’re worth it my wings will carry me to you. I’m real. As proof of that I will give a “flaw” right here right now. My roommate is my mother. If you want to know more message me. I have nothing to hide. My life is a showcase of pros and cons to show you that I am human. Even if you don’t reply I hope you have a reason to smile today. 8D

You:
Intelligent
Drug and Disease free (I am)
Attractive in your eye, if you don’t see yourself as beautiful how can I
Be nerdy OR a goof OR both
Passionate about something (it could be collecting rocks. Just love what you do)
Believe in monogamy, Sensitive
Laid Back, Sweet to the heart
Independent, hard worker, goal setter
Dynamite in the sack OR a tender pleasure OR both

Masturbation 2 (Poem 12)

2009-11-26T02:53:00.002-05:00

The thing is, afterward
you are still alone

Poem #11 (I think)

2009-11-26T02:24:00.001-05:00

Beautiful shouldn’t talk to abused
brutal ugly like that
Not until beautiful ballerina belle
knows what exactly she’s getting into
Can’t accept the silky slippery façade
without accepting the broken
skeletons in my crowded closet
Off-set by the monsters under
my bed. Or scorpions
under my table talk twisted tongue
When I speak about certain things, sometimes,
it hurts

I have enough demons
gazing at me through mirrors
to make the sun afraid to shine
Abandonment issues reside in psyche
I will spend the backbone
of eternity trying to prove myself
to a ghost. If beautiful gets to close
Ugly gets distant

Resistance inches closer

Mistakes
instantly thrown in my face
Love dies and resentment
moves in it’s place
We work minds
into oblivion. Oblivious
to the inconsiderate sentiment
that settles in infectious sentences
This seems to be the pattern

We leave heart fragments
scattered under the rivers we cry
Two verbally violent poets stand
patronizing one another through covers
Blasting word-sized bullets at each other
aimed for lovers gone
We grow to wonder where the magic
has gone. Our future is gone
Your selfish, self-centered, stubborn rant goes on
Speak strong about being your mother’s
spawn with no moving memories to show
Neither of us feel close. We’re as distant
as the hole I punched in the closet door
to the rational that made me do it;
Fluent bangs. fluent bangs.
Knuckles scrape against the wood grain
We don’t bother to explain. We just
become combative comments
as accurate as gunpowder leaving scars
on the dumbfounded
Seems to me seems be
what we do best. Stretch
Raw emotion across the confrontation
of honesty filling up these brick walls
Exposing our souls folded in the corners
we keep our secrets in. In this room we cry in
We take on more responses than responsibility
End up wishing we never spoke

So you should know
Beautiful shouldn’t talk to Abused
Brutal Ugly like that. Now we sit
wishing we could turn back
the hands of time. Or the heavy
weight of depression on two mismatched minds
Middle of the night. first time Beautiful
went to bed angry, silent, eye lids
forcing back tears. Abused, I spent the full moon
convincing myself to leave. Morning wakes up,
Sun comes, as always Abused
Brutal Ugly has a backpack full of regrets

16 To J. Holiday's song Bed (#10)

2009-11-24T21:56:00.002-05:00

You know I am a king
When I spit and do my thing
I am Simba, I am Kong
With my ink I do no wrong
Got followers from outta earth
Leadership sounds absurd
before my name was verbalized
I had to climb towers first
Now I'm hungry, I am here
I make heart ache disappear
My words be honey for your ears
I take away all your fears
I am crown and I am throne
I got freedom in my bones
But who you gonna follow
When enslavement's all you know

Poem #9

2009-11-24T18:06:00.002-05:00

I didn't come here to hear
The snare drum kick the base's ass
I'm not here for the lyrical content
Nor do I want to just hang out

NO! I came here for the plump behinds
It's not at all about the music
It's about my penis! ShashashaSHAAAA

Poem #IDK

2009-11-24T16:05:00.002-05:00

!. Hail Mary

I remember playing Ninja Turtles under Grandma’s kitchen table. The “Oldies but Goldies” station would always static in the background. But one day, right as I was about to negotiate with the Shredder, my God Father sailed through the front door and popped his Tupac cassette in Grandpa’s sound system. This was my first encounter with rap.

Come with me Hail Mary
run quick see, what do we have here
now, do you wanna ride or die

Fuck motherfuckin negotiating! I’m finna beat Shredder’s ass. I’m gonna use my Nike swoosh to jack hammer his face open. This music opened an urge to be aggressive, spit, and piss anywhere I fuckin wanted. It wasn’t about violence. It was about dealing with fate. Being a fuckin Ninja Turtle was about violence.

2. Come with me

In 5th grade I transferred to a new school and was put in a group with Bradley Blake, who was clearly trying to FUCK Jasmine Rivera. Jas was the golden compass of my youth. Brad thought he was the boss. Tried to tell me to pass him the Glue or some stupid shit like that. So punched him in the throat! He didn’t try walking over me anymore. Now everybody in that group became my bitch.

3. Run quick

Freshman year of high school reality got a little too real for me. I watched 4 close friends growing like Violets in reverse. The soil never engulfed more lives than it did that year. I attended 9 funerals total. I gravitated towards track. I started running that year. I was always the fastest but never fast enough. My coach said he saw passion when I ran for the gold. But he could never see the fear when I ran from my ghost. And he was proud of me, while I was always ashamed.

4. What do we have here?

Rarul, I’m sorry I left you in hood. You plucked me from the bottom of a dog pile of angry bullies. Because of you the beatings stopped. But the transition from Ninja Turtles to Boys in the Hood was more than I could handle. You defended me when I never gave you a reason to. And now I don’t even know whether or not you’re alive. I promise I have never been that victim again. I’m trying to be strong like you were. I trained a militia of punches for anybody trying to walk over me. If we ever find each other in this hurricane I won’t leave you again. I promise.

Poems 12 and 13

2009-11-24T06:34:00.003-05:00

Race Poem #6

Gotcho ass!

The minute man pointed his gun
at me and said as strong as he could
“America is for Americans.”

In a voice stronger than gunfire
I said “Fool, I am American,
Mexico is part of North America,

North America, Central America,
South America, all America.
Homeboy you should study geography."

Race Poem #7

A racial history

Mexican.

Everywhere I go
people get confused
and wanna know what I am.

My parents were born
in Jalisco, Mexico.
My dad a deep brownish red,
Indigenous, Native, Mestizo?
My mom’s skin white
as Cristopher Columbus,
Spanish, White?
But in the United States,
they’re both called Mexican,
Illegal, Alien, Undocumented
though my dad is a citizen
and my mom, a permanent resident.

Gringo

My skin is pale as new moons,
freckled and covered in hair.
In Mexico, family calls me
Gringo lovingly. My blood
thicker than the Rio Grande
that separates us from one another.
They hug me and tell me to visit again.
I see I look different than most of my family
but I do not feel like a gringo or guero.
Spend all my time round family and
feel family first.

Black

Certain Harvard kids confused.
Mixed?
My skin so pale,
paler still by days spent studying,
but something doesn’t click.
Maybe it’s the hip hop I listen to,
the baggy pants, big hoodies
I wear everywhere,
the people I kick it with,
the way I talk or the things I talk about.
On the way to dinner
friend asks me,
I say “no, no,
but I did grow up in Calumet City”
It’s the best explanation I can think of.

Latino

Join Fuerza Latina
and think I’ve found home.
I write poems about
eating rice and beans.
Everyone cheers,
but I can’t fake the funk
and these are not my people.
I feel too hip hop, too radical,
too urban, too out of place.

Spanish

Keylatch and Mission Hill
Junior Counselors say they’re Spanish
call Sergio and I Spanish too.
I say “you’re not from Spain.”
“But I talk Spanish, so I’m Spanish”
“But, you’re not from Spain”
I insist.

Chicano

Yes, I’m Chicano,
but really I’m Chicago.

White?

Huh?
Call me foreigner. I am.
but White?
In Salvador, Black militants
don’t want to talk to me,
White American, White Mexican,
White Brazilian are all equally bad.
I understand and accept it.
I watch from outside hip hop circles
as cats I would normally chill with,
get on stage with, perform their songs.
I nod my head, but understand that
these songs would destroy me if they could..
Still I don’t feel White, know that in a few
weeks I’ll be back in the States,
another Mexican, another young man in Chicago,
broke minority, Harvard student.

Here I am White and there are different rules.
Than one day soon, I will be Mexican
and there will be other rules to follow.

Heard a million times that race is socially constructed,
but now that I am the one being constructed,
I understand that racism is real,
but race is a product of human imagination.

Poems #s 7- 11

2009-11-23T05:41:00.001-05:00

This is a series, I've been working on, not even close to finished.

