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.