Beneath the chin
of your BK brownstone
we’d sit

    bodies slung
          across steps

eyes
                   flung
across skies

city simmering
in northern fog

concrete cradling
a northern frost

the backdrop of 86th
         jetting
         above
         our
         heads

you asked me
if I still thought
New York was all
it was cracked up to be.
Yes.

Of course
when your southern tipped - tongue
drips out the words
"I want to move up north"
everyone whose roots
reach deep below the belt
of the Mason Dixon
will ****** your face
in their gaze
and warn you bout
that Northern Disregard.

But don't listen to their tales
of discarded homeless
people plastered cross pavement.
Tell them bout those
who find home amongst
the clutter of 125th
with warm eyes
that search the cold
looking for laugh lines
and loose change.

Tell them
how they maintain
an open hand
good for grasping
and an open mouth
good for un-gourging
their gapped - toothed grins
of wisdom.

You tell them
that these people
with the wrinkles
of a wise man
may not have much
but they share
what they got.

You tell them
that no matter
where we're from
we've all got a little
Southern Hospitality
stained in our smiles.

Tell them
that you'll be fine
and pray you're right.

I promise
this poem won't be
as tragic as the others.
I won't sneak
the spine
out of your smile.
I won't midnight sky
pour shadows
over your sun rays.
let me wake
that sun of yours.

I promise not to place
no sad stories
in that space
beneath your chest
that I hijack so often.

I promise not to
coffin dig up
my past dreams
post marked
maybe.
But baby,
this box cutter pen
cradles hearts
so well.

Carves the dark
so well.

But I promise
not take it out
on account
that you say
sharp things
make you nervous
and I need you
to know
that i'm working
on not hurting.

And you say slim
why don't you
take a day off
from this poetry thing?

So here I am
standing staff stance
at the banks
of a page's shore
not trying
to part tears
only pouts.

Only speaking
to sprout smiles
since I know
how uncomfortable
you get
when I spit
them sad poems.

or them mad poems.

So today
I'll put away
my soap opera tales
and tattoo some red
over my blues
for you.

and for a once
i'll forget my worries
and you remind me
how well my smile
reflects in your eyes.

Who you know
with wrists like mine?
that can flick
and fetch the waters
from their sleep.

I sling my hair
and dare the waves
to crash their crests
against the rocks.

I wash my foes
of their flaws.

Those men
who cast their eyes
along my curves
have no business fishing
for my lines
when they've got wives
at home
so I hold their stares
as I stir their demise.

Their ships
my lips
both parting
to the rhythm
of high tide.  

I tried to warn them.
I tried to keep them at bay.

Away
I sang.
But they got so tied
on my tongue
and its tune
they missed the poison
perched on my lyrics.

I lift the sea
'cause I seek their attention.
I am tempted to hang a sign:

Dear sailor boys
untie your fix
on my hips
before you find
your bow broken.
- Sincerely Siren.

on the corner of conroy
and kirkman
a man who didn't look
a day past dirt
poured me a grin
as i poured out
my change for him.

an army green sack
draped over his back
drank the coins
while the old man's
gums roared
the kind of wisdom
that only comes
with age
and maybe an once
of crack *******.

he leaned into the
driver's side window
and said dear
DON'T BURN THE CHICKEN!

*shrugs

on the last night
of the june breeze
that i spent tucked
between your hips
and my home
i heard
almost as faint
as a wing flutter
your tongue unfurled
the sounds of your streets
against my ear.

pavement hard but
sweet as a plum liquor

spelled out avenues that
have become rose pastures.
hoods that have
grown thick in themselves
with petals stained
of red rich violence
cross brown bones
but those bullets
bear no color.

taxi swift
yet city street thick

buzzing the sounds
of a place with half
the people
yet twice the traffic.
the kind of
tuesday twelve fifteen traffic
that i never understood
but you made action
where you lost sense.
dropped clips into the alleys
where the cops
wouldn't go
and pierced a limb
or two on the way.

cheeks filled with
with sticky bliss
bashed the demure
of downtown
cause the magnificent mile
ain't got ish
to the brick backbones
of them cook county temples
tourist tend to
trip past.

on my last night
here with you
i want to do
nothing more than wash
the windy city out of me
before state lines
baptize my view
of your anatomy.
pipe my gums
with this Crest
and brush your
taste out of me.

see big cities
have stained my tongue before.
new york is still in there
and i ain't even been there
in years.

i've caught tears
streamlining down
the crest of my cheek
at the taste
of chips of bay ridge
in my teeth.

so why don't
you just get lost?

the lingering lisp of your
shoreline sure does
last a tad
past welcomed.
matter of fact,
a tad past passed
two ticks before
your beach sands
sank my hips.
your lips have learned
too well
the outline of
my spine poured
against your banks boy.

so no thanks boy.
i don't want your tee shirt.
i don't need your silhouette
sketched in my memory
let alone my key chain.

and you keep saying
i'll be back
but i'll believe that
when i'm 30,000 ft up
straddling your boarder
by boeing.

and there i was.
all of 3 and a half,
draped in hopping silhouettes;
neck deep in swaying hips
and blaring tunes
tied to kick drums.
dramatic rim taps
and wingtips cluttered
cross the wooden floor.
surrounded by tall men with
tall women whose heels
unforgivingly grazed
the groaning floor boards.
their gowns thick
as kitchen curtains
that seemed to flutter
like butterflies in hurricanes.

i heard the summer whisper;
her hums sweetly floating
through grand windows
tall as ten of me;
tasting the rhythm
with her tongue,
she blew a cool sigh;
flooding the steaming stew
of old souls with young bones.
sunk real deep between
4 counts and hi hats
to twirl her way
into their step;
a type of swing
'cept it had a bounce to it
like steeple chasers.
those ladies with copper faces
and stone seasoned roots
with joints as old as time
played tag with the down beat.
those daddys dodging
in their tailoreds
like taxis in traffic;
toxic with a plague of ghouls
like the Count, King Cole
and Billie, Fitzgerald, Gillespie.

Then,
just as the summer silenced her hiss,
just as the sun
dug its heels into the dirt,
making its last ditch efforts
to remain present,
dusk untied its bows;
unwrapping a gift like glory.
and we were bathed in glory
that laughed like lovers
and kissed like dogs.
it drenched us in sloppy showers
glistening gold like sweat.
yet still,
we emerged refreshed.
so as the night
began its usual
chocking down of day
and good afternoons
cacooned into goodevenings,
i stood there;

all of 3 years old.
surrounded by silhouttes
that could only belong
to old souls with young bones
who belittled big bands
with their own vibrations;
those copper ladies
and skyscraper sized fathers
in tailored suits
who two stepped
to both sunsets and groove
grew into shadows.
and i stood in the midst of
those dimmed stars;
stamina riddled.
knowing that as
a summer day died,
a summer night
had only just begun.