I heard it as distinct as I hear my heartbeat
in my ears. A slight, faint plaint, from the corner
of my closet.
Was it a purr? Or a breath from a lost friend
calling me to look. Marge, a phantasm, memory?
Touched my shoulder. I heard words say,
look in the little box in the corner.
I did, as I thought of looking back,
and saw two eyes peep up. Grey white furry head attached.
They seemed to say to me, I am sorry.
I heard mews then, I knew.
My Babay, a stray I took in when I  lost her, was nursing four of
earth's miracles.
I haven't cried as much since Jan 7th.
I fed her tuna milk.
and, bought me a big
cigar, alternating,
between memories,
and the newness of life.

You and me,
we don't connect
like we used to.

The days are searing,
the sun's a cowboy,
clouds are wolves,
we are the unbroken plain.

We are simply the stage.

We are nothing new.

We won't make it like this,
gnawing at each other,
lying and pretending
that we aren't interested
in the running of the wolves,
or the cackling gunfire
that cowboys let loose in joyous screams.

Ravaging ourselves,
the west blackens as the smell of coal,
acrid, spreads through the air.

Somewhere, a burning
is beginning in the most unnatural way.

Somewhere we feel a tear
in the fabric of ourselves,
where a giant, constant fire
destroying
burns.

knowing furnace heat,
not the inferno beneath.

playing cat and mouse,
not cheetah and thom's gazelle,
but knowing the chase,
the atomic shiver:
it boldens
the least brave.

Sweating out pain,
but not until it throttles
the *****.

there are two dimensions
to this living.
One is the surface,
the ethereal,
the light to the dark.
The shadow to the skin:
The depth of pigment.
But then, there is the deeper sin
the battering within.
The judgment of blackness
based on skin.
It has hounded us,
through our history,
from House to field.
from basketball court
to court house.
From boardroom
to dorm room
to class room
to living room.
Granny used to say,
ooh girl you've got good hair.
Nice and wavy,
like your grandpappy's.
Used to say,
see you're the pretty one.
Running her fingertips
along our cheeks,
mired in awe
of our caramel complexion.
while like tar,
it stuck to the minds
of our classmates,
cohorts,
coworkers.
With jealousy
they said light-skinned,
not black enough,
not us enough.
not us enough.
when one day in class,
the teacher had asked,
"what do mommy and daddy do?"
Janitor.
Works for the state.
Garbageman.
we piped up proudly,
"my mommy and daddy have college degrees,
one creates houses
the other works in network security"
all the while,
our classmates had laughed,
made fun of us,
"so, that's why you don't talk black"
Two smart ******,
bred a smart *****.
And so the story of us,
had morphed
from the days of Angela Davis,
to this new form of self-hatred.
the valley between us
suffered a cataclysm
and became a canyon.
Continued to grow,
our skin a stain,
and as actors we had to train,
mellowing our dialect
just to make it seem as if we had intellect,
cause we all know a succesful black man,
has two distinct voices,
and not through his own choices,
it is bred from necessity.
can't sit in front of white man
and talk like pickaninny.
got so comfortable out of our own skin,
that we felt we were the ones
digging out the edges of the canyon.
So far thrown from blackness
that maybe this is how they separate us,
make us hate ourselves
and love they wealth.
make us hate our hair
and love they locks.
Cause like superheroes
we switch from day out
to day in.
Being dark, light or caramel complexioned
we stay hounded by
how close we get to whitening.

I keep finding flaws
In my natural reflection
And keep searching for beauty
In my unnatural reflection
then sit and wonder
Why am I bereft
of any sort of happiness

The wait has been long
Two weeks and counting
As everyday passes
You tell yourself to be patient
And do your work calmly
As though everything is all right
As the minutes turn to hours
Hours turn to days
And days turn to weeks
But still nothing happens
No message from your bank
No credit added to your account
Same old excuses given
Your resolve can no longer hold
Your steely focus falters
You make mistakes
That you would not have made
Even in your wildest dreams
Every hurdle looks insurmountable
The commute to office
Suddenly seems like a marathon
You lash out at strangers
Over matters as mundane
As your typing speed
At home, you drown yourself
In Agatha Christie's finest ****** mysteries
Forgetting that you have to sleep
Just reading and reading
To escape from the mad world around you
Till your eye muscles scream in protest
You clench your fists
Flex your muscles
And sharpen your teeth
As the devil awakens inside you
Ready to pounce on your master
And seek divine retribution
For making you wait so long
And denying you
What is rightfully yours

wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^  

that ain't me babe.

day holds me in cage,
night sets me free
from the burden of identity,
the necessity to be me.