Race Poem #1

Chihuahua

ohm
ohm
I look deep inside
my salsa tasting blood
ohm
ohm
looking for my
inner animal.
ohm
ohm
My journey took me
back to Chicano mass
ohm
ohm
and in the name of La Virgen
De Guadalupe I sat down to
ohm
ohm
She took a look into
the very soul of my being
ohm
ohm
and said “Mijo, inside you
is a Chihuahua wearing a sombrero.”

I said I always knew I was Latino.

Poem #2

Ever since first A
been dodging
accusations.

“You mean you be doing
your homework everyday,
what you trying to be white or something?”

I’m trying to be
not grounded,
but those blows

don’t stop
and I can’t dodge
all the time.

My cheeks stay scarlet.
The trainer inside
my head like

“Alright champ, keep your hands up.
Let them keep calling you names,
just keep knocking down these tests.”

Being champion student
in Cal City like winning
most unfashionable,

I won
something
nobody wants.

So when classmates started fighting
in fifth grade, trading
punches for respect,

I fought too,
got beat up,
but my friends there

to pick me up,
the small cuts trickling
giving my skin

some color
I didn’t need.

Poem #3

They wanna say I’m acting white
long as I keep acing these tests,
but if I got B’s they’d call me lazy.
Mexican. Start pronouncing my name correctly.

In high school, I start spelling my name
with an accent mark over the “e.”
The message is simple:
Don’t Anglicize my accomplishments.

Let em know:
The salutatorian is Mexican.
That brother got into Harvard is Mexican.
Smart. Hardworking. Mexican.

Poem #4

Let life bloom.

In American deserts, golden
as the American myth,
there are humans
falling
mid journey,
thirsty
for more than water.

What happens to those
people who are caught
in the immense desert
of life searching for an
oasis that may or may not be
a mirage?

Do their bodies dry
under the sun
and shrink
until they too
are just another grain of
sand?

For the sake of their humanity
may their bodies become clay,
may their blood become water,
may they become wells
deep and ever lasting,
may their last breaths
be blessed by God
and transform the desert into
forests filled with life.

Let life bloom.
Though there are vigilantes
looking to spill blood,
who empty canteens
left in deserts,
let life bloom.

They will not succeed.
Life will prevail
and in so doing,
will transform
deserts of despair
into oasis of hope.

Poem #5

Poem for the minute men project.

I hope your children
never have to cross borders
and deserts to seek the happiness
which is their human right.
I hope that in their search
for their own dreams,
they are not called illegal.
I hope that they are never cheated
of their wages
because of who they are.
I hope that they are never denied
entrance to the university
because of where they were born.
I hope that their language
is never considered inferior or invalid,
that they may always speak freely.

But if they do have to cross borders,
I hope they are embraced with love
and that they are welcomed like family
members returning from a long voyage.

Poem #6

2009-11-23T05:40:00.000-05:00

Black Fists

Lori was pissed.
Her eyes were two black fists.
Up in front Jamison and Matt led the way,
we had just smoked a bowl together
and were on our way to buy
late night pizza.
Ten minutes ago, Lori had been
smiling and playing music for us.
“José, you’re gonna like this shit
right here.” We nodded our heads together.
Her eyes were two mics.
Now, as we walked through
Leverett courtyard, through
manicured lawns and trimmed bushes,
Harvard’s wealth sprawled out before us,
Lori turned to me and said “I never
forget, José. Never. People think
just cause I go to Harvard that I’m gonna
forget about who I am
or where I’m from.”
And her eyes were two notebooks.
“It’s all I think about
is how fucked up shit is back home.”
Her eyes were two rocks.
“I feel that rage
all the time
especially cause I go here.
All
this
money
is
like
an
insult.”
We cold shivered,
shook the illusion
of music from our bodies
and I sober saw
that Lori’s eyes had always been black fists.

I want you back

2009-11-23T02:16:00.002-05:00

Last night I dreamt I broke into NASA
flew into space and graffed your name

on every star so the sky can know
that it’s like to be unable to light up without you

It feels like the 4th of July in my belly
at the mere mention of your name

Each memory we have together is a shot glass
My dreams haven’t been sober in months

Touch is a dance floor we’ve long abandoned
Please pour your kisses into me

Let me listen to your laugh
echo in my bedroom once more

I built a factory under my pillow
that manufactures ways to make you smile

the way you did
the first time I spilled myself all over your dress

I know anniversaries escape my memory
The universe I chiseled for you is only a third
of the one you crafted for me.

Maybe I’m not much different
But even through emotional distance
I still feel shooting stars within my chest

So I wrote
with the winning half of a wishbone:

I pray I still have a shot
my fantasies need you

You turn into an Aurora Borealis
when you go to sleep while we watch cartoons

I keep pictures of you
locked away behind left rib cage
And my decision to let you go,
Is a punching bag I can’t stop jabbing

just a rant

2009-11-18T20:08:00.001-05:00

It's
Thursday
Night
The day was
uneventful
The
rain fell,
vertically
The bus
I took
home carried
that Bus Driver
who is clearly
waiting for
someone to
acknowledge
Him, the
old lady
who never
seems to have
A destination,
the man in
dirty cloths
sitting
In the back
corner, he
wears his
twelve hour
shift on the
curtains of his
Eyes; The
bus ride
was distant
and empty;

10:50:PM- You call;

The light bulbs
lit my room
like stars. My
Mac plays Musiq
Soulchild to mimics
our mistakes, and
my smile stretches
from my bed room
to California
It hopes to reach
you

Winged rainbows can't escape
my belly. You help me
make magic of mundane
You make a hug strong enough
to hold a shooting star
back

My words
Double-
Dutch
around
my tongue
Feet begin
To tap. Heart
Beats Billy's
Blues and
my shoulders
just
Relax;

You are, the Delilah that I dream of
The girl (not so) next door that rearranges
the way i see love. I see us,
trapping sparks between our
breaths. Setting Chicago fires
to the love bombs within our chests

you

and me
Can be perfect

But, now, you’re just the mermaid who got away

At 11:06
your voice
is a reminder
of what I
don't have
your nervous
laugh shows
me what I am
missing.

My earth
quakes
when
you call
If it's not magic
it's not you
Then it's nothing
At all;

As my
phone
rings
I try to
shift my
rubic's Cube
emotion
to maintain
composure
Butterflies
morph to
A million
memories
marauding
through my
belly

Your "Hi" reminds me of home
Your voice reminds me
that nobody can sing
a lullaby like you

Your smile
is as big as
my hugs

So I just
wanted
to say
thanks
for making
my day
magic

Lonely Child

2009-11-18T09:27:00.001-05:00

I use to pretend
I was Fat Albert
I was sooooo good
that people always
mistook me for him
ALLLL THE TIME

Okay,
It was just that one time
And, the people,
really just that one
person, standing
A block away,
without her glasses,
While I wore a red sweater
stuffed with pillows
aaaand, that one person,
Was really just my mom;

But I was so good,
You couldn’t tell my
“Hey, Hey, Hey,” from his
With all the pretending I did,
I was the most popularist kid
on the block

I swear
me and my gang
Would be having rockin’ good times
Unlike those jerks in Ms. Thompson’s class
with the good Mikes, and Nikes, Brand name Jeans
that I couldn’t afford until I was 18!

But this was never about
who had the best cloths
cause Brandon had shittier
shit than me, and the other kids
still loved him ten times mores

So I cocooned myself
Into imagination
Flipped over garbage cans,
Grabbed TV antennas,
And began to drum
Weird Herald would strum
his harp made from bedspring
Just being a part of something
Made me sing- nanana gonna have a good time;

Watching them
watching the brown hornet
made me imagine
I wasn’t watching TV alone
We were in the zone
watching Fat Albert
watching the legal eagle
Together

You know,
I never understood
why I wasn’t surrounded
by a flock of fantastic friends
I mean, I was always nicer
than those who were

But with Fat Albert’s gang,
Hey Hey, Hey,
MY gang, I was hot shit
Hung around a garbage pit
But it didn’t matter
cause Rudy, Mush Mouth, Dumb Donald,
Mudfoot, and all the rest of them,
Just wanted to hang out,
To be around, mmmeeeeeeeeeeee

Poem 5

2009-11-17T14:35:00.000-05:00

Kiss

I went for a swim
at sunrise
and the waves carried your kiss.
I let the taste of your lips
wash over me
as I thought about
how all those miles
between us could disappear
as quick as a morning kiss.

Poem 4

2009-11-17T06:35:00.000-05:00

Rich Smoove on the economy

Alua told me the realest shit I ever heard
anyone say about the economy the other day

She said it was like bad sex,
just when you think it’s getting good

the motherfucker
cums

all over
himself

and then has the audacity
to ask you to clean up after him.

