Your Mother Wears a House Dress

If your house

is a dress
it’ll fit like
Los Angeles
red sun
burning west,
deserts, fields,
for certain it will
drape even
a boy no less
boy in disrepair
wandering from shore
to crest, others
mistake his
searching for
despair, no,
never, but
for thirst,
cloaked as
he is, warm,
radiant in a
house dress.

By Joseph O. Legaspi

Like Children

My knee joints knocked from a lifetime of running

nothing would bring more joy than the sight

of losing the neighborhood boy in the wake of my stride

I’d track buses, chase dogs

just to break a sweat

but when our old souls met

my body had yet to learn that we’d slow eventually

we’d run together

do you remember

spitting in the face of our youth

we’d boast that neither one of us had ever moved faster

so we ran

we’d race

side by side

knees aching as age begged us to quit

but we were in love with it

the thrill of who can get to the door faster

loser makes dinner, winner stays forever

doesn’t matter

the car’s around the building across two lawns and a parking lot

we’d take off like the Olympics

he was leg, thigh muscle

but I was all distance

this was the way we lived, our existence

all gleeful and foolish

First time my knee gave out I was astonished it buckled under me. Stitches upon keloids upon black marks and scuffs that I never thought twice about until a pain bounced

so lightning quick

from there through my skin and muscle and bone that in a moment of shrouded clarity

I thought who shot you

as I tumbled a little down the stairs I had visions of intruders taking flight, aiming the gun just right, so that I could never run again.

Panic bit up my ankle

leapt onto my chest

started to dance

If I am shot

if my faithful knee has fallen whom would I run to

where would I go

My pulse quickened. Minutes seemed to pass. I’d never two step or tap my feet in anger or ruthlessly beat the kids in tag because I’m petty and bigger.

Heart sounded so loud in my ears as I clasped my leg

what if I never run with you again

what if I never run to you again

 

They End

Bolted upright I ask aloud to a sleeping room

“Is this a dream”

The timbre of my voice weighs down my ears, letting

me know that it’s not

Instinctively I feel for the dip.

Cool. Empty

Tiredness shoves me back into the pillow as if to say,

“Yes it always was but you knew that already”

I pray for answers that won’t come from simply having been asked

I used to pray loudly

out in a pasture where no one but ghosts could witness

now everything’s silent mutterings as I lull myself back

to restlessness

“It’s okay. It was a good dream.

Good dreams get to end.”

 

The Pursuit Of

we real cool

we beat slow

mellow flow hold

the fluidity at a

decibel of a syllable

go

vent

we street meat

in the belly

we brew steady heavy

live accents &

accidents

 

No Dash Needed

I am not   African-American

there’s no dash needed

if anything

I am

a native spook who sat by the door

listening for opportunity,

devout in my non

ever

shifting

identifty

making lemonade.

from “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”

You’ll get mixed up, of course,

as you already know.

You’ll get mixed up

with many strange birds as you go.

So be sure when you step.

Step with care and great tact

and remember that Life’s

a Great Balancing Act.

Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.

And never mix up your right foot with your left.

By Dr. Seuss

I am

I am mine & mine only

I am mine & mine only

I am mine & mine only

I am mine & mine only

I am mine & mine only

I am mines & mines only

I am mine & mine only

I am mine & mine only

I am mines & mines only

I am mine & mine only

It’s okay, I won’t let you

fall again.

She held her close

this little piece of herself.

 

Self Evident

It’s not so much the truth that bothers

Truths like lies

can sometimes shift

so whether they’re spat or whispered

they’ll always unfold

It’s the lying that kicks up the brick dust

The you can lie to them, we all do it

We’re all a them to someone

Where honesty hung off the tongue ready to dive

there’s only omission

a clean unwillingness

to break down and be an outright liar

Cowardly, feverish, but ready

my truth will lay in wait in trenches of jowls

Let the world have it

when necessary

when commanded

until then

Fuck’em my shit is self evident

The Secret Explanation Of Where Poems Come From

If ever you are in the room with those

Lost in the reverie of poetry

And struggling to guide their thoughts, they close

Their seeking eyes to help them better see;

If ever you have watched a poet’s face

Composing line within a world inside

No other soul can witness nor divide;

Then you are not alone in wond’ring, “Where,

While all their flesh and blood on Earth remains,

Do poets take their thoughts before they bare

Them back transformed? Where is a poem’s domain?”

This verse will not reveal from whence it came,

And poets–they write poems to explain.

–Allan Wolf