Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.

My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —

“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”

Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.

Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.

They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.

What is a lover, brother?
Other mothers
have tried to define the word
in the most absurd
form.
Reform —
torn
between AK-47 —
streamline railroads point to heaven
in a back alley,
where crossed fingers
pray for lucky number seven.
Chasing paper trails
like Miles Davis
works through manifest scales,
struggling to find
means to define:
what is yours is not mine.
Jazz squeezed a smoke
between sets,
through murmurs of bathroom ***
to the tune of
a show headlined by
the movement,
a movement headlined by
the show.
Marvin to Miles,
Martin to Malcolm,
opposites attract —
that’s how I found them.

I am wholly,
drowned in skepticism
at the religion I have nursed.
Bloodline filtered by faith
oceans drowning in fish,
they rebel against evolution —
never dare question rays of light,
what lies beyond seashores,
a galaxy spears stab free of testimony.

I became a man in suburbs of Dallas —
Eve crawled through whispers across earlobes,
loosened my buckle on restraint,
she planted seeds that led me to the cross,
between reason and faith,
the fruit I bore seems sweet to those blessed with filtered water,
far from the Atlantic.

I grieve at my mother’s sudden loneliness,
my father’s eyelids hang forever heavy,
my mother’s dulled knees through decades of prayer —
accustomed to the weight.
An alarming calm, tears flow and reign over us.
Breath,
fear where he is going,
what lies beyond the ocean,
galaxies unconverted,
free of testimony,
I am Holy.

**** it,
take another shot of whiskey,
with me.
Stumble to the liquor cabinet,
and let,
me stare down the barrel
of a loaded bottle
of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7,
a fluid bullet pulling
teeth to the tip of the tongue.
**** it,
get close and smell my perfume —
soon we'll dance.
Stand in my room,
soon we'll lay down.
**** it, you're good.
Better with a bottle.
High praise for Jack Daniel's,
because when you drink
you think you like me —
like an occupation.