Eat

Her vagina is uncooked
Bacon strips I fiddle
With my salmon tongue
Like an untuned cello.
It smells of thyme
and bergamot hair food
From Sally's Beauty Supply
On 125th street.

She says she likes when
Brothas eat her out
But most don't like to eat
So Latin brothas take care of her,
Devour her like mofongo con camarones.

"Do you like to eat?" She asks.

Words are
Muffled by
Mind and mouth
On her and Devouring
All her tender parts,
Keeping mind on matter
And matter elsewhere—
Sucking dick
At 17,
And stalked Him like syphilis
For more than a decade
Trying to get my Daddy
Back, back, back to me
After he left me,
Left us like a July 4th
Firecracker over the Hudson.

"Do you like to eat?" She asks.

Coming up for air
From the thick, vertical dampness;
the scents of Victoria's Secret
Garden Vanilla Lace Hydrating lotion
and menthol cigarettes,
I respond
"No."

“Then stop," she says, "It didn’t feel good anyway.”

La Petit Mort

I.
Masturbation is best
when using both hands
wrapped tightly like pursed lips
with a hot-ass tongue flicking
to seal an envelope
containing the winning Lottery ticket—
taking breath away from those who envy.

II.
That's how Death must feel like
when she comes-a-knockin',
taking one by surprise,
too early or too late in life.
Like Grandma whose eyes welled,
mirroring Angels who soon took her breath
as she clapped, celebrating life.

III.
Alone
He hanged himself daily
While jerking off
To borrowed VHS tapes
Until ejaculation,
Until the little death, inside him,
Deprived him of life.

Poem #25 of 365: Next

Her hair grows
fast like weeds
in momma's flowerbed.
Daddy shaved
her bald
for rolling her eyes,
back-talkin',
and being sassy.
He got mad
she h ad
a friend
who was a boy.
I heard daddy and sister
fighting one night,
"I'll make sure no boy
every looks at you again!"

Daddy says
she ran away
in the middle of the night
with some boy.
Daddy says
never mention her name
in our Christian home,
or God would punish me
Next.

Poem #24 of 365: The Little Death

Cold coffee spills
on my lap,
waking up
my unborn children
from their nap,
who'll never see
the light of day
or Life beyond
a hungry throat,
clinging onto
the back
of a pierced tongue
waiting for
a second swallow,
a third
and fourth
swallow
where gastric acids
will disintegrate them
and life will continue
for everyone
but me.

Poem #23 of 365: A Poem for JD Salinger

My heart closed
like a venus fly trap
enveloping you
into the velvet night,
keeping you warm
in nitrogen-rich sod.
You tried to feel
some kind of a good bye,
comforting me
while inside of me with your words--
making me laugh and cringe
with your words--
not knowing how to let go
of your words--
or even how a good bye truly felt;
you've left schools, and lovers,
and family, and fans--
you left me behind
being inspired, finally feeling unalone
during those dark nights
I wanted to give up.
But you kept me alive
and hopeful--
You were my nourishment,
feeding me water and rye and words.

A part of me has left.

Poem #22 of 365: The Percussionists

Drum beats
Beat my eardrum
Beats like my heartbeat beats
Beats like Jay Z beats
Or Kanye beats
Or Farrell beats
Mad beats
Like Ike beats
Tina or
Chris brown beats
Rihanna,
Like beats that drop
For a dollar a pop
Drop it like its hot
Beats tap my feet
Won't stop
Beats bop my head
Won't stop
Black beats
New beats
Remixed beats
Lyrically,
Hypnotically,
Vocally
Beats made to rock
Beats made to flip flop
To hip hop
Beats made to silence
The sound of
Every other beat
known to man.
Understand beats
create life
Give breath
Beat upside the head
Take its breath!

"I brought you into this
God damned world,
and I can take you
out of this motherfucka."

Beat

Beats up yo mom
Beats don't peep
Thru yo window
But it beats down
The pane
But it seeps thru your keyhole
Again.
Beats too much to handle
so black men fuck
To their own beat
Thinking that
The beat of the dick upside
And inside the vaginal walls
Feel the blood flow beat,
Aint that life's beat?
Aint that what creates life
Giving us our own beat definition
And beat generation
of what we truly stand for
And if we don't stand for nothing then
Why we complaining about something
Beat up in jail
Cup against prison bars beat
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Doin what we got to do
To survive
A brotha don't know
A beat
A brotha tries to walk
This mean street
A brotha tries to create
And defeat
The beat.
Within.