She said dudes need to learn
sustainable economic

and sexual development.
I looked at her like,

but you not talking about me
though right.. right?

Shit hurt my pride, my ego,
and my pocket,

I said I know what it feels like
to be unemployed for sure now

and it ain’t nothing pretty.

A Poem For Jasmine (poem 4)

2009-11-16T11:49:00.004-05:00

To be honest this is actually a revision. A HUGE one. But I guess it's still cheating. Either way I had to be honest.

We caught snow flakes
On third grade tongues
Fourth grade glued
Our palms together
Fifth we kissed
Sixth pretended it never happened

Freshmen Year
Rain came like
light bulbs shattering against asphalt
Under street lights
You said let’s pretend it’s Prom
Awkward as I was
This was the first dare I didn’t take

Sophomore Year
Lunch room 7 AM
Head hung low
As if praying
You didn't say much
Legs crossed tight
I knew before you told me

I want to go back
Visit the Evel Knievel
That fueled your imagination
Project memories
Against your pale shoulders
Till you come out
From behind your
Ice cold corporate woman façade
And savor footage
Of us starting food fights
And Spitting contest

You were the Peter Pan
Of the play ground
But since your father
Held you with hooks instead of hands
You lost the fairy dust
Sprinkled behind the smirks
That made you, you

My Neverland drowns itself
Closer to Atlantis
when I imagine what your father did
I know it’s hard to have
the fingers ripped off your hands
To be bruised from inside out
Some of us just masquerade
child Abuse better than others
Turn nightmares into reasons to work late
Avoid serious conversations with jokes
And while we may be hurt
We don’t turn away

I want you
to speak the secrets rocking themselves
to sleep in the corners of your closet
And I’ll catch every bitter snowflake
That falls from your lips with the tip
Of my tongue
I'll break dance in the rain
if it means you break back
into the Jasmine that chipped a tooth
iumping off a garage roof
Been pop locking
in front of my bedroom mirror
for 8 years now
I’m ready this time
Remember our first kiss?
How innocent we were?

I’ll be
on your front steps
with a corsage
in my right hand
and an extra ticket
to prom in the left
Step outside
I dare you

Poem 3

2009-11-16T05:47:00.000-05:00

A Lake Michigan Breeze

My host family closes my window
every night cause they don’t want me to be cold.
They don’t understand that the wind
that blows through my window every night
traveled
all the way from Lake Michigan
just to tuck me in
and say
“Buenas noches mijo.”

Masturbation

2009-11-16T00:06:00.002-05:00

I can't expect a woman
to please me if
I'm not willing to!

Pome Number 2

2009-11-14T21:14:00.001-05:00

I know God
is a graffiti artist

After creating you
he abandoned his militia of cans

Allowed the freight train
to travel swiftly from town to city

Searching for beauty
I sat by the tracks

While gawking at murals
In motion you came along

When you left you took the air
out of your lungs with you

Poem 2

2009-11-14T15:43:00.000-05:00

Some people learn the hard way

One day, my boss called me a lazy Mexican.
So,
I worked hard to whup his ass,
I sweated, I needed a nap afterwards,
I left it bruised on every part of his being
and you think he called me lazy again?

#1 (Nurditude)

2009-11-13T18:13:00.001-05:00

I
Am
Nerd

Do not touch me
With sports gear
I will crumble

I play entirely too much
Magic The Gathering

I don’t know
How to throw a football
Or dribble a basketball

Girls to me
Are like condoms
To King Kong

Spider man is my hero

The journey of Battlestar Galactica
Is the story of my life

When I was ten
I spent more time
With Greek mythology
Than I did cartoons

NOW
I spend more time with cartoons
Than I do with reality

Spend more time day dreaming
About being a ninja
Then thinking
About what I’m going to do
With my life

Yeah
I’m a Pokémon master
Yeah
My collection of anime is pretty sweet
And yeah
I get emotional when I read Harry Potter

But that won’t land me a job
So let’s not let those secrets leave this room

When I was six I saw sex for the first time. My pit-bull Fluffy was aggressively humping the neighborhood Tramp. His pink slong stabbing that mutt. In and out. In and out! I remember how uncomfortable that bitch looked under the weight of Fluffy’s cock.

Sometimes I feel like that tramp
Roaming back allies looking for a home
And every time I find some one
I think might understand me
they always end up show me
how different we really are
I’m always reminded of what a man should be
My company always exposes themselves
And my nerdy cock is never like their wangs

So I declare for all my
Comic book conquerors, Porno Patrollers,
Word Puzzle Wiz’s, let us remove these shackless!
Let’s fight for our equality! If we are ever in a position
To employ one our own let’s do it!
(Sidenote: I need a job… thank you)
Less we always be dry humped by the Football captain
Rico Suave bosses of our Live!

Poem 1

2009-11-13T16:09:00.001-05:00

Lou Dobbs shows up to apply for unemployment

“Hold up!”
Says Rich Smoove.
"I’ve seen you on TV."
Lou starts to blush an apology
“It´s all entert—“

“What are you talking about man?
You ain’t a star or nothing,
I saw a report they did last week
On CNN about how old, mad,
white men are trying to flood
unemployment to make
President Obama look bad.

It ain’t workin this time.”
And he shouts
“My president is Black, fool!”
As he pushes Lou Dobbs aside.

Lou’s back is
wet with nervousness
as he walks slowly
out of the unemployment office.

Wacker Drive Lower...

2009-10-24T11:55:00.003-04:00

Wacker Drive Lower than a beetles belly.

Rolling in mud, pig skin, peel crackle tackle,
pain posture bending with gravity watching
Sun and City and High Rises

Low balls scraping clouds
dozing bulls parade stomping,
with wagon patty burgers melting in stomach ulcers for 7 years,

A cancer, a prickling appetite balloon busted,
under the weather prediction,
flu pigeons and pork chops,
beef mad, chicken strangled in between factory clamp
noose neck stretching like an arcade plush toy prize machine...

What quarter given guilt snatches you out of this race,
under a viaduct unseen, unknown,

hood.

TOASTER

2009-07-26T06:03:00.003-04:00

*rough

i could live
through
disposable
kodak-snaps
if they came in tabs
like acid.

but mostly
they scar frozen
moments
like

birthday
cakes.

into
bad days.

its a bad
combination
of what is
and what could be
better

but.

my mother
cried
when she saw me
smile in frame.

good thing
i said cheese.

30 30 List.

2009-07-25T17:39:00.004-04:00

Sorry it took so long but this is everyone who i know is doing the 30 30 and links. Peace

-nate

Nate Marshall- http://illuminatemics.blogspot.com/
Jose Olivarez- http://quetothepasa.wordpress.com/
Jamaica Osorio- http://jamaicaosoriopoetry.blogspot.com/
Ashley Rhae Oliver- http://ashleyrhae.blogspot.com/
Jamila Woods- http://milawood.wordpress.com
Noor Hasan- http://noorrr.blogspot.com/
Josie Williams- http://josiewords.blogspot.com/
Taryn Randle- http://thoughtfulsoul-coolbreeze.blogspot.com/
Irfan Qurashi- http://eyeq-windtalker.blogspot.com/
Christina Salvidar- http://ssaladbar.blogspot.com/
Hera Shakir- http://shakirhera.blogspot.com/
Emanuel Vinson- http://emanuelwrites.blogspot.com
Justin Wright- http://speedycalhoun.blogspot.com/
Denina Williams- http://livelovelaugh8919.blogspot.com/

2009-07-23T08:50:00.002-04:00

with the nighttime pounding through his chests like the vibration of a teardrop
he said he got a new gun today
decided to name it after me
as if I was murderous
as if it would make him feel safer
he was so used to saying my name
why not make it click
boom
why not make it deadly
to someone else

thought I’d be happy to know he thought about it me when he held it

**the longer edit will be in my chapbook I'm thinking

BNV Hook up im hooked on

2009-07-22T15:49:00.003-04:00

Poets sometimes kiss like it will last
and don’t mean it
promise to be honest
thinking truth comes out easy
And sometimes it does
Sometimes we remember
And sometimes memory is forever
And sometimes it isn’t
Sometimes we just pass
And sometimes that’s just fine
Sometimes even the broken shine
But I just want to be fine

...

Found Haikus

2009-06-10T17:07:00.004-04:00

And by "found" I mean in my notebook.

1. The morning has a

rinse of dreams and your love weighs

on me like moon rocks.

