Morning calls, business
Time. I tell you there is such
Joy in emptiness

she's been waiting
a long time.
it will call,
and it will call.

when he says he wants to put you
in a poem, don't believe he'll
put your petals to his nose, inhale gently,
and enumerate the tickling scents
waltzing in his nostrils.
believe he'll put your stem to his tongue
lick the thorns slowly
to open his masochistic
metallic blood.
believe that he'll spit
that blood on the floor
or in a teacup to
sit out for hummingbirds.
believe he'll paint you
naked in verse
clothe you in meter
and strip you once more.
believe that no poem
is refuge
and that your ugliness
and his ugliness
will not make a poem
beautiful.

gourd bellied black boy
in front of the camera is
a calf facing a tentative ax.
the hands are motionless.
dropping quarters into an envelope
stamped for africa
will buy him a pack of ramen
but it wont' turn of the cameras.
sunlight doesn't reach him anymore
only sharp electricity.
I see this gourd bellied black boy
on my tv.


I turn it off
pitilessly.

mosquitoes never
quit - find another sweatsoaked
armpit to slurp from

red sun descending
cicadas chant litanies
filling the darkness

stay indoors today,
infantry of elderly,
lest you have heat stroke