Because We Don’t Have Each Other

I don’t 

want to stand out

because I’m black

but I want to belong

in color

I don’t know what it means

to me

to be a coal

fractal, soul

full of sunlight

fists in air, but

it’s too much pressure

to be the only gate you have

into these prism-prisons

you call ethnicities

I guess it’s fair

brown skin, and untamable hair

not a magnet for moisture

but I can bear it

the weight of

misunderstanding falls on

all who wish to take

up

space

Black is hungry

solitude gives no solace

In our slumber we

call out for the dark side

of the moon – and deep

berries, Miles Davis, Nina Simone

to bury in our bellies and

Roll out of bed

still free

But empty

I don’t

want to stand in

your way of painting

your face but, it’s your big

pink eraser

I fear, I’ve lost

touch with 

the culture

my ancestors - part

blue-collars, black-necks,

white-teeth, red-flecks,

soft heart, loud rhyme,

join the army, the navy, or do

Time

is

up

To take up space is

it really enough

How many sides are

there in this war

with the past; I’m tired of

protest songs, they keep

telling me what to do

Ode To Be

oh to hear the sound of diligence

falling water over skin

oh to smell breath of intention

flowering and steeping in air

oh to fold passion in letters

hiding cologne, nectar, saccarine poetry

page after page, text after text

oh to be unabashed and welcome

more and more mirrors

I see you

and oh to collect sibling spirit

hand in hand without plan or divine

intervention

friendship of the fish praying with fins

we are this openness

an ode to each other

can you hear it?

oh to pool in agony, bloodshot eyes

recognizing the synchronicity, symphonic

I see you

oh to be a brush, cateye, winged tips

of night-filled clubs

oh to go Gaga and go ghost, gravely

with heartfelt goodbyes

I still

see you

oh

to see you

oh to recognize the shades, trajectory,

lines, boundaries, boundless Neptune

with heart on fire

I see you

an Ode To Be

November

Gluttony swarms my stomach

a hundred a thousand a fillion worms

nestling bursting birthing themselves

dusting shelves of what I remember being

How could you

Now books are dropping like flies

From the wall

don’t know to whom these words belong

Come claim your prize

My dignity my burrowing pride

YES it’s my strength you’re reading

it’s depleting now nourishing dirt

Fertile if only for a morning

I can’t fill my gut with anything more

The moths glittering in me are drowning

So, sea-section them out in out in

Close suture and stitch with creeping vines

Take me

Seriously

Or, consume me

‘fore I consume myself a frantic pire

for Black Is A Hungry Color

Poem a day drafts 1-7

Jan.1

They call it circulation;

this breathing. They

just forget that

circles are

zeros.

These patterns

mean nothing. Even

existence is gasping and

screaming in the dark.

Spilled absence and

lung-distilled air;

both, 

heavy.

Helios and Chronos

both kept on the calendar;

unaware 

of the other. Flybys

measure days, count years;

toils and harvest are

the sum of a man.

On the third rise in June when

the summer sun begins

its rotting hobby,

North America tells this sun

to celebrate how many

rings Saturn has

acquired.

One band

and two bands

and now three. This

is the value of a man.

How long he can

hold his breath

until the father

opens his

eyes.

Jan.2

   Marbles t o s  s   e  d

  from m a  r   b   l    e

 co u  n   t   e   r    s 

 Peb bles 

    f a ll

   fr    om

 e   a     rs .

Logique: « J’ai rais on de sentir

             to come home

                      is to lose

                         motive. »

Intuition: « J’ai be soin d’Ex pander

            t he se n se s .  »

When

     lilies petal

       do you   glue

       t h e  s h r a p n e l  

   back   onto 

the bulb ?

Bold people 

« fleurer à la chance

   of dis in tegrat i on . »

Masterwork;

f o r mu la f o r 

perfect dissociation.

A new world, A new 

                       color

    Zenith opposes

          the path we

                      take

to our core.

And our earth,

       small orb, 

   a child’s toy

rests in the

hands

of whomever

didn’t drop

i

t

.

Jan.3

My heart is

frozen again. It’s

too scared to go 

forward. And I’m

tripping on its strings;

violin wires, in the key of 

high e. It’s petrified permafrost, 

drifting along open sea.

A shrill ship bow,

stern and true,

scrapes off more

music than it

can chew. Now

sink. There, that

feels good, doesn’t it?

To think, you thought 

this voyage would

be simple, and

your vessel

wouldn’t

break.

Icebergs are

grand gestures

of love; not your usual

dowry, but it’s me.

And, you say

we’re a we.

So the least you

could do is learn to 

sing on key. Perhaps,

the resonance will 

shake just right.

And we’ll wear

beautiful

rings.

Jan.4

Bubble-born

Ballooned-brain

Snow-flake

Clean, transparent

Charred, awake

Meteor-shower (not made for wishing)

Blood-bath (not made for fishing)

Sun-soaked

Pop-trash

Wasting time,

Stayin’ alive

Betty Crocker croaked

You shouldn’t smoke

Right to live

Right to die

Silly, we all know how to lie

I can’t help but feel

somebody’s watching

Tie it together for me, would ya?

In a pretty bow? I

don’t know how to grow, I

don’t know where to go

from here. I was never

punctual. So, spare me

the lecture. I want to cry

when I need to cry.

I need to run

when I want

to run.

So stop

trying to 

suck me dry.

I’m dripping, and 

I won’t apologize for

the passion I lost on your

floor. Because I’m a bubble-born

Snow-flake, too good for you, too 

good-for-nothing. But, this is a new

year. There’s always a new generation

for you to fear. I’ll keep it accurate, 

and focus on truth. I’ll get off the

soap-box, if you do too.

Jan.5

I can still feel still feel

these words these words

breadcrumbed lovers in youth in youth

I would steal away away

sipping echinacea under snow under snow

I harvest mud mud

clinging boots boots

in the dozing sunlight sunlight

a shier blue than my spirit my spirit

what narcissus would give his own give his own

mirroring passion is easier is easier

than creating it from the thin winter air winter air

is still in my lungs in my lungs

wherein lies my tie my tie

to my core my core

idyllic light dustings and deep freezes deep freezes

February was an icebox left open left open

it whistles my name my name

that I almost forgot almost forgot

Jan.6

Lip Drip, Spill Mind’s Cup

We Overflow with the Day

Leap into Cocoon

Jan.7

Figures of black

running from the mirror

that is a lake,

under moongaze.

Bow to her, offer no fear,

feed the earth your tremble; your shake.

Don’t get near

her milky haze.

You’ll be lost in hair.

Her braids are no road; it’s unclear

how one makes it back

through the mind’s maze. 

They call her Eau Claire,

her children, her deer.

The ink stains; figures of black.