Poem #21 of 365: Black Wants

I'm reminded of your skin
the color of everything
that blocks out light,
and the way you would hold me,
afraid to let me go.
Once upon my time,
I wanted you,
and I wanted you
to make me happy;
to make me love;
to make me trust.
Waking up was
so damn hard.

Poem #20 of 365: Acoustic Attraction

The guitar is sad
No one plays her.
She sits in the corner
like a naughty girl,
collecting scents
of men who've
played her heart,
leaving her breathless
and loveless.
Nina dances
to techno music now,
wondering if you understand
her because she's
been misunderstood
for a lifetime
and played by every foolish man
who bought her a drink.

Poem #19 of 365: Babylon is on Fire

Babylon is on fire.

The gypsies will no longer roam,
Crystal balls will be thrown
Against the Great Wall of China
And tarot cards will be ripped
and thrown in faces of idolaters.

The earth has been salted
And the minds have been lobotomized,
children sodomized
and reprogrammed with USB drives
Containing an MS DOS program
Bringing mankind back to the basics--
We are the primates speaking code--
The chimpanzees, the apes, the monkeys
swinging from trees
foraging the forest
For signs of evolution,
Predicting the Apocalypse
with the position of star alignment
for 2012.

We live in chaos
because the Tower of Babel
was built way too high
and Tarzan can't climb that high,
Superman can't fly
or leap that high
in a single bound.
No one will be saved this time.

Poem #18 of 365: The Spiritual

Cracked voice
like fresh cement
dries too soon--
A falsetto for a false Jesus.
The negro spiritual
says God's gonna trouble the water,
but I'm not sure who is God
and if there is one,
then whose God?

Place Moses in a wicker basket
and on the Styx River,
let him float
to Saint Nobody,
find him a mother who cares
like Medusa,
the misunderstood
sistah with dredlocks,
who takes no shit
from white folk,
but will protect that white baby
like he's her own.

Poem #17 of 365: Rich White Folks. . .

Rich White folks
never wear hats
during winter
or condoms during sex--
their blankets of money
keep them warm and safe.
Only poor black kids
get viruses--
like Sharmieka and her kid.
They say she gave birth
to a kid and infected
him with her breastmilk.
She thought it was okay
for her man to come inside
of her while she was pregnant.
She thought he wasn't cheating on her either.

Poem # 16 of 365: Untitled

Walking the halls--
like Bertha Mason
haunting a home--
Spirits terrify,
destroys The House--
she speaks in code.

Poem #15 of 365: Hurdles

I smell smoke!

I stop, 

I drop, 

I roll,

I train. 

I smell smoke!

. . . from the gun

I run,

I flee,

I jump,

I escape.

I smell smoke!

. . .from the gun--

bullet in the air!

Trying to alert me.

I think too much

about children dying,

mothers crying,

fathers denying

their newborns. 

I think too much 

about you

and  I die from waiting. 

Poem #14 of 365: Public Transportation

She is the Amistad,

Transporting Them

To a foreign land.

Their wrists and tongues

Will be tied for decades

With the same hemp

Nooses that will hang them

 

Children will breed children

For decades thinking That fucking

Is the only way to Salvation

(When all they needed was a 

black Barbie doll or a father

who cared), And the harder they fuck raw,

The closer (they think)

They'll be to Mother Africa,

With her deplorable conditions

And escalating HIV rates

 

A tragic homeland so forgotten

We think that naming our kids

Sharmeika, Tameika, or Tyrique

Is what it means to be Afrocentric;

A homeland so indistiguishible

We forget our luxuries and assume

We can  live on a bowl of rice

And drink pure goat milk

As flies sting our eyes

And babies don't know

If they'll live or die

To see the red clay again. 

The train roars past the Upper East Side 

Like a an unfed rhino attacking

The undone rail system Indians

used to enslave Us in Africa.

The conductor says  "Next stop is. . ."

And you can not 

Hear the rest for his voice fades. 