2. Jungle juice, sweat-caked

disco church: parties give us

things to believe in

to use a sports metaphor

2009-05-27T02:16:00.002-04:00

I had you in my sights
and you came flying at me

I miscalculated my swing,
you went flying right on past*

and in the flurry,
I let the bat go
and it flew into the stands
and knocked some teeth out
(I did not give a shit about them)

sports metaphors in situations like this are stupid
there is no real way to keep score
there are no innings, no end in sight

I always feel like the Away side though
*(still twirling)

Erin (Aaron)

2009-05-22T00:05:00.001-04:00

reached into side pocket
pulled out four dollars
brown wallet
lent

lent

3 keys

lent
letter to lover
crinkled
signed in pink
and
blue
next to
what was thought
to be her
and
him

3 keys

lent

lent
brown wallet
four dollars out pushed
into side pocket
to buy
a key ring

hands.

2009-05-21T01:40:00.003-04:00

aren't meant to be held
but instead meant to melt skin
when holding just is

Day 21:

2009-05-20T01:44:00.000-04:00

The sign maker has no sign in his window
He has no money to pay himself
Signs have gone out of fashion recently
Probably didn’t notice

There is a man who owns a gold leaf lettering business
It’s a father and son business
Been in it since he got out of high school
He’s old now
If you see gold lettering in downtown Chicago
You’re looking at this man
You haven’t seen him in a while
There’s no need for gold leaf in projects or condos
But he’ll make it through
He sees the signs
They haven’t disappeared
In his mind’s eye
And the sign wobbles over someone’s office
It is hand carved
Just put it in
Gold leaf lettering
It sways in the wind
It sways in the storms
And it sways in the sky
He sees it go back and forth and back and forth
Just like business
It’ll start up again
When people start to get some money they’ll want to look classy
Put some gold leaf on their windows
And some other folks
Will walk by and want to be classy too
They buy class and show it off
And the signs will sway
In the money
In the change
In the emptiness
But it’ll always sway back
That’s the way business seems to go
Just follow the signs

And the words on the wall
As gold as ever
Say to be classy
And make sure everyone
Else knows it too

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1KdkQv0FfI

2009-05-18T02:01:00.005-04:00

I have been trying
to break your heart
for so darn long
it is exhausting

break open
break into
////////////////////////////
what can I
hold here?

I imagine that when
I get my fingers in there
it'll feel like I'm running
them under a faucet

interview on red light (for April 26th)

2009-05-16T07:44:00.001-04:00

"where did you get those earrings?"
"my friend boy."

"for what occasion?"
"new beginnings and long hopes to erase his short cummings."

"how much are they worth?"
"five thousand."

"how much are you worth?"
"five hundred today."

"how many have you had?"
"...only two..."

"how many have had you?"
"seven six five."

"how do you feel?"
"with my mouth."

for the girl romeo forgot about after 3 pages

2009-05-13T22:56:00.002-04:00

mama's name is rosaline.

her old best friend's name is juliet.

dad's name is romeo

but

he hasn't been in the story much lately

mama says he's off writing shakespearean sonnets

with a bunch of loose women.

mama says that when he gets home, she's going

to talk to dad about iambic pentameter,

how there are five metric feet in every line,

how he better change or

she's gonna stick those feet up his ass.

she's always trying to bend her romeo in half

because she wants him to be the same shape as a boomerang.

he still doesn't like to come back to her.

boys at school like me now

they stand at my locker with daffodils and long eyelashes

there's this one, his name is joshua.

once i asked mama,

how i would know when he didn't love me anymore.

baby, she said.

your ashy knees will grind the carpet for prayers of him.

your smile will hang like a lifeboat between two ships

that are sinking.

so that your cheeks will run over with the saltwater.

i remember how it goes

when you think you're in love.

you live to feel his hand slips in between

yesterday and tomorrow morning.

your tongue is jeweled with

the secret language that he invented for you

like laughter that hangs above

the pillow that you both share in sleep

abstracting the concept of the individual

until you're closer than

dogs in the shelter.

but sometime you'll notice that

he didn't roll his arms around you

during the night.

he'll stop talking to you in sonnets,

except when he wants something.

he'll compare juliet to a rose

and you'll be pulling thorns out of your skin for weeks.

he'll repeat himself.

like: rosaline, you're the only one,

i only wanna be with you

rosaline, you're the only, only be with you

you're, be with you,

with with

you

shakespeare will write you out after the first scene,

not give you any more stage time.

hide you like there was a genocide going on in verona.

screaming operas, broken plate dialogues.

the neighbor starts being friendly

and bringing you casseroles--

you'll hate her because her pity isn't subtle

and every other woman's perfume

punches your throat with a brass knuckle

like: baby, don't be jealous like that, she's just some female

baby don't like female

don't female

don't

you'll get tired of him saying, "don't".

for the first time in your life, you'll be

angry with a man for

breaking your heart.

like: get the fuck out of my house, romeo. take the idea of juliet with you.

get out my house, bring juliet.

romeo bring juliet.

romeo juliet.

romeo.

when he is finally gone,

you'll always be tasting his echoes

burn memories of romeo out of your skin and call it departure

so you won't always be waiting on his return.

Day 20:

2009-05-13T00:35:00.003-04:00

Haiku on cover of lit mag next to an image of a statue

Vines scale up stomachs
Through chests, towards eyes and mouths
Let these creep through minds

Day 19:

2009-05-13T00:15:00.002-04:00

There is a large man on the train
Pools forming in his folds
I jump into
The half seat left
Chlorine
Pooling around his eyes
It is caked
Where his eye boogers grow
When he cries, the years
Form the pools I jumped into
The half seat left
Because we were both tired
And he was crying
I wrapped my arms
Around the 1/3 of him that I could
Get a hold of
It is hard to hold squishy water
Like comforting Jell-O
In the embrace
A bead of chlorine
Tear
Streaked over the valleys
Mountains of his cheeks
Lips and chins
It spelunked into my mouth
Cannonball splash on my throat
It was lime Jell-O
And it was also crying
Sobbing ringing through my throat
Into my stomach
The ring echoed
As it hit each surface
Of my intestinal track to the bottom

Jamal (for April 27)

2009-05-09T00:54:00.005-04:00

Jamal told me I was the
strongest person
he had ever met,

then kissed my neck
and burned his lips
from bitter sweat
then kissed my ears
and burned his lips
from what he heard,
then kissed my thigh

knowing it would get me high,
and make me forget
those eyes that pressed brusies

above my head

on my chest

under my belly.

Those eyes I've wished dead.

Then Jamal will own them
like they all have before,

then kiss my eyes
and burn his lips
from what he will see.

Day 18:

2009-05-07T20:55:00.003-04:00

Vines crawl up stomachs
through chests towards eyes and mouths
let this creep through minds

2009-05-07T01:28:00.002-04:00

i wish i liked maybe one member of my family.

i'm waiting for them to go to sleep so i can let the cry out

2009-05-06T02:04:00.001-04:00

Jesus Christ
makeup
scares
me.

2009-05-05T23:16:00.003-04:00

my desktop looks like
my room.

Day 17:

2009-05-04T01:12:00.002-04:00

I have never been able to comfortably write about myself, friends, or family
[--------------------------
--------------------------
--------------------------
--------------------------
--------------------------
--------------------------]

This would be beautiful
About my grandfather
Beautiful as my grandmother
Beautiful as them meeting
Days when family don’t fight beautiful
Family beautiful

Day 16:

2009-05-04T01:04:00.002-04:00

My neighbors orbit each other
Satellites in a near galaxy
Cannot crash into mean faces
I have not made contact with my neighbor in 2 months
Another satellite left my radar 4 years and counting
They are all supernovas to me,
I can see their light on for only a split moment
Shoveling snow
Pulling out of their garage
But the door closes and the light turns off
The flash of a smile
Outshining entire galaxies in a moment
Will never be an actual galaxy
It is just a smile
Or a nod
Wave politely back
They are already dead
This is our last burst

Settled

2009-05-02T14:50:00.001-04:00

In Chicago, there is a lot gum on the sidewalk
Blackened like your smile,
it smashes against the gray like wind in the middle of a punch

I just thought I’d tell you that

Anything to make you think of a world outside of her eyes
I told you,
you can move anywhere you want,
as long as you don’t get stuck.

why it's over (for April 23rd)

2009-05-01T15:35:00.002-04:00

I would have written your name
a thousand times

my pen spat out its last drop at line eight

my paper grew impatient of my
day dreamed blisters and cramped fingers:
for your sake

guess its fate.

real (for April 22)

2009-05-01T02:02:00.002-04:00

what I've seen
left blank spots behind
my ears and
in the whites of my eyes

so I sit out on
an empty lot

I sink my toes
into moist top soil
to see if I could feel

this grass and dirt is real
so they say

but I can't tell

Day 15:

