You remind me
of a wet New York,
a summer of oily
lights on the roads,
of concerts in the park
and the white, loving claustrophobia
in the sky,
you remind me
of standing at a window
fourteen floors up
watching cars on FDR
in the darkness,
hoping that one of them
is yours,
you remind me of
sirens
always, you remind me
of
a confidante
in an alleyway
stale with garbage
always,
you remind me
of subways
and dark knowledge the length and width
of a city
always, you remind me
of crossing a bridge
over grey water
and pewter boats.

It is hard for me to let go
of the city
even as it dampens
in the slate rain;
and the stretched clouds
are pulled down
over the highrises of love.

There is good,
there is hope,
there is a future
even when understanding
is far off,
and malice
is the epicenter
of the human earthquake,
there is good,
there is hope,
even when
you feel like no one loves you,
and you just want to lay down
in midnights forever,
to be a nightflower
in black and blue gardens
under the tiger-stripes of the moon,
there is good,
there is hope,
there are paintings
painted with the colors
of dreams sweeter
than dappled sunshine
and mercurial march mornings,
there is good,
there are times
when you see me
when you can
and that is enough
for me,
there is good,
there is time
left for hope,
there is a clock on the wall,
there is a salve
to put on ticking hands
to make them stop
and make sweet movements in the air
again,
to make spring as cerulean
as glaciers,
with all the ice water
in the world
left to drink, there is good,
there is hope.

Nat called me,
said,
"I missed it."

Skyscraper to the sky,
hit me
hard,
rushed through my body
in a light year.

So bugged out,
I puked,
right there,
on the receiver.

"Are you ok?"

"Imma be fine."

But I wasn't,
I'll tell you how scared I was,
I was scared
of breaking her face
open
on the side of a sofa,
afraid of my father,
afraid
of just up and leaving,
being the father's
some of my friend's
fathers had become
awaiting the same fate
for them,
afraid of being my father,
afraid of over-eating
and taking up all the food
in the world,
afraid of being my father,
afraid
of
this being something
that would define
me
at age 18.

Afraid of being my father
but way younger
with the insanity of fear.

Nat got it
a week later,
but it still ***** me up,
because now
I think about the baby
that almost was,
because I think about the
father
I could've become,
the kind
that loves
his
child.

The kind
that doesnt' hurt the baby
and the woman
that birthed a new God;
the kind that is a channel
away from the tributary
and all the things
the tributary
could never be..

The raven
comes to me
constantly,
always in my dreams
crowding out the streets
where I made beer bottles
into Batman and the Joker,
clinking them against each other
mimicking a fight,
I could save everything
back then.

Now the streets are filled
with ticking feet,
the streets are filled
with streetlights
threaded with
feathers in the glow,
in the same
moment
I could wake up in a cold sweat,
****** myself,
fearful
that someone's in my
room,
I don't know what has happened
to my mind,
but it's not a safe place
any more,
no confidantes,
no saving grace
or saving bells
except the one
in the distance,
the foghorn
behind glass,
and the fog
a house
of caws.

My uncle left
his body for awhile,
he took on the
body
of a hungry man
and a traveller,
he became gaunt
and sold all of his
jewelry,
all that gold
that once made him
a king bloated with knowledge,
when my uncle left
he left for Arm & Hammer,
a few dreams
and the oncoming
swift of nightmares,
coming to the house in the morning
in his new body:
a bird
to grab in its
feet
all of its belongings.

The love
that fed him,
slept on its side,
and there are some things
worse
than death.

One day he flew away
like he would never return,
one day I loved him
and the next day
the sun rose with hate.

Now he sits at the table,
eating the food,
as God gives him a lapdance
or a beer,
or the love of his family,
everything returned,
everything sold
seemingly saved,
but in some ways
the hatred remains
as a reminder
that love will always
be stronger
than pain.

I've seen cops
way too many times,
too many times
to go through my ****
ripping apart pillows
with switches
and against my better judgment
I did nothing
as I heard the glass of
my grandmother's picture
being tossed around
in the back.

Too many times
asking me questions
about this
and that?
Him or her?
If you help us out,
we'll help you out,
understand?
in their rooms
where no love is grown
and no help is on the way,
their eyes were filled with the fire,
they were finally
gonna get this ******,
make him pay
for crimes he didn't commit.

Too many times
when i was asleep
in some old sewer,
and rolling up
asking me if i was on drugs
or drunk,
and if i didn't leave
they were gonna shove
a nightstick up my ***;
get me used to it.

Too many times have they slowed down
at a light
and turned slowly,
keeping their eyes on me
like I was a wolf,
when they had blood in their eyes
and teeth
in their holsters.

"Where you going tonight?"
as they surrounded me,
another inmate
inside the bounded
bars of an external prison.

Cops never helped me,
never asked
how I was doing,
or why I was doing it,
or why I felt trapped
inside my own body;
all they saw
was another ******
making problems
for the civilized people.

God will remember them,
just as I can't forget.

And most of the time,
it was other black men,
some fruit bred strong in them,
to hate them bottom-rung *******
because they had escaped
and remade themselves,
apparently.

In truth,
I have killed many of them
in my sleep,
but when I step back,
I see that they are a product
of the same system
that says the guns, drugs, and violence
are part of the ****** condition,
that only shows a ****** on tv
when he's *****, or killed somebody,
another mugshot for you to put in your
scrapbook of fear.


So, no I don't hate them,
I hate seeing people that look like me
getting killed
before they come to fruition.

I hate that
:"black"
is used as a term
meant to engender
fear.

I hate that I walk down the street,
and a white girl
walks ahead
turning around
to
check for me.

I hate that when me
and some of the homies
walk down the street,
our hoodies pulled over our heads,
people look behind us
for the grim reaper.

There is hope,
but without
it being fostered,
The fruits
die on the vine,
noosed up
in a new way
as they drop.

The boats in the harbor
flirt with the pilings,
their sails have trapped
nothing
and are flaccid,
the gulls scream at the masts,
scream while they lift
their spindly legs
and tiny feet
escaping
the noiselessness.

I sit with the sun
as it bursts
and the cirrus clouds,
like cotton,
are filled with blood
or tears,
or some brutal combination
of both,
as the needles
poke through the house
and the sun
is pushed out.