To run to the far side of the pasture
Is to stop one’s own heart
Quick
Like the flash of a lightning bug
Little ones’ feet wander
As do their minds
Away from tales of fairies
And white gods
To big oak trees
On the far side of the pasture

Grass claws at his face
As his knees bend to the rhythm of his feet
And tiny black fists keep time
***** of mallets striking marimba air
“Don't let mama catch you”
Bounces against the walls of his cranium
Crash-
Into the oak tree
“Ouch”

i don't watch home movies
hate them
reason being because
when i was young
i was looking for a movie
my mother
had recorded for me
and accidentally
put one in the vcr
that i'm not sure
i was supposed to see
i know the obvious response
"uh oh, ****"
sorry to disappoint
they were only marked with dates
  1991
on live television
montel williams asks my father
"how can you just throw
your child away like a piece of trash?"
   1994
i spend so much time
in the emergency room
that my parents stop
penciling in growth marks
on the frame
of my bedroom door
i always thought
it was because they believed
i would never grow out
of this sickness
sometimes i believe
the reason that they
never bought me a dream catcher
was because they never thought
i'd live long enough
to see them come true
   1996
i am eliminated
from a spelling bee
because i didn't know
the 'dad' is silent in 'family'
   2013
before i got into poetry
i used to do standup
none of my jokes were funny
one of the other comics
tells me my skits are dry
sometimes sad
he says "why don't you joke
about something like your family?"
so i say
"i never wore any sunblock
because i didn't want anything
to keep me from my father"
i say "what do you call christmas
without lights or heat?"
before he has a chance
to answer
i say "1997. better yet
why don't you
make like a dad and
leave"
   2014
every time we drive
past the hospital
my mother reminds me
how much it cost to save my life
like she'd rather
have her money back
she doesn't have to say
that sometimes she wishes
it was me who had died
instead of my brother
i can hear it in the way
she says "love you"
sometimes i imagine
that if i were to die
that she
would pick out a casket for a child
because she never loved
the person i became
yesterday i told my father
how close i'd been
to suicide lately
and he said
"that's my boy,
livin on the edge.."
and i can't remember
if i laughed
or cried

His mind is cotton poetry
On a hard delta plane,
kissing my thoughts and
helping me remember
love
Eternally toiling
Under Golden blessings,
he calls me sharecropper.
Picking his thoughts
and weaving new ideas,
I imagine life
as a dream.
When the awakening comes,
will we be with the sun,
or will it just be
Me?