2009-05-01T00:59:00.001-04:00

There’s this man, okay?
He can fly
People connect to that
They all want to fly
This’ll hit home
And he’s hopeless
Lives in Average, Midwest
Cornfield, Normal, Illinois
So he takes the first plane out
of Normal, Cornfield
He just wants to get out
He’s them, get it?
There’ll be an accident on the plane
It’s unoriginal, but it’s just the catalyst
The plane crashes into toxic water
Or he eats bad peanuts with special powers
And next thing you know,
He can fly
No one knows he can fly
BAM! He’s flying!
Take that Cornfield, Normal!
People want this
They all live in a cornfield
Sky’s not a cornfield
Hell no, it’s freedom
So he’s flying everywhere
He ends back in Normal field
Hasn’t been there in years
For a wedding or funeral or
Just because
He walks around
People say hi
He has lunch at the neighbors and family
And he gets tired of it
Can’t take it,
People’ll like this,
They don’t like their neighbors and family
They don’t like their town
So he takes to the air
Leaves Normal, Average
It’s all blue skies
all blue and white
can’t tell east from north from south from west
it’s all blue to him
at least Normal, Cornfield
had street signs, at the main road and highway
And then it hits the people
They’ll get this
They realize that what they think they want
What our flying man wanted
Isn’t as great as it seems
It hits him,
halfway from continent to continent
here he is
And he’s in the most average place of all
No new anything
In between ocean and sky
Can’t figure out which is blue first and it doesn’t even seem to matter
He starts falling in the middle of the Atlantic
Flailing and flailing
He sees the water
He’s going pretty fast
Feels about the same as flying
Just no choice in direction
And the water’s getting closer
He braces himself
Doesn’t know what to do
Just a tangled mess when he hits the water

Nothing
He wakes up in a hospital
He’s in Normal, Cornfield
Don’t know how, doesn’t matter
Fluorescent lights glowing
doors are red
Stethoscopes are brown
Needles are silver

He blacks out
He dreams of all the colors
And people’ll fall in love with him now
He’s changed
Getting better the
whole town comes to see him
Each knows his name
They bring him gardenias and sun flowers
And lilacs and peonies
People want to get the same flowers
They want to fly away
A bit deeper than a need to fly, is a need to be a flower
To be a peony on the bedside table next to a different flower and another flower
they all smell different
People want to fit in
Fit their noses into flowers
Wrapped in a bouquet of people
Just like those who read comics
Or those in the store together
Each pimpled boy and girl
grabbing for the comic
both want to fly
rising quickly
Their pimples will pop before their ears do
they’ll touch hands for a moment when they reach for the comic
And he’ll smell like gardenias

thick and clear

2009-04-30T22:48:00.005-04:00

through
rib cage
through
textbooks
through
real jobs
through
shinier new hands
through
NY
through
PA
through
OH
through
IN
through
september
through
october
through
november
through
december
through
january
through
february
through
march
through
april
through
may
through
june:

how many layers can our frequencies flow through
and after so much,
how loud will the ringing be
//
everybody gets scared of college,
our turnnnn.
//
thank God for video chat.

Poem 30

2009-04-30T19:08:00.001-04:00

Cop out (aka I got a paper due tomorrow)

Do I get a prize
for finishing like could my
paper write itself?

Hoax (feedback requested) (120 of 365, April 30th)

2009-04-30T19:02:00.000-04:00

In response to Representative Virginia Foxx saying Mathew Shepherd’s death was a hoax, that he was killed as result of a robbery

You cannot fake the blood
jetting from his cheek with the first graze
of sweaty pistol
or each strike that followed,
echoing like the word fag in a Wyoming schoolyard.

Mrs. Representative,
the hoax was the way the two killers first played friendly,
table syrup tongues slick, imitating true sweetness,
saying come along boy,
we’ll take you home, no problem,
we’ll drop you off.

Post midnight October 7th, 1998
they drove down a road
more real than your rhetoric,
less dirt path than your tongue
and when he was found next evening
under the October blood red sky
the biker thought him scarecrow
tied to that fence, head down, so ragged, so crucifix.

Once the skull cracks ended,
lacerations laid across his face
like stitches in the patchwork quilt of lies
they used to try and coffin his death

and the boys drove off with his shoes and the twenty bucks left in his wallet.
The only part of his face not covered in blood
were the streaks cleaned by his tears.
I wish that was made up for poetic effect
but this sort of brutality can’t be made up that easy.

Virginia, have you ever grown up
being told part of you is fake,
that something about how you were born is wrong?

I cannot know what it is like to grow up gay in America
just as you cannot know the ball of inverted, twisted guts
that felt like they were being sliced from my stomach
when I watched you call hate crime hoax.

But I do know what it’s like to grow up,
to be asked if I’m sorry for killing Jesus
and why my people owned everything
through many a free school lunch
as I would repeat how wrong they were before
shrinking back into my hand me down clothes
the way only hate could make me.

Mrs. Foxx, were your ancestors not immigrants,
having to deal with the sting of xenophobia,
the run down houses as the only option,
reminders they were in a place they were told they did not belong?
When a man dies for being born
who he was, how can this not be hate?

This was not a robbery made to appear hate crime,
this was a hate crime turned robbery,
stealing the hope of every child who wants to be safe to come out the closet,
stealing peace out of his mother’s heart
and any justice out of his death.

The only hoax was when is how it took up until 2 days ago,
over a decade and a half, for this to be declared hate crime.

I wish you were there at his murderer’s trial,
not so you would see all the proof
clearly laid out like corpses in the post-Katrina morgues you voted not to fund,
not to see you try and call it hoax after watching his mother’s tears
wash over her face like she was a shepherd
who watched her lamb be devoured by wolves,
but I would’ve taken you to the two protests outsides.

The most remembered are the men lifting signs
that said “God Hates Fags”.
I’m not saying you would’ve marched with them,
but I would’ve pointed out Shepherd’s friends and sympathizers
walking calmly in white robes with angelic wings
to softly circle the other group. I would’ve showed you
that all it takes to stop hate
is everyone being a little less scream
and a little more angel,
you may’ve cried tears that no one could fake.

(thoughts? I’m trying to make a point without preaching or claiming some sort of moral high ground, was that accomplished? Also, how do you feel about my twice usage of the three letter f-word? I feel it works in the context, but am still uncomfortable with the thought of reading that word out loud as someone who isn’t queer. Thanks!).

Boythink #8 What I want to get better at...

2009-04-30T16:28:00.001-04:00

(this is to a steppers song that I forgot the name of but
will tell you when I find it)

So I had just got out of work the other day,
and I got on the train to ride to a church,
on 87th
to find this book that I lost.

And on 63rd street,
I see this cat,
who I knew from somewhere.

He had on a red shirt,
some burbury type shorts,
clean Air 1's,
and a black hat that said "Truth"
on it.

So he looked,
then I looked,
then he walked over,
and I said,
"HEY, did you go to Morgan Park?"

No,

"Did you ever work @ Marshalls in Ford City?"

No,

OH,
I know you from Sub-T

So he's like,
yeah,
whats good God?

How's life treatin' you?

I basically start cliche sayin' to avoid the truth,
and the train comes.

I go,
yeah man "Just dodgin', and Jabbin',
just hangin' in there"

and we get on the train,
and he sees my shoes,
2 years old,
and he says,
Nice kicks,

Then I just continue cliche sayin' to avoid the truth,
and he turns,
and sees a pretty woman,
cocoa caramel brown skin,
long brown hair,
and she seems sad,
or just has her "Train'd stranger face"
on,
but he sits across from her,
tells her she's beautiful
and that he'd love to see her smile.

She's out of his league and
I think he knows, but he doesn't care.
That isn't why ignored his fear
of telling her how he feels.

Of course she still shoots him down,
he says,
"Its ok sista,
you just have a beatiful day"

And she smiles,
cause she knows he sincerely means it.

When he comes back,
I'm still cliche sayin' to avoid the truth,
talkin' about,
"yeah man,
I'm just survivin'.
I could complain but I wont"

Then I say,
"Life is treatin' me aiight man,
how about you?"

