I am not a poet.
I am only a wanderer in the marketplace of words,
a fool who follows the glimmer of syllables
as others follow the scent of bread.
Poetry is not ink on paper.
It is the pulse beneath the page
a breath moving through the hollow reed of the poet,
a secret that leans close to the ear of the heart.
When I meet a poem, I bow.
I circle it once,
then twice,
then again,
as though it were a shrine whose mystery
can never be entered in a single step.
Each reading strips away a veil.
Sometimes the veil is my own blindness,
sometimes the poet’s mercy in hiding the flame
until I am ready.
There are nights I leap from sleep crying, I have it!
and mornings when the truth laughs,
gently reminding me:
Child, that was only the shadow of the meaning
come back, and drink deeper.
Poetry is a journey without map or return.
It is the caravan of joy
that passes through my heart again and again.

You pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm.
You fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm.

We waltz through the wreckage,
the crown and her guest.
Your hem lined with ashes,
the last of what’s left.

The clerk asks for blood.
The stone has run dry.
We promise, tomorrow
and feed him with wine.

The clouds now move faster,
with voice of hard wind.
It speaks to you only
as thunder moves in.

You twist here beside me
and curl like a vine,
your teeth in my shoulder,
reliving some crime.

You hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows.
Your secrets stay hidden.
Your tears are so loud.

Who am I?
I get asked this question a lot
But I really don’t think there’s no need to answer
Because like a cancer
This tumorous disease eats at me
Like cell-to-cell
Like a hell of tales
Burning my flesh and soul
To an endless loop of fear, pain, and trauma
Am I a man?
Am I a child?
Am I considered wild?
A beastly creature
Am I a Black male?
That gets stereotyped for having a darker shade than others
For being wrong all the time but never right
That gets stereotyped for having a stereotype
That gets profiled for not having a profile
Am I a child that has his whole life is determined, with two words,
Test scores!
Test scores that get me into college with a lifetime of debt or prison with three hots and a cot.
Tests that weren't even set up for us at all
Rigged from the beginning  
That western thinking    
Am I a Black boy,
That has no father to lead him, guide him, and show him how to be a man?
Am I an adolescent,
That gets stereotyped for either gang banging or caine slagging?
A **** - The Hate You Give
That is at a constant struggle with oneself on when to be tough, reckless, and wild
Or when to be joyful and have a smile
A savage
An impatient fiend for the white skin
Yearning for a fix
Like Birth of a Nation
When we birthed this nation
A Criminal
That can never be trusted
Ignorant,
Stereotyped for not knowing how to read or write
Illiterate
Mentally *******
Different
Not like me, so I hate you
Not like me, so I chase you
Not like me, so I **** you
Strange
Like strange fruit
I hang
My neck snaps
PULL!
Hang
Cracks
PULL!
Hang
POPS!
Freeze
Burn!
Maybe I'm Insane,
For being a crack baby
Or from the medicine that Mommy and Daddy said the doctor gave me
Or since my dad put gaping holes in my mom
From hollow tips to hollow trips
Doctor visits to Child Protective Services
Psychoanalysis for my Psychopathic Analysis  
Needing an antibiotic for this infection
An antipsychotic for that depression
Inadequate
Insufficient funds
Scares
Impoverished
I don’t know, you tell me
As these words speak free
I ask again
Who am I
Shouldn’t I decide and be free?