Sonic ghost
womb echo
tiny cave dweller
growing feet and hands
a heart unexpectedly beating

Come
be our girl

Little heart beats
Constant hammer
In construction
Sonogram panic

With fire in the west,
Hope dances on the horizons back
The line, where colors rip and claw for life

Breath it in,
Exhale to calm
To become an artifact of choice
Infused with perception
That last bit of light illuminates a sonogram of the soul

This morning one of my ninth grade students
Is showing off her sonogram
With the same excitement and enthusiasm
I used to see in my daughter when she was showing off a new Barbie doll
With it’s glittering gown and open toed plastic heels.

I tilt the image this way and that -
Hypnotized by the light
That dances on and off of the black glossy surface
Just the way it did when I was a kid
Shaking the magic eight ball
Waiting for a glimpse of the answers
That I knew were going to emerge from the shadows.

Cinnamon sonogram

Detect the abnormalities too late.

Morning after birth of

a placebo placenta.

Irrigate the porcelain

of a lost labor laboratory.

Love found not within the arms of

the golem grasping for straws.

-

Wailing a harmony of blue and red.

Pumping panacea.

Steady the pace, you hotheads

with elegant electric veins.

On Monday she sung so sweetly and

whispered her prophet tales.

Saturday appeared as an echoing,

hollow and halfhearted hymn.

-

They retreat in rebellion;

lapping at salt laced lacerations.

Rye, grain, roots, and grapes

for the Baroness of the Barrens.

Weeping waters leads to the

sleeping daughters that dangle

their threats like fishing hooks

off of the edge of a world so flat.

I am not a poet.
I am the air before a storm.
The weak in your knees.
The smile on your heart.
I am. I am not a poet.
I am the aftermath of sin.
I am the godlike sworn into pages.
Scripture is my tongue, to fold like weak genes
That strike to be like matches
I am beckoned fire. I am not a poet.
I am not a believer.
We were raised by the last unfortunately; I do not believe in
“leaders” or “followers”, I do not believe in “society” or “democracy”
This generation is lost.
I do not believe in found.
I do not believe in freedom.
When we are only “free” to be everything but our souls.
The truth is…I do not write poetry.
I birth it whenever God needs a favor so
When my pen bares fruit know it’s divine nature refined.
I define nature. HOLD UP. WE define nature.
Eve am I in the garden of Eden, feeding the Adam in my spirit
That speaks in tongue,
I taste the susurrus sounds swishing like a serpents swearing
Bite into this forbidden, swallow sin, make ink stain of this metaphor
On the fabric of your perception
The truth is, I do not write. I create life that’s been a part of God’s plan
Since sonogram; my divine right.
I am not a poet.
I am a contradiction.
I am everything including nothing.
I am the song the caged bird sings. Once it’s freed.
I am the silence before a bomb.
I simply do not believe.
This generation was raised by the last, but I would rather raise hell
Then praise heaven to be a place where the gates are too white to embrace the black
Of the sin I’ve committed
I am not a poet.
I write because I want God to hear me.
This Chose ink is the closest voice from heaven like, blessed cursive
Curses curved like
Sacred scribble
Revised, I’ve rised, correction, raised.
I revise like rewritten history; I’ve witness lies, yet mystery
Lies within the truth, somehow.
I’m no doctor, but if I were, I would prescribe patience.
I just want God to hear me, I will listen…but for now
I am sincerely seeking the God within self, I believe in
Other.

I'm hittin up the stereo
Marching sonogram graphic woman
***** stance
*******
No chance
No safe
No save
What aim
Broken arrow
***** dance
***** dream
Disko life
****** into lights
******* the grime off the green
The grim off the screen
The brakes off the scream
Watch it
Closely
Gone