in plain print, he tells me it's a hawk
with a broken wing

I close my eyes...all I see is a black,
greasy bird, barely bigger than a sparrow

not even worthy of Poe-itizing into a raven;
certainly not a fierce falcon

why can't I see thee, red tailed hunter?
you hiding in clouds adrift behind my eyes?

no, the crow's there, shining in a gold sun; seems
I'm not destined to imagine grander birds of prey

at least not today, reading your words of broken things,
the dark clouds of your dreams

"I Love You"s melted

Under my tongue 'til you were

Yet bitter nostalgia,

Yet the feeling of emptiness

Yet the absence of memories

Yet the memories of absence.


Let the shadow of those two petals rest

And rim a mirage over my lips.

Let that serve as a reminder of the venom behind every kiss.

Let me accept the reality that you mean me no good.

That I should’ve stopped when I still could.


Take heed that I want more.

Take to heart I’m too vulnerable to make these kinds of decisions.

Take pity that I’m too submissive to threaten your position.

Take this kiss as a final blow.

As a signature of defeat.

This coup d’etat

The last draw in heat.

a yellow flower
or two,

ones I can't name,

survived June's arid,
brutal assault

ant mounds abound; scorpions
aren't despondent

Timothy grasses, weeds
don't complain

always there are
mesquites

stubborn adolescents
unaware steer dung left
their ancestors here

this is not a place one
can walk barefoot

not even the Comanche
had such soles

I tried, but you
lashed out

leaving goatheads
and other burrs
in my heels

perhaps to
remind me

I bought you,

but I own
nothing

my limbs are cold and purple and i ache for the past;
they will be rosy soon (if it turns out to be raynaud's in the end)
cairo used to be a boom town, she said; it ain't anymore,
if we're talking about the same place
i miss the waiter in kentucky
he couldn't have been more than fifteen
someday he'll buy me a house

pull on my teeth, press my tongue, make me *****

when the shining glass looks back at us
like a stalled rerun of our personal opera
of soap, and the technicolor turns to charcoal gray
we know we are coming to the end of our day

and we look to other faces,
and their “windows to the soul,”
for a reflection of who we are, or
were; they cast an obligatory glance
or do an avoidance dance, when
we give an imploring stare
to see if they know,
we are still there

each day fewer shine bright
or glitter with glee and we wonder
what happened to me, the me they saw
and sought after in the colored world
of before

others disappear into their own dark night
having long endured their inevitable plight
of the cold mirror’s still, shattering view
and disappearing eyes of all but a few
who see us yet faintly in the light
that remains

why do blackbirds
leave so many brown droppings
on my white mailbox, riveted
to a red painted post, planted
in green Bermuda grass, by
a gray asphalt road, under
a baby blue eye sky

Whisper so softly
So we can hear angel's tears fall from the skies
Touch more gently
Than the wings of butterflies
Love unconditionally
With honesty and purity
Live happily
As tomorrow is not guaranteed

The gate is closed
I’m on the side of the locked in.
We have a sister, Hip Hop, and she’s dying;
To whom do we owe this sin?

Born in the late 70’s, the Bronx, the 1520,
She, in time, enamored a planet.
Tickling radios with her rhythms and rhymes--
She sends the mainstream into a panic.

But the mainstream is a blob,
Like the amoeba seeking to consume.
Stunned, at first, by my sister’s ribald glory,
It sought to place her in a commercial tomb.

We, the Underground, repel the popular--
The blob has locked tight this gate of the fresh.
Seekin’ to cheapen Hip Hop’s life valve,
Popularity is an Underground’s death.

Time was, Hip Hop was the ****.
Now, thanks to the blob, she’s nothin’ but.
Good news though, she’s not all dead,
Even now she’s being revived from a wholesale rut.

The streets are calling her back;
The Underground is stirring once more,
Our sister will breathe fresh again--
And render the blob forlorn.

Stretching up tiny little fingers to the sky,
Weeping out, forcing these unsaid words into the gut,
Breaking all 206 fragments of me,
Refusing to raise the white garment that declares,
It’s not yet over,
I will soar higher.
Somewhere out of reach,
Where the eye can never meet,
But first, I’ll be sober,
From all the despair,
Take a sip of honesty, that’s all I need.