there wouldn't be a beginning or an end
without a middle.  
start big and end big,
with a little middle.

Who Am I?

Well,
I must be
that ******,
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.


Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.


You see,
I must be
that ******,
a stand-in
for all other *******.
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******,
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******.

In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.

But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."

And If I happen to be a ******,
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******,
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******,
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******."

Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.

And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******,
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-*******
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."

Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,

not in the ****** way,

but the familial,
species way.

Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.

Search and find "******"
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.

I am not a writer.

I am a fox
in a man-suit
pretending to be a writer.

Just to trick you all.

Just to trick myself.

If I put down
the pen
and the pretententiousness;
pulled the costume off
in a papery rip like a jet breaking the sky,
and
looked in the mirror
to see
that fire of fur,
then it would mean
that there is something inside of me that I've been using as fuel.

Something
non-renewable.

I've followed you
still eyes, years, captivated and lost,
all for you
glancing up to the glaicers in the sky
bloated, full and passing
asking
" Where are you going?"

rain is washing you away
I'm the runner
following you down inside the dirt
from which you grew
tempting in your branch hands
you wanted me

the slightest movement:
I'm yours
longing underneath my fingernails
heart stretched like a sail,
deep breaths push me forward
chasing you
inching
closer to you

but you started to tred the earth before I knew where it was you formed yourself
covered in ice
before you met your first early morning cigarette, dressed in baby blue sky
long before you reconsiled with absent nights and blood cells
or night walks envisioning a flame too hot to touch
and there I was,
past years, past knowingness of nights and days, staring at the face of the moon

you

one glance, one presence, one feeling
gravity
placing me ten thousand steps behind to love you

following your every direction
moving with winds that carried you all around
closing my eyes to dream your next step
hoping
it was torward me

but it wasn't

and here we are
another winter coming
and soon another passing
and all I've had to say all these cycles of seasons,

"I will love you"

and all you had was another footstep
another mark inside me
enclosing me

this music plays on and on,
and the melodies i hear are the
sweetest taste upon my tongue

i kiss the pen that sings to me
and embrace the lover who
whispers stardust into my ear

I am an earthquake

In the desert

Working the rough sand to settle

In my belly

So that the ache in the pit of my gut

Might lose its shape

These shoulder blades feel like wings sometimes

Too bad these hands are prehensile

Not feathered or webbed

Just full of chemo-quake

And tremble

Unless I can hold your hand

Hold my hand

I’ll reverberate your ***** soul to settle

Till we’ve shaken the dust a firmament

Big enough to stand on

I need redemption enough

That stuck in the filter of my cleansing

Is enough dirt to build a hill to stand on

Forget heaven

When I can stand on the land of my past mistakes

And revel in the beauty I left behind

Don’t get left behind

And don’t go to heaven

Just stay with me in the middle

Where I have managed to compact this broken to solid

Like a ghost in a landfill

Haunt these hollow halls of filth with me

Until ***** is all that’s left

***** is all that is left

I understand that you might want to bathe sometimes

Not everyone can live like I do

Not everyone shares my infatuation

With broken things like I do

Let me get you just a little *****

Let me break you too

Let me recycle our fuckery

Till the filaments fit

I am a “found” artist

Making the broken beautiful

What everyone keeps forgetting

Is that even we are recyclable

And there isn’t anything that cannot be rebuilt

So let me make a new heaven

So that I can be like a ghost

Haunting a landfill