He says,

"Man, God
I learned to treat Life good"

And then everything seemed clear.

wideman

2009-04-30T14:59:00.000-04:00

he reminds me of my grandaddy
how his skin hangs
leather jackets left on wire hangers
gravity had its way with the puckered shoulders
and dimpled cheekbones
he too has a shiny redbrown hill
with plots of timid grey grass near the ears
talks to me of hurston and dostoevsky
in the same breath
insists he is "trying"
knobby fingers bend their knees like elderly ballerinas
when he speaks
and the sun goes down
as we listen

eve

2009-04-30T03:10:00.000-04:00

eve whispers sweet into nothing's ears
knowing he won't respond like silence after sour sights,
whispers of cold summers and lonely nights,
still he's nothing and nothing he hears.

that's that magic shit // power art // letter 2 O(+>

2009-04-29T23:42:00.013-04:00

forgot how bad
I needed your lessons in my walk,
in my groove

your voice cradles the dance in mine
your passion
lends to a connection in the darkness

I'm back to you. Spread the loooove

ooooo888888888888888oooooo

Was happiest, most confident I'd been in a while.
When I had my Prince binge last week.

Crashed at the beginning of this week.
around the time I decided to phase him out of my listening cycle.

Found myself bitter. petty. flailing. cut off. abrasive.

I do not think this coincidence.

88888888888oooooooo88888888

I'm back. Let's keep it up!

lucky

2009-04-29T22:27:00.004-04:00

i'm done with
bruised knees and
dried closed hands pleading
for an end to my luck.

i see them
dried throats from
waterless weeks and hungered months.

at night I break bread
then roll my eyes back
to see what the Lord has made.

Poem 29

2009-04-29T21:02:00.001-04:00

Someone turn this off

The radio plays the same thing all day.
At night when I try to sleep
my mind mimics the radio
only the songs are sadder
and I can’t turn it off.

Central Square Cambridge Friday Night (119 of 365, April 29th)

2009-04-29T12:47:00.001-04:00

as one walks down the street past
the piles of clothes bent against walls

still have human inside few blocks from
the small park with the curved row of benches

with meticulous rows of arm rests
rising up just a foot apart throughout

like spikes on a gutter top calmly stating
pigeon, don’t nest here.

paper in fire

2009-04-29T01:46:00.003-04:00

I do not want to look you in the eye
unless there are screens dividing us

I love you as a concept
but cannot stand the feel of your skin

I am reaching my arms out
throwing my bones to charity

I throw my body away
from all who come near

I respect and treasure
the thought of your autonomy

I don't trust you.

Drafts (118 of 365, April 28th)

2009-04-29T00:11:00.001-04:00

(note: I’m realizing that one of the main things I have to work with in my longer poems is how to better structure it to make my lines and ideas work better. Any suggestions for this poem?)

The day I lost my virginity we were two teenagers
on a search for rum and warm bodies.
Her hair curled like light brown phone cords,
those things from back in the days where everything didn’t need to go somewhere.
She had a big smile with dimples the size to fit cherry pits
sucked fruit-fleshless
and I was always a sucker for smiles.
Her boobs hung on her chest
like a hormone boy’s dream catchers,
I was going to sleep well that night.

We bounced between camp sights as echoes.
This was as beautiful as a fake Van Gogh,
all look, no passion.
She was cute.
I was me, just younger, and more awkward.
This is what movies made by old people
lusting for a zitless childhood where girls talked to them made me dream of,
the warm wet cushion of flesh that never fits right in words,
the horizontal acrobatics,
the feeling that what I was doing meant something.

Once finished the custom of clothes removal
our fingers explored the hills of body before us.
Our kisses spoke in the language of pirate labeled rum –
she was an adventure. A short one.
The act of searching for El Dorado below took all of a minute,
took all of seventeen and a half years.
I let my fingers do the talking,
then we laid on the tent floor,
clothes and sheets scattered like pages of a bad romance novel manuscript.

I think her name was Emily.
This is what I can tell you fur sure:
she was diabetic,
she was the second girl I ever had completely naked
and she was going to art school the next fall.

This is what I’d like to tell you:
we stayed in touch
I hadn’t pretended to be a year older than I was
she felt so natural in my arms
made me sleep smile faced

I never had sex with anyone I loved
and I never loved anyone I ever had sex with,
I think my mind’s trying to change that.
For a dreamer I am always trying to rationalize,
imagining this meant something
putting other girls souls in her naked body –
imaging her meaningful
as I continue looking for cur haired art students.

Two one night stands,
one past sex buddy who me fiction
and one long term relationship later
the spray painted polished on image of sex has been washed away.
I’m not saying I’m going to wait for marriage,
just saying I’m waiting for a girl I don’t have to rewrite.

just for fun

2009-04-28T23:56:00.001-04:00

a poem addressed to the Celtics. I don't actually think the Celtics bought off the refs, just throwing around unfounded accusations for the fun of it.

Dear Boston Celtics

Like the rest of Boston
ya’ll are old,
maybe not pre American Revolution old
but close.

Like Boston weather
ya’ll cry
about every phantom push
or shove .

Like Chicago politicians
your wins are decided
before the game
in shady locker rooms only Doc
and referees know about.

And in Chicago
the closest thing you’ll get to a win
is the wind pushing ya’ll
empty and sad back to Boston.

I have a lot of work to do.

2009-04-28T23:20:00.018-04:00

Calvin was tossed aside long ago
it took a few games,
a few "what the fuck is you doing?!"s
a few "weak as fuck"s
and his chances were swiftly blown

when even chosen at all,
he was relegated to last pick
only if a team absolutely needed another person:

a body to look at on the way to the hoop
and then swiftly away from-
rather do anything than pass
to Cal
/
yesterday,

in the eyes of the gym
Calvin finally became good for something:

in the locker room
they picked him up
from his quiet space on the bench
and used him to bludgeon Benny
into submission

every day,

Benny is generally seen as the one
who talks more shit than anyone
He brags almost as much as he fucks up?

(I won't lie
I've let my teeth gnash
in line, in time

I am sorry.)

Cal was there,
whenever Benny was trying to drive
Leaving him flailing
in circles
at the 3 point line

and so, when it came time
for the daily post-game shit talk conference
Benny tried to press his luck
and see what his mouth could get away with

Anthony batted him down
mentioning how the same had happened
to so many of his shots

Cal sat there, changing out of his gym uniform, tying his shoes,
smiling to the floor

as he was briefly aligned with The Will,
being utilized to break a jaw far more irksome
than, say, his air balls might have been
/
Calvin was chosen before me today
leaving me as the last, muttered pick

except, that there were nine people on the court

"It's cool" I said to Anthony
as he came upon the realization,
His apologetic "my bad" bounced off my back

I am unhappy about the politics of this court.
But that might be because I am so frequently
under foot here
/
To be honest, even when I've slipped
into the tempt of taunting
it is really only gumming

early in the year,
I was cleared of any bite
by way of frequently missed passes
and ruined lay-ups

as it should be.

most days,

I just end up dribbling around the court
singing songs to myself,
trying to find the lessons
that are no doubt lurking
under the floorboards of this class

shannon (for april 20th)

2009-04-28T22:58:00.007-04:00

shannon is 5 foot 4 times
likely to be 8 (out) at 13

since daddy's lips and mothers thighs have blessed her,
the demple in her right cheek and her freckled forehead
meant nothing but instead gave tall and dark and handsome
29 a hand, sometimes waist lines beat blood line beauty is
not deep but skinned of logics, tall dark handsome had some
before shannon was 4 for the same reasons he would take
her's from her and then more. but age ain't nothin but a
number.

shannon is 5 foot 4 times
likely to be 18 at 13

sunday morning

2009-04-28T20:11:00.002-04:00

mama is in her bedroom with the door closed
blasting sam cooke

I wonder which one of us
broke her heart this time

Poem 27

2009-04-28T19:51:00.000-04:00

Poem 27

It’s a recession. It’s a recession.
Media heads say
from their fancy Italian suits
in their air conditioned studios
(does the make up they wear
hide tears too?)

A woman sitting on a bench
in the square says to me
“You know how they say
be careful what you wish for…
well I remember we used to
pray for Fridays and Saturdays…
Now… well, you know…”

The birds nod
and sing Silvio Rodriguez.
They report
that the sad songs are still sad
there’s just more of them.

The woman on the bench
is joined by multitudes.

She says, “I just want
to work, you know..”
(Does make up hide tears too…)

a knife

2009-04-28T17:42:00.003-04:00

(for Sakia Gunn)

a knife cannot speak for a life.
its blade silenced
like the black community.
the air around it fills a void
called opposition,
alludes to an unavoidable odium
and suffocates the hand that holds
its handle,
threatening to cut fingers if
it isn’t used quickly.

Pulse

2009-04-28T16:00:00.001-04:00

The first deep breath I took all day smelled like cologne and his linen,

and I know I didn’t wash it all off,

but I tried.

The reds and purples of my thighs,

spell out a sick smile that I can’t stop seeing,

and I wonder if he’ll taste me when he prays.

Choked between his psalms, below his knees pressed tightly against the pulpit of his bedroom,

I want him to hear my screams

as badly as I wish I could forget them.

