Street Balconies Can Cry

a small breeze blows through his cerulean sweater

as he stares off into the distance

the dancing lights below

the fire escape

lean under his weight

i see him

at first he is steady, Herculean

imagining the jump

All at once he crumples into himself

like folded paper

back against the wall

he screams

burying his face as tears race

drowned out by the bustle

the pedestrians shuffle

through intersections, restless

they glide about oblivious

as just above them a man’s love dies

The bricks nick his sweater and I want to comfort him

to brush down the stray hairs with wet fingertips

it will get better

His lover peeks

out of the shadow

sneaks onto the ledge

to whisper a liar’s prayer

and hope that he isn’t there         crying

i need him

they meet

words pass silently and all at once

the sad eyed blue of the brown man

stands

yelling,

from what i could tell from here,

all his heart feels

the carnal cardinal red

of the lovers

dread

hangs into his face

shading his shame

i should help end this

here

waiting

underneath the fire escape

 

 

River’s Run

Fell asleep under the river’s run

listening to the thunder and rain

Take them to the river

pack their shit for an escape

we’ll be one

and run with the waves

Learn to swim

or would

you rather die here as slaves

I fell asleep and it carried me to a secret place

where honey flowed

like over watered graves

the mint you could pick was too sweet

the trees spat up milk

implanted by the bees

It was backward and beautiful

pretty faced people told no lies

and everything lovers whispered

was theirs to hide

This is where

at the river’s divide

the thunder

died  

The Meaning Of Simplicity

I hide behind simple things so you’ll find me,

if you don’t find me, you’ll find the things,

you’ll touch what my hand has touched,

our hand prints will merge.

 

The August moon glitters in the kitchen

like a tin-plated pot (it gets that way

because of what I’m saying to you),

it lights up the empty house and

the house’s kneeling silence–

always the silence remains kneeling.

 

Every word is a doorway

to a meeting, one often cancelled,

and that’s when a word is true:

when it insists on the meeting.

–Yannis Ritsos, Greece

Left Pocket

My heart le                                                                            into his left pocket

a                                                                      d

p                                                           e

t                                               l

onto the floor               w

and cra

crawling_heart_by_shikyo1455-d47fb0c

Prayer

our Father I do love to walk
down to the shore at dawn
while the ground is cold
and there sprinkle my cells
to smashed ocean radios
I dream that I was born
with no tongue and that
I can neither ask nor
answer nor understand
questions about where
I come from that the waves
are my clapping sisters
so many dark swallowed
ships my deleted thoughts
cannon and coin pulp
my new body and that any
one of a million canyons
trembling with the psalms
of stones is my easily
remembered mother who
easily remembers me

–By ​Nathan Parker

Every Time

every time

 i get zapped for my energy

and think i can’t

write anything

some new shit happens

&

I’m back

into my grind

trying desperately

to get rid

of my inspiration

The Garden Of A Child

I entered the garden of my childhood days after

the storm had passed over. A gentle breeze was

blowing and the sky was blue. Seeing in the

undergrowth a bird that had come out of an egg

only a little while ago and had fallen down, I

put it back in its nest.

It all happened yesterday. Today I am a grown-up

man again, and I just can’t put anything back in

its proper place.

–Nirendranath Chakravarti, India

 

To YHWH

why make me this way

all painted and poet brown

like black women sleeping in silk caps

praying it lays their hair flat

not born but bred 

to carry the cotton sack

a touch away from the fairy tales

we tell ourselves

 

buried bones triple axle across a lake of frozen dreams

 

The way I’m is

I’ve loved left and leapt

changing my heart’s mind with the cool breeze of a whim

unable to warm my daughter’s hands

the invisible man,

whose breaths give him away in winter 

 

I put on normalcy like a stiff cloak

to tackle the little anxieties of the day

at home, unsheathed and alone

I wonder aloud

Why I’m made this way

 

Smear this idea of fate 

on with a thick brush

dipping in faith

to replenish the bristles

as I write the rest down

from my burning castle

 

Theft

I’m breaking-in to tomorrow

with the complete resolve to rob that new person blind

whoever she is

imprisons what I have always wanted

I’m busting in to the dawn of a year

and dragging her riches

back to the past

so she can remember

that I was here.

 

–Ariama Long