“Oh honey
you need a stool
They shouldn’t be making you stand
this long. Mhm, get you a stool”
A voice with
a curved back
that seemed to reach from her tiny shoes
and almost back to the floor again
said grinning
A red cloak and old, powdered brown face
Adorable, right?
“Yo, she just stole from the store”
What?
Right.
Adorable
it’s cold out here
i lost my token
forgot my change as i stepped in
missed the bar as the bus jolted forward
and was heading to the floor with my face
when an older man
concern in his ebony eyes, and
gripping his cane, gripped my arm just as hard
i didn’t fall that day
A neighborhood’s blood pumps thick
busting through vessels stickin to the sides of deactivated muscles
limp fingers flail where once a fist formed
forced acceptance replaces the anger
‘that lingered in every household
silent voices reign
into the gutters of the ghetto
cold sunshine drapes clotheslines packed with designer labels
but still bills laid unpaid, slurpin government checks through the mail slots
Lives tormented by words unsaid
Shoot up the anecdote to the ebb and flow
as T-cell counts drop low down through inconspicuous looks of lust tossed
affecting the whole race of us
dangerous
are these perforated prophylactics littering school grounds
children bearing children already heaven bound
as boroughs pulsate
unclean red hate spilled onto the pavement
meant to transport
the souls of our soles
steppin over the next gunshot victims ghost as he grabs at your ankles
On your way to the liquor store?
Or Crown Fried?
condemn this hood’s arteries
facilities cloggin the mentalities of the people
bleeding onto insulin detectors
kidney failure running rampant shutting down our natural bullshit filter
sprinting through our systems
Break our blood
drop by drop into America’s pot
before they cleanse our culture in assimilated soaps
exalt our hope for freedom in sudsy prisons
where we sing our souls blue through bars on hip hop notes
Spit this verse written for you
Money fuels the industries manufacturing artists
willing to appease the crowd
i want bloodfire pumpimg in my veins
to see clearly the obstacles placed in front of me
take every neighborhood by the lifeless limb to the mountaintop
just over the horizon
wars peace isnt between death and defeat
our blood shed will never be a means to an end
a means to an end
is our blood boiling
with a renewed sense of justice
This is a call to action
Everyone trailer parks Bayamon boogie down boriquas in their mothers kitchens cooking rice and hotdogs downtown chinatown italianos chicanos the village jamaica in queens
This Is A Call To Action
Life, Love, and The Pursuit of Happiness
its in the blood
get it pumping
with revolution
into those dead fingers
then ball it
into a fist.
In the dead of night, when mischief meets the crux of infamy, she attempts to break into her own house. Brown, cat-like. Jag lives on the second floor of a brownstone down the street from a festering middle school and project development. She was never allowed to visit. Her mom, has inconveniently forgotten the keys again. No matter.
I am warrior, superman scaling the steps in a single bound, and carefully hopping over the railing, to dangle off the side of the building. Maybe, Spider’s better. Spider’s building, doors, and windows have reinforced iron black bars, except, for the middle window in her apartment missing a few to accommodate the air conditioner. But, in winter, it’s just an opportunity. She loops her paws around Brooklyn bars, swinging to the middle window.
Her mom’s pulse quickens from the ground. Sometimes, she thought, child you astound me. You are all at once brave and dumb. Something and nothing like me. Who will you be?
Spider unlatches the window and slithers in, then bursts from within the gate with a glowing smile of accomplishment. She is eight.
I wish I could freeze them, but it’s not up to me. She needs to make her story, her mom needs to watch her grow. My narration can’t stop the story, can not prevent her losing happiness or the willingness to climb. Can not predict her falling into a man’s bed or visiting the projects with wide eyes. I can’t stop Cat’s stumble or rise. Can not give you answers that language hasn’t solved yet.
I exist in the shade of her existence, documenting. Wishing I had answers for her confusion so she didn’t hurt. God, I hear her bleeding heart needing to be loved, clamoring around in brown skin that doesn’t always fit.
Girl, if you hear me, this is not all there is. It gets better.
I haven’t penned. even now i miss poetry.
the need, its solace, the release.
Where did it go. is a poet’s pen whose has not known paper still a poet
Am I?
Good lord girl
What made you think
that we didn’t know
that you know
that we knew
your weave looked fucked up?
People don’t always avoid eye contact
They look out
for old neighbors friends
a public reunion on transportation
when a fights breaks out
we all acknowledge each other
stuck in the thick
of the city
together
i will lay here until days become nights becoming days until you smile at me or until cities crumble into seas
emery and alone
american woman you’re no good for me
chemical jacoa beans
whispers to me
my cheeks sanguine into a hot headed red
sometimes
i wish i were dead
but here i am living
and on the verge
all I can think of is his last words
playing in his hair while he tries
to write a new poem
to me
You hate me
because of the color of my skin
You are disgusted by my
supposed inferiority
You act like a devil wielding a whip
because of the way I move and think and speak
and sing
No
you hate me
because of my pride
strength to work in the blisterin sun
to take a hit and keep on comin
my ability to capture the rhythm of the beat
to have good times when shit’s all bad
to keep my head up when I should feel sad
because I step like a Queen
even though you beat mock torture and abuse
my body but not my soul
No, tell the truth
you
fear me.
The Poetry Corner 