I got a secret I keep squished between my palms

like skin,

fingers hugged around a bleeding embarrassment that burns

like an altar’s eyes.

Hooks (part two)

2009-04-28T07:42:00.002-04:00

RUN OUT

You know
you've got
nothing to do

but duck down
in this stream
and carve your voice

the white
will find
its way

just keep
your hands
moving honest

one day you won't wonder
why I never sleep

RUN OUT

Maybe one day
we won't have to pretend anymore

Maybe one day
it won't feel like settling

Maybe one day
my tearing and shaping will pay off

Maybe one day
our hearts will touch even

RUN OUT

You know
you've got
nothing to do

but duck down
in this stream
and carve your voice

the white
will find
its way

just keep
your hands
moving honest

one day you won't wonder
why I never sleep

RUN OUT

I know you said
to let it go
but I heard what KG
told me

the energy I send
will travel back to me
this ain't for nothin
be true
this ain't for nothin
stay true

Train haiku

2009-04-28T01:53:00.001-04:00

Train slugs past ghost towns

slimes along under moonlight

its riders teething

An Honest Personal Ad (117 of 365, April 27th)

2009-04-28T00:25:00.001-04:00

In all honesty when I pick you up
I won’t give you flowers.
The act of creating something new
just doesn’t fit right with the whole uprooting,
leaving to die thing, but I may take you to Walden pond,
say let’s walk barefoot through the path,
show you all the wild flowers
and pretend to know what they are when I give names to each
wild sugar quilt, purple balloon-weed, and tangerine sunrise

we see, and when I said I’d pick you up,
I just figured you should know
I’ve been famous for giving one of the world’s smoothest piggy-back rides
to and from public transit. There will be no steak and lobster dinner,
not that you don’t deserve it, just that the last time I ate meat
I was still waiting for my first pubic hair to grow,
but I will ration my money just right
to leave the ramen alone for one night

and we’ll watch the water sputter in the pot
before easing in the cous-cous.
This may take a while. Be prepared to share stories
of how much the place we grew up in sucks
and how our dreams are bigger than the milky way
and I will take out the pan, pour a dot or two of olive oil
but let the tomatoes do the rest of the work
throwing in spinach and garbanzos.

We will be hungry, what with all the day’s walking
but the stove won’t move past simmer yet,
saying how letting it heat up slow seals in more flavor.
We’ll know what we’re talking about, watching tomato skins wrinkle
as your finger docks into the harbor of my belt loop
saying quit stirring, it looks ready.

I will ask if you prefer the fine China with the blue flowers or the pink ones
and you won’t be surprised when I bring just one bowl
big enough to hold a laugh’s echo and I will pour in a big helping of cous-cous,
spoon on the veggies, then sprinkle some cinnamon, or paprika, or curry
and you will ask if that goes well with it
and I will tell you of course, knowing full well
that night was my first time making cous-cous
but I still meant it when I asked you to trust me.

We will walk to the patio, awkwardly, as I attempt
to hold your hand, the bowl, the two sets of chop sticks
I stole from the Chinese restaurant two blocks over
and your hand. I’ll have to ask you to get the door, explain how
the slide lock works, but it will. We’ll find how the hammock catches our backs
and we’ll feed each other with chop sticks and it will be so damned sexy
we’ll feel the inferno tickling our toes in the wind. I will admit that you’re right,
I don’t think cous-cous is supposed to be this chewy
But I’lll ask who needs a four star restaurant when this sky above us has so many more,
and you may laugh at my corniness, but only because you taste it’s truth
lingering on your tongue like melting sorbet.

It will grow cold and for the first time that day you will look at your watch
and ask where does the night go, and I’ll answer westward, like a good cowboy
but don’t you worry now young lady, it’ll be back by dawn tomorrow,
maybe you’d like to help me meet it
and I don’t know what will happen next, but if we continue down this path
and things go well, I won’t tell you I love you
because I was raised not to lie
and there is no way I could comprehend enough to tell you whatever our date will be
or become
to label it.

Poem for My Cousin, Part 1

2009-04-27T16:47:00.005-04:00

Dear Victor,

I'm writing you this

because it's less time consuming

than tryna remember the last time

I saw you.

I don't walk through the hood

much these days,

so I'm not sure which corner

is your present

place of employment.

But it's never too far from home.

Our connection is never too far from gone.

Cuz, it's weakened as we've grown

so I'm hoping this puts some links

back into the bond

that once made you the little brother

I never had.

I try not to decipher when shit got bad

Cuz, it's easier to reminisce on the good times.

Like re-enacting Bulls games

as our parents watched them triumph upstairs.

When our mothers still acted like sisters.

I miss the days when Loren was Michael Jordan;

I was Scottie Pippen,

and you was usually Toni Kukoc,

or Ron Harper

or one of the players

that the casual fan never remembers

but was just as instrumental to success

as we were.

Or gluing our eyes

to TV sets every Monday night;

watching wrestling

companies fight for ratings;

like tear ducts for purpose,

and exchanging Stone Cold Stunners

and Rock Bottoms

in Grandma's bed

So it stunned me

when grandma said

you'd hit rock bottom.

I can't help

but blame myself.

Maybe if I let you be Pippen

or Loren let you be Mike

you would've developed aspirations

that persuaded you to do right.

Maybe that could've inspired you

to scale the wall your father left

in his place.

Maybe I wouldn't have to write this poem.

Hooks (part one)

2009-04-27T00:49:00.011-04:00

ideally, first
you can pretend I'm who you really want
and
I can pretend I'm them too

we can close our eyes
and hope these hooks in the back of our brains
to tug a little bit softer

I'll fuck up quite often
but I will always stay true
and I won't regret a scottdarn thing
cause I'll know it's the best I could do

There's not much I can ask of you
there's so much I would wish of you
I'll just fasten my nose to the grindstone
till I can make it do what it oo oo oo

I'll block out the wayward glances
focusing on fanning chances
till they burst like a bruise
my fire statue I will mold it with my hands
and then spread it with each dance
that I'm refining in my room

cut up my way from a gloom
that had ivied over my legs
I got a restless tongue dontcha know
borne to unwind all this vex
records, debt, fitness, next: ----->

Poem for the young slammer

2009-04-26T19:43:00.001-04:00

at some point someone
will ask about points
how many you have made
with your metaphors
and they may be impressed
or appalled at your answer

at some point someone will
tell you to disregard the judges
tell you that scores are stupid
and be enraged when you say
you wouldn’t mind winning

somewhere between these
half-truths lies the beauty of the exercise
of writing for an actual audience
and knowing that they feel your truth
or feign feeling your lie

somewhere between
everything you will learn
the truth:
that you should never write
for an audience
only slam for one
and until you learn
the difference
you won’t win one
no matter your score

direction

2009-04-26T19:35:00.000-04:00

i’m trying to write myself
somewhere not sure yet
the whereabouts but i keep
my pen pointed
as an arrow in the bow
of my brain because
anytime might be the
moment for me to let
go

hammock song (116 April 26)

2009-04-26T15:25:00.002-04:00

We were talking about our summers yesterday
and you said you’d be just a town away
and I said that’s pretty cool,
because you’re the girl I don’t want to date too.
We know it won’t work so no broken hearts
when we get to the days we drift apart

In the afternoon I’ll call you up at four
and you will ring my bell and I’ll open the door,
Take you up the stairs, leave your purse in my room
and just relax on the second floor patio all afternoon.
When I ask if you want ramen I know you’ll say sure
because you’ll know this summer that’s all I can afford.

And we’ll fall asleep in the hammock
and act like we didn’t plan in it
when we know that’s where we wanted to be.
The stars will be our canopy till we wake up at 3
because we’re tired of the dew so we’ll put on our shoes
and walk up a flight of stairs or two

doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo
doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo
doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo
doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo
doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo

and you will leave in the morning
and come fall we’ll just stop calling
and we’ll continue being just friend
who hooked up again and again
and when I see you wherever we are
we’ll say we both miss the stars

Becoming a Plain-clothed Punk (115 of 365, April 25th)

2009-04-26T15:25:00.001-04:00

My hair will probably never be blue again.
I’ve lost most of my good band t-shirts,
but clothes never made me then,
haven’t changed me now,
nor changed that much except for learning how to match
and the common lack of pins or patches piercing the surface.
but my soundtrack is punk rock,
though also folk and hip hop and others.
I still sign my signature D I Y.

