When I think of B a l t i m o r e…
I think of heads hung
low;
Tides-- refusing to flow
Closed minds & troubled eyes.
Smoke in the faces of children
Who didn’t ask to be born in
Bus exhaustion
or Natural Caution.
“Ain’t nobody happy here.”
The streets creep
With tar that seeps
Along broken glass jars
(in brown paper bags, which I need not say-
for the people can’t stand-
the memories that stay)
The faces rot!
With frowns
And heads pointed
down.
Bus stops.
Endless amounts
Of cops >
Along
Graveyards & graffiti art:
Children fussin’ at each other for getting’ smart
Girls
Goin’ to class
To brush their hair
& stare
-into the mirror // rorrim eht otni-
to paint their faces
pace-less
because they think [know]
that’s the only way to make a name
in these places
Full
of
ageless, strugglin’ sameness
graveyards
&
graffiti art.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
She came into the class
Scared and confused
Perhaps tired and sick
Of wearing her mask…
Disgusted, she said,
“A boy stuck his tongue out at me!”
I looked her over
Up &
Down
And very care
-fully did I see
That her very tiny skirt
Rested way above her knee
Did this girl,
really, not know?
That her body will beckon? And she ain’t 12 no mo’!!
That she is—
In fact,
No longer a girl
But woman of curves: a woman of nerve
Who must take on the world
And everything that it serves?
So for the rest of her life,
Wherever she goes
She will see the tongues of men
Both young
& old.
No matter what
She does
Or doesn’t
Know
She’ll be pinned up against
The urges they possess.
Through no fault of her own,
She’ll become an object
to discuss
And she’ll cringe daily
At the ideas that
They thoughtfully
conjure up.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC