To decompose is to destroy is to delete, which can be
beautiful, you might say. Except deletion is sickening,
defacing, gets me into a purging mood like too-ripe coffee
Or cacao that plans creative play dates with aggravated intestine walls.
Because, of course, it’s only natural to be so amber-brown vibrant then
I remember a time, when we were higher
Than the rails of your balcony, when you spoke
Like Yeats of a staggering girl, the carrion of a soul
And how a sudden blow destroyed a piece of you.
How he frequents a tight Partitioned flat
in your mind, and makes you pay him visits
when music and conversation are in short supply,
It was mind puckeringly sour. I stopped
contemplating the physics of descent and my
swiftly tilting heart for you And whispered “me too”.
Just a pair of terrified, vauge, words resting in the
Space of an incomplete sentence. It was guttural.
A call demanding a response like the empty “you
too”, i heard after Accidentally bursting with “love
you”. Im convinced two words or less is the definition
Of a lie but i swear each time It was meant to wrap
you In a warm embrace because at that moment,
like so many Others, I felt inextricably connected to you.
Like the strands of decit I wrapped myself in, I know
Of the pain life can bring. I’m familiar with The eyelids
of a nighttime security Officer
with no story to tell and no secrets
To entertain. I too roam the halls checking the locks
and snacking on fingernails as I beg myself to recall
Some long forgotten name to blame the leather
Suitcases of a lonely stone placed neatly under
my lashes. But no such name Ever comes to mind.
I have a name but the verb Isn’t rape, and the rent
In my mind is just as expensive and I eat Ramen,
I wear my crown of shame, In secret and cover it up
with whatever’s lying about. Like the time I yelled
rape during sexytime. No pillow Could smother my
insensitivity. There was No excuse and tears are no
Draft of ideas
Asked a very beautiful girl
Would you please
Read my poetry
Knowing full well the shit
Of it all. Wanting to see her
Mouth curl and ebony feets
Of crows Dance in the
corners of her face. Desiring
The intimate Empty sounds
Echoing feigned insult and
Invitation to a quick stepped
tête–à–tête before my stop.
Instead, all I got was this
Misdiagnosed addiction, to which,
I said, Please, by all means, use
Your tools- your whispered
Syllables, focused gaze, fingers
Like a massage on a page
if you must. Just don’t leave
Me tonight until I’m cured.
The crows danced until I left alone
Certain phrases arrest like fluent aphasia
And too often our words are more bee-sting
and less honey. Words, say, 4-8 letters long,
that are too soft and heavy for the tails of nail beds.
lately, it’s the minutiae that prickle, nick or smooth.
I’m attached to each letter of your letters
e can be visceral and rumble like o’s stream of stone or shrill.
Even the tallest letters that formulate under weight like beds
of stingers under fakirs in Benares. I’ve studied these letters in a
lesson of you and now I live for each blank-
each fall into möbius relief; struggle to begin the next word.
You divided lines of poems and gave them cushion on a bed of air
above a slowly fading pencil line so that bee-stings
never settled down to meet
That book is the only way I won’t forget
the time you came over and made me promise
I wouldn’t keep your favorite poets collection of poems.
Your fingers cuffing my hands to yours, i knew
that week would be my favorite memory of you.
Insanity and you or me?
I crossed my toes and lied. I built my words
with faults. Even then, I knew you’d break my heart.
My words have their own brand of aphasia but my memory does not.
Its happened before and things never do change:
I was the book you picked up, threw around and failed to finish.
off my little boar brushes. You are alreadyspeckled on the canvases I paint.
I’d never soften the bristles& sign my name without your texture
Even dark-skinned, blackberry-thorned women claimed to be
THE Golightly. Knew which drawer she kept her Chanel
and favorite cut of diamond. And Capote, both sassy and stoic,
would show in Graphs: 100.0001% of women flit and see how avian poetry is too cliche for her delicate frame? If i, estranged poet,
were to exposé your beauty, it would hardly be bird-like, rather
persimmon and ambrosia soft. Totally enveloped in the silent, microscopic language of plant-fractals and root biology.
This is where the goodstuff is tied up- in the feminine ephemeral. Caged, to some degree, in the moment between the warp from animalia to plantae and back again. Tangible, palm-sized
And quiescently undividing.
demand to be felt
like pain or a tear rolling
down a silent face
Cops shoot blacks like the silhouettes they practice on
I know these rooms like the black of my hand.
My mother is patient and she is the most patient but I am not.
I’ve never had a family reunion
You are my poetry and since you can’t see it, I will pen it
lying on rocks
our backs facing the cracked limestone below,
heat pressing through three shirts; one for you
another tight and practical, yet another loose and decorative;
Two out of three isn’t bad. I want it all. I only want to be with you
the moon above that keeps you coming back like a tide.
Sharp pain in my chest, a puffy nipple swollen from an inner tide
salt and water; or an addiction in retaining too much of a good thing.
I wonder often how much it would cost me to remove it