In Orange County


In Orange County, Californiyay,
When you arrive at John Wayne Airport,
No need to show driver license or passport,
But be prepared for inspection to gain entry.

Are your teeth white enough to light the roads?
Is your navel hairless and clean enough to be licked?
Do you have two tats, if not, get going back
to wherever!

If your not blonde, produce pictures of your parents,
In any event, law demands, go directly to the colorist!
Everybody smiles and says hello, so friendly,
But having mastered the technique of doing so
While looking over and past you, rest assured,
Your New York sensibilities of ignoring the movie star
Sitting next to you on the subway feels like the ultimate,
True cool.

In this place the sun never sets, which is why the citizens
Have sunglasses surgically attached to their heads.
Have not seen a big nose 'cept mine
Being looked down on from people who by law
Must be a minimum of six feet tall.

Need my gritty, need my cabbies giving me the finger,
Need the senior citizens fighting tooth and elbow for anything on sale,
Need my rivers, need to bleed orange and blue,
Need my ballet, my museums, my rude compatriots,
Who rush to your side when you sidewalk stumble,
Who never judge a book by its cover,
Cause the jerk next to you is likely the author.
Who open their pockets and hearts to every needy person,
Hand extended, give 'em a buck, genuinely wish 'em God Bless,
They who let us share the fabric, woof and weave of our
City streets, their homes...

I got beach, I got mountains,
So maybe they're not visible from my living room,
But I got more living in the hearts of my fellow Yorkers,
Than there are grains of sands on the beaches of
Orange County.

the last time i was home
to see my mother we kissed
exchanged pleasantries
and unpleasantries pulled a warm  
comforting silence around
us and read separate books


i remember the first time
i consciously saw her
we were living in a three room  
apartment on burns avenue


mommy always sat in the dark
i don’t know how i knew that but she did


that night i stumbled into the kitchen
maybe because i’ve always been
a night person or perhaps because i had wet
the bed
she was sitting on a chair
the room was bathed in moonlight diffused through  
those thousands of panes landlords who rented
to people with children were prone to put in windows  
she may have been smoking but maybe not
her hair was three-quarters her height
which made me a strong believer in the samson myth  
and very black


i’m sure i just hung there by the door
i remember thinking: what a beautiful lady


she was very deliberately waiting
perhaps for my father to come home  
from his night job or maybe for a dream
that had promised to come by  
“come here” she said “i’ll teach you  
a poem: i see the moon
               the moon sees me
               god bless the moon
               and god bless me”  
i taught it to my son
who recited it for her
just to say we must learn  
to bear the pleasures
as we have borne the pains



Nikki Giovanni, “Mothers” from My House. Copyright © 1972 by Nikki Giovanni.

honey you should see me with the crown
jewels stack atop a pyre
moaning like a beatnik and a 4 AM cheap hooker
at a truckstop in Saint Louis

i have heard the failure
of words dripping
from ten thousand suburban roofs
from tongues of boys who would
have been around the point
of intellect and left with
nothing but like's and um's
and snatches and playing
with their privates
and slogans like
hip hobart my hip hobart
and god bless america
and for god and country
and heil hitler

wheres the last train to cool
out of a moral landscape
from a moral heart
from a moral chest

shine your shoes read the news
about motel art and the price of oil
clinging to the side of a lifeboat
of boredom and inadequacy
in a world of grey pinstripes
and papers in latin with seals
of broken fuse boxes and cluttered attics

ive heard crying
bookshelves and binary friend limbo
playground bullies and their mother's
nipples when they were bit in the 90's
all in the shape of noise to come

in uncommon deference
to blow
to blew
to never better
to the shake shake
shaking of basements
on broken foundations

honey you should see the chop of Seneca
and the drowning of dumb
deaf blind Zarathustra

little lolita
and the feminist freak of new york
leatherface donatella
and dead gianni on a gold lacey pillow
saint angie no boobs, god bless her
and kill william in a yellow suit
don't forget thatcher
and ugly eleanor red roses and velvet
it's marilyn monroe or joan holloway
it's the curvy precious of purity
and act of innocence
it's anne frank, the jewish sweetie
jean harlow who reeked of virginity
but realized too late
that it's only for the boys
who love white and pretty floral things
i say to women,
have lots of dirty sex
and cut off your boobs
chop your fucking hair off
fuck the feminists

painting red across my wrist
and all i wanted was a better view
"wake up"   it says   "let's go get high"
my cheeks flushed hot red
damped by my fears
bored because i'm dumb
it calls me a queer
my mind although
is a riot that you watch
from your tv
pupils dilated
doll parts scattered
bless my body
bless my soul
wrap it up in
turpentine
you're so fucking
fabulous babydoll
you fit right
fucking in