 

These are sad times where

A beggar is not really poor,

But the man with the 

$135 Timberland boots,

$45 fitted ball cap,

And no job is.

We live in a pathetic society

Where we care 

Too damn much 

About things that will never matter.

Materialism is the source of salvation

but we will never find our way home.

The train goes several routes,

But the hood will only get us but so far.

Poem #13 of 365: Tears of a Clown

An 8-track plays number 1 on the stereo

while I laugh because I'd never seen tears  of a clown--I walk around, smiling, 

pretending to cry, entertaining the  adults until they get annoyed. The house 

fills with Smokey's smooth voice knocking 

down the walls, finding its way into the 

ears and souls of those long gone. The

adults play cards and drink drinks

while I sit in my room on the burgundy 

comforter lightly coated with coal dust 

atop white sheets with black feet stains. 

Mama always said to bathe before 

I go to bed--but my  feet always 

get dirty. She dances, telling me to spin her. 

I'm half her height and she ends up  turning me so the room spins and I'm drunk 

on her giddyness. Her kisses smell  like stale jim beam and menthol cigarettes. 

I turn away and she kisses me again, laughing.

She puts me to bed, turns out the light, 

and closes the door.

Poem #12: Animal Instinct (Liberia 2008)

black hot sand
spits up, 
licking our backs

like hot Lick Branch coals
from under our ATV tires.
we ride fast, faster, fastest

from the jungle--
where its much cooler,
damper, and dangerous!
He knows not to come 
after dusk!
screaming for Man to leave
we flee like 
porch monkeys!
leave. we got to leave!
jumping and swinging from trees,
defecating on pale faces. 
hissing, beating our chests like
Tarzan, warning Them
one last time.
,

Poem #11: Jezebel

A true whore prevails--

Red rose tattoo--

on neck

he kisses her gently--

The next man awaits. 

Poem #10: Fasting

The eradication of mankind--
my life is stale.
A pleco
A catfish
A bottomfeeder--
eats from the table
with Him.
Decisions will be made.

Poem #9: Haiku Trilogy for Motherfuckers

I.
Motherfucker lied!
Razor blade to my wet wrist.
I've suffered for you.

II.

A mixtape of songs
One nation under Black Gods
Dance motherfucker!

III.
White man beat momma
Motherfucker fucked her good
White man drank her milk

Poem # 8: He's a Lonely Man

He's a lonely man
Who is not alone,
In a foreign land
He calls home.
He speaks
Urdu, Bengali, Swahili,
And at times
Gutteral clicks
To his family.
In his head,
He speaks plain English.

Eyes stop, stare, blink;
Heads turn;
Bodies walk away--
They pretend to not
Understand him,
Or appreciate him,
As a man.
They encourage
And coerce him to assimilate
Or he may be left behind.
Yet he knows they already left.

Poem #7: Poem for James Baldwin

I.
When I see him,
I first take notice
Of his flying saucer eyes,
shooting across the galaxy
like Hale-bopp;
Knotted, coarse hair;
And deep mahogony skin,
With a bit of shine.
I hear his remarkably sweet voice,
Gentle, and easily brushed away
By the wind opening up Heaven's Gate.

The White asked
How was it being born so disadvantaged--
As a homosexual?
As a negro?
And impoverished?

His starry eyes edged a bit,
And laughingly,
Yet half serious,
He replied--
It's like I hit the jackpot!


II.
Niggas been disadvantaged
Mentally, physically, and financially
For centuries--
So we KNOW how to cope
And make 12 bucks last a month
If need be.
And if need be,
We still keep our lights on
By suckin white dick
from married men on the Upper East Side
for extra cash.
The only rule being
not to use your fuckin' teeth.
And goin' on faith that everything
will be alright.
Because shit can't get no worse, right?

Sundays we sing in a four-octave range
why we are happy
being so damned black and blue
and how we shall Overcome.
And the answer is simple--
because we never had a pot to piss in
or a window to throw it out.
When you ain't got nuttin',
you ain't missin' nuttin'.