About a month ago in an act of planned spontaneity
I cut my own hair for the first time
with a pair of small paper slicing scissors as tool
and a mirror and typical “it’ll-all-work-out-hope”
as a guide for cutting. I did not care how it turned out
as much as I cared that it turned to something new.
Each snip was me trimming down a bond.
snip, that’s me breaking dependency on money for what I need.
snip, that’s needing another’s validation on how I looked,
snip, that’s being told because I can’t see behind my head
means I can’t see what’s going on around me.

I looked in the mirror, average hair cut, inch past buzz level,
few split ends and I remembered what it meant to be a punk.

It was not about the music.
Not every song with three chords
in less than two minutes is punk.
That was a symptom of purging all the diseases
we have lived through.

My mom, like a good Jewish mom, was not mad, but disappointed
the first time I missed Friday night services for a local punk show.
I should’ve told her how our rabbis teach us to build schools before
you lay the first brick of a temple. This was school, where we learned
if being loud is what it takes to be heard, then go ahead, get on stage
and scream bloody scream until the Berlin walls of your lungs crumble
and you’re free. We learned raise your arms in unison to fist fuck the sky
of a world that sees your face as toilet. I learned live life fast and burning
because you never know when your light’s going to stop, comet boy.

Punk does not necessarily mean I’m against your ways, just means
I find my own. By high school punk was Public enemy fighting the power
one show, one book, one song, and you can say they didn’t make a difference,
but you can’t say they didn’t try. Punk was folk singer Phil Ochs McCarthy blacklisted
before selling out his friends. Performing poetry is punk, saying I don’t need a mic,
a guitar, a stage, publishing to be heard. I got lungs and I got words
and maybe I’ve gotta work 80 hours a week per summer to get by,
but that is my choice and I will make it work, ramen and skim milk,
40 ozs the few nights I can party and a hunger to see where my two feet take me.

I may be better hidden now that it’s been a few years since the last coat of blue hair,
been to a good punk show, or any of my old standards, but I’ll be yuppie
before my d.n.a. stops being composed of three chords on broken string strands

Poem for April 25th

2009-04-26T14:48:00.002-04:00

Poem for the young slammer

The first time I stepped to the microphone
to tongue heartstrings with a story of heartbreak
I was worried that the world would judge me,
that this rose I found in the trash—
that these petals I was plucking on stage
would be picked up and dumped
right back in the trash or else, ignored
like I was used to—
but when I came off stage, I found so many hugs
and high fives, so much love,
so many hands and so many smiles
so many eyes saying “yes, baby, yes”
so many poets, I didn’t see the score,
so many poets, I didn’t care.

back stabbing

2009-04-26T14:10:00.001-04:00

I don’t feel guilty
until I have to look into your eyes
I can see your hope twinkling back at me
face to face
you naïve sense of reality
you think everything is all right
you don’t feel the knife I am slowly sticking into your back
but I can handle that because I don’t have to look you in the eyes

LAST poem about Harvard for a while

2009-04-26T12:46:00.000-04:00

This poem is for April 26th

I think what I hate most
about Harvard
is that I can’t stop writing about it—

Even if my chest isn’t branded,
my mind is.

Bricks and Brown Eyes

2009-04-26T03:33:00.004-04:00

We have been working hard, you and I.
Blisters have been growing like roses on our feet.
Bruises like ripe violets. Calluses like daffodils the color of sweat.
Our ancestors carried fields upon their backs and we carry cities.
Like, Atlanta.
Like, Sacramento.
Like, Chicago.

There is a day when our blue collars will look good on us.

We will lick our lips and taste the ocean.
We will sweat out fevers we got from working the night shift
and you'll use the bags under my eyes as your hammocks.
Tomorrow, when we wake up and do it all over again,
we might have enough money to be free.

for once, we will pronounce all the foreign names perfectly.
We will sing along to "Juicy" and know exactly what Biggie is talkin' about
We'll plant dollars in the earth to see what looks greener and
our handholds will have the afterglow long after our lunch breaks are over.
Geography has been built on our paychecks.
Like, Boston.
Like, New York.
Like, Seattle.

We will lay our heads in places that feel as familiar as manual labor.
You will forget about customers and your uniform.
The cash register will show you its strings
and you will learn to play songs on it.
So play
and know that at the end of the work day
our efforts will have a name.
Like, Miami.
Like, Philadelphia.
Like, Portland.
I've heard places don't belong to anybody
but without us, there would be no places.

jay

2009-04-25T11:28:00.000-04:00

jay's got a new check
a new start this week
a new plate to keep
but no new j's
cause jay's got bills to pay

the name of the game is glassworks

2009-04-25T03:48:00.005-04:00

I am a joint in a glass family
a busy whirring sculpture
sometimes galloping/sometimes scraping
its way across

heated burned heated up
and twisted under pressures
both common and distinct:
we are fused,
yelling at the walls

//

if you shatter, it will
be into my hands

and whether I will be able
to jigsaw yr skin back
or if the force of the blast
will cause yr debris to cut
my digits to ribbons
on their way to the dark
remains to seen

regardless, I will be there
because that is
what family is for

snow on a minefield (114 of 365, April 24th)

2009-04-25T03:34:00.001-04:00

My town was a snow-covered minefield.
From a distance it looked cute
like bunnies with rabies do
until they charge at you like Monty Python skits gone wrong.

When my parents moved there
the realtor told them of course there’s other Jewish families.
See this map? That’s a synagogue.
If this map were of the human body, that temple would be the male nipple –
a place that was just kind of there and no one knows why
or really noticed when it was gone

I urge you, do not visit my town.
that would be like wanting to scuba dive in quicksand.
I am one who knows where the vines hang, discovered exit, this is rare.
Let me give you the tour no realtor would.

After the first time our family friend
slash Ghanain pediatrician left our house
the neighbor commended my mom on how nice it was
to let the cleaning help’s kids play with my sister Rachel.

This was my town’s version of cultural sensitivity
like when that kindergarten teacher cared enough about inclusion in class projects
to ask my mom what colors Rachel should make a Jewish Easter egg.

My town was a soccer mom van with a gun in the glove compartment.

It looks beautiful in the summer
as the kids frollick in the creek,
soaking up sun rays and sewage water

just south of Dead Man’s Hill –
the slope kids are so proud to say they went down,
a mere block away from the house no one enters or leaves.

It looks fine, white paint, clean front lawn,
right by the intersection that says Sylvan and 13th Ave
renamed Norcross way. Norcross, as any townsmen could tell you
was one of the two policemen her son-turned-daughter
turned corpse, but when they mention four people being wounded that day
no one mentions her. This mother of many average children
but farmers are never made shut-ins for growing that one sour grape
while harvesting in polluted soil. Someone must’ve conjured next winter’s blizzard
to cover the blood.

They will tell you how diverse our high school is
(meaning one quarter of the students are black)
meaning that after nine grades of students hearing about black people
in movies and rap songs, diversity is bussed in.
The teacher’s will double check their class list for the occasional black name
that shows up listed in one of those white town.
This is no checkerboard – just a field of pawns.

My town was a leave it to beaver episode, real funny like
what with the women being trained in subservience
and only white people getting center stage.

So many people were snowmen,
their images waiting to fall away after enough light was shed
bringing the mines below into clarity.

dammit, I love the idea of snow on a minefield, but the rest of the poem does not do that justice for me. Thoughts / suggestions?

what might've been lost

2009-04-25T03:00:00.008-04:00

what stands out to me from that night is ice
on everything: doors, feet, calls

I don't know if I knew then
that I wouldn't try to talk to you
the next day, then week, then month

We were ducked in a corner
under stairs-
my basement's backdoor
scared the neighbors might see,
maybe they'd mistake the smoke for breaths

all that I can remember is touched
by subtle shifts designed to make it all
slide easier in my chest

until I can close up its winter shell
around it
envelop it, bury it

stop calling.

last call

2009-04-25T00:43:00.001-04:00

no college campus
can hold me
like Chicago does

in one week
i’ll slow dance
with my first love

ignoring catholic school
rules there won’t even
be room enough
for Jesus in between our
embrace

Poems for April 18th and 19th

2009-04-24T18:53:00.005-04:00

1.
there is no real world
just falling mirages: black
blank like morning's fall

(no such thing- john mayer)

2.
A true drug
yes you are mine,
and everything that
comes with addiction,
cold stoned crack,
highs infinity.

As your words
melt into my ears
like candle to holder
I mold stiff:
one touch to move
and I run
one whisper to go
and I come.

on creativity

2009-04-24T17:37:00.000-04:00

On Creativity

Everyday, I sit in a meditative
stance and sing ancient prayer songs
to my ancestors and rub little
bits of Yerba Buena and charcoal
on my fingertips so that they may grant
me a sharper insight, a more empty mind,
and enough words to fill a poem.

Or I sit down and write
and turn the charcoal dust
of pencils into my own magic.