pseudo-expression's
       jagged diamonds
  a fugazi sans brilliance,
  shiner midst vague skies
           in the eye of
       practical indifference

I come from a place
you had to hustle for a date,
words were chosen not for
their rhyming
but for survival,

in this land a kid had to be a man
from ten, had to learn words to keep
him breathing,
and his family was a crackhead mom, a different
dad for all ten
of us

A diaper , you learned to steal for your
baby sister and put it on her, mom was gone dads all
wherever, hustle was taught young,
because we had to eat.

So we all ran for the man. Made a buck
and a good shiny pair of Nikes.
fed  our siblings and ran from the enemies.
Who were everywhere.

Is that America. We are Free?
Are the young condemned by
survival of the fittest?
Give me a break, politicians
corrupt as the ministers
who feel the need to get rich and feel the children up.

We learned young to cook rice and a rock.
Took what we took to get by. And were took also,
into a hopelessness, of society .

I got my first gun at thirteen. A man I thought it made of me.
Most likely , I will die before twenty.
So, who then will change the diapers?

out of this alive

I was driving down an old road this morning, one hand clenched to the handle of a porcelain coffee cup, one hand clenched to the wheel; digging my nails into the rubber. I've always hated driving, it was always a better place to be sitting in the passenger seat, your hand enfolded in mine. Im rolling through stop signs hoping maybe a car will hit their brakes a moment too late. Each road line painted a bright yellow, the kind that reminded me of a sun we used to watch rise off the balcony of our house. I didn't want to think about it too much, it would of brought me back to a better time and place than now but they always told me to keep my eyes on the road. It was easy to do until I passed by this field of yellow daisies, the kind that were printed on the spring sheets we'd wrap ourselves in on the mornings that rain kissed the roof. The kind that decorated the church on the day that I made a promise on forever. A forever that should of lasted longer than sickness can control.
The golden sun grazed it's rays over the old barn where we once sat in hay bails and counted constellations. The rays were blinding, but so was the memory that lit up with them. The yellow dress your mother wore on the day we lay you down 6 feet too deep. The day a rock became your welcome mat. The day I couldn't find the right way to say goodbye.
I was driving this morning. I'm laying in a hospital bed now. I'm sorry that the yellow lights of that truck drew me in. Somehow I saw you smiling at me through them. As I lay on the pavement in pools of red, the yellow lines of the road by my side, heartbeat coming down till all I can hear is the softness of your voice; I finally felt like maybe this is the only way home.

there are invisible children hidden behind
miles of above ground swimming pools
and wooden swing sets. they've seen
life sized doll parts scattered across
their front lawns and were taught how to
take their first steps
as though they were being sent off to war;
knees straight. head tall.
don't flinch at the sight of blood.
a few weeks ago i turned on the local news,
the upcoming story took place in the west side of Detroit.
a photo of a young, colored girl wearing
butterfly shaped barrettes in her hair comes up,
the headline at the bottom of the screen reads,
3-YEAR OLD SHOT IN FRONT YARD
the news reporter talks about the situation
as though she's being forced to discuss
the weather in the middle of a heatwave;
it's the same. ****. thing. every. day.
i'll tell you what no one pictures
when they hear about another ******
in the same city that might as well
start building their front doors
like cemetery gates.
picture the mother
trying to sell a cradle so she has the money
to buy a 3-foot long casket. picture her
walking into her daughter's room
to tuck her into bed & remembering that she's
got nothing left but empty hands.
dear america,
tell me why some of us were born
with targets sewn into our backs, tell me if it
disturbs you at all that there are children
who want to chip off their skin, that want to be painted
a new color because they want to see if the light
will hit them in a different way,
& make them less invisible.

I don't testify to my misfortune
this road alone I travel
I bear witness to one cry full
that gave me hope

Undelivered yet, on the road travelling
I quest  unending
for the echoes I hear
for the promise that voice
the melody the
silence it brought

the never ending patience
never doubted where at the end of this road
my feet splintered raw  all my energy
I give to this

where on around corners
might be after I die
or in another realm
be the answers to what I seek.
Silently asking me
to find.

I will.

with crystal clearness
blue eyes green at times
cries into foggy windows
sit I did my elbows on sobbing
windowsills minutes
things making necessary
my armor
my forbidding me to actually feel
revolting sins,
I spoke I thought I did,
upon the cloak of trueness,
May I come close.