Poem 6: American Civilization

We are at war.
We spoke on Christmas day.
Our uncomfortably brief 'hellos'
And 'thank yous' echoed
In ears for days,
Asking if this would be
The last day of our acquaintance,
Like a bad Sinead O'Connor song,
Not yet sung.
The family is stubborn like an ox.
Or a game of chess--
No one wants to make the first move.
Or at war--no one wants to take on the first shot
unless they truly are sadists.
And if they take the first shot,
American civilization will be destroyed
and its children will become zombies.

We are at war.
There is sand in eyes,
But the Children won't cry
because they are no longer children--
they have seen too much.
They masturbate with the American soldier's loaded gun,
hoping to gain one dollar for each unlubricated stroke--
showing daddy what they learned. . .
and earned...

...By watching.

The real terrorist
Is the American family!
"My country tis of thee
Sweet land that fucks our childrens' minds raw
without any KY Jelly or even the generic brand."

The American family pillages our bodies
of its natural resources, creating real-life Zombies!
Zombies!
Zombies!

Kick sand in the eyes
Of zombies! And run.
Lock the door.
And hide under your little blanket, little fag boy
with your polka dot dress and bobby socks--
and SAVE yourself FIRST because daddy's gonna get you.

If you're not strong enough to conquer
then you will be conquered.
We are at War.
The family is beseiged!
We. Are. At. War.
There are no more
family gatherings on Thanksgiving,
no gifts on Christmas
or smiles at weddings
or tears at funerals.
It's time to make the first move
before you become a pawn
to your parents at age 30.
Flee.
Run.
Before they murder you
and turn you into a glassy-eyed zombie,
blowing white powder in the eyes
of American civilization
to convert them out of sheer disobedience!
We are at War--
and there will never be any peace.

Food of Love

She sips and savors,
Holding my fermatta indefinitely
Until I cue the next stanza
of her poetry with stacatto quarter notes.
I am the director, for once.

Tonight, we play Tchaichovsky,
Handel, and even Debussy!
Tonight, it's about the classics--
We talk over truffles and Tennyson,
Baklava and Bronte.

We feed on each other's fresh ambrosia
As she lays her head on my chest,
Breathing softly, child-like,
Watching the candle flames
Cast visions of our future
Into my empty glass.

Untitled

The plum wine
is sweet like
kisses
on thighs.
I shake you
uncontrollably.
I am an
internal orgasm,
a clicking clitoris,
a violated vulva.
I have control
and you
will never leave me.

A poem for Anthony

In Juelas' apartment,
there is a skateboard.
It sits on a shelf.
Below the shelf is a row of candles lit.
The candles dance to Miles Davis sobs
and to the beat of young Sam Cooke's heart
long gone, for those staying strong,
and friends who stay and say goodbyes.

Years will pass and
Wrapping on unopened Christmas gifts
smelling of menthol cigarettes
still fastened with yellowed tape
will easily tatter;
and the picture of him on Santa's lap
will fade at its edges and on the red suit.
The skateboard will collect dust
and will be wiped clean monthly.

Yet memories of his apple-cheeked
jokes and laughter,
his bright eyes and smile
will remain.

Facing the Truth

(dedicated to Caiterona and Consanguine)

Last nite, all was still. Everything was divine. I fancied the moment, and I lived for the moment.

It had been days since I had heard the beautiful, mournful harmony. But I was soothed. I retired on my bed as the tides tossed me across the ocean. The nite was gentle like silk. As I travelled into the ewater I could hear the tides colliding against the rocks. I was lost in thought, and my thoughts were missplaced in visions.

The song began, and still, I drifted on the water and rode the tides as angels ride the wind. The violins could be heard again. Its sound grew louder as the tides diminished into the coast. The saltwater rolled down my face, and I couldn't tell if it were from the ocean or from my eyes. The water was getting immeasurable, and I began to sink.

I can not swim! I won't make it to see tomorrow.

The deep sound of the cello and teh charming chords of the violin informed me the end was near. I didn't want to believe the truth! The song would not repeat this time.

Today, all dreams came true, again.

There is no longer any peace. The doves can not mate any longer--they are impotent. I want to hear the sounds of the male enticing the female. But the creatures are beautiful, natural, and lifeless.

The Reality Show

Nothing is okay
in Tinsel Town!

Children play,
Mothers bake,
Fathers golf,
And dogs greet happily.


Doors shut,
Lights dim,
Curtains drawn,
And sadness follows everything.