dropping beats, spitting rhymes in this underpass,
you rapped to the rhythm of my darkling heart
laid down that **** like a line of the white
pulse is banging but my head is light
and now it’s like this mix is the styx part II
there’s a river and I’m crossing **** over to you
in this underground we sound like souls apart
i reach out you feel and the blood stream starts
i think i see family in the ghosts who scream
brothers and sisters in the shades i deem
to be like my own when this cipher’s writ down
in this tunnel in this channel in this under the ground
in the dark of this underpass its heavy black
god’s demon throbbed and i hollered back

In the underpass sat a hunched male figure
wrapped in an old blanket
a woollen hat pulled down over his head
beside him his scruffy dog
his sad eyes following those walking by
listening his silent cry.

In front a small sign written in large letters
simply read please help me
a chipped tin mug placed close to his feet
some people showed him pity
putting loose change in before moving on
never asking what was wrong.

Not until that day man and dog were gone
was it noticed the empty space
at the same moment on a lonely riverside
a dog was barking frantically
running alone along the slippery wet bank
where a body had recently sank.

A blanket laid half submerged at the edge
definitely something was wrong
a couple ran oven concerned about the dog
spotting a body drowned
another life lost where nobody really cared
yet sadness they both shared!

The Foureyed Poet.

If it were I, a hunkered mass
Of unkempt hair and tangled rags,
Lain prone beneath the underpass,
Enclaved in chattel bulked-out bags,

If it were I, alone, afraid,
Tight-bitten lips in silent prayer,
And listless eyes, all hope decayed,
And slumped, oppressed, done by despair,

And if you cast my shadowed shape,
Would you come seek my name?
Or look as I for quick escape,
And thence to bear my shame.

I stroke your skin like a leaf
and hold it up to the light,
allowing fingertips

           to go slow from root to tip.
           to sew the lining where two unlike materials meet.
           to code this friction into tactile intuition...

And yet--

                                                      I am afraid.

With this and all acts of temptress divination.

                                                I, I...am afraid.

I want to read our intersection.

I want
            to see               in your life-line.
                        myself.


First, I will find the highways of your pulse-

watch as they
                           give way to country roads.

Dissecting life-ways into bi-ways

where I can go slow from

root                         to                             tip.

                                rise
Feel the land
                                                       and fall.

from grass
to hallowed knoll-

Throw me dirt and blow out your windows.
                           
Take me slow
                                        down the side roads.

Next, I consult
the creases of your open fist.

Gone are the fine blue lines
                                                         -the tomographic
Heat, and its rhizomatic
                                              beat.

Instead, you hold me in this underpass

[the clamminess and opposite-land of passion and speed]
                                          where
                             [shadows cling and relationships keep].

You hold my hand.

To leave, and blast!
                                                 - to stay, I will need a map.

Hide me here long enough to find beauty
in the fine etched lines
that paint the walls in broad swoops of graffiti:
those cryptic tag-lines that advertise your witty, poetic celebrity.

from finger to wrist

                   arc
             the      to the thumb

the pulse that could run
on and on.

[our] distant reflection
                            -a mirage in the rising sun.
where

the earth line cuts off the air line

to fuse the heart-              and the head
                                                            ­                    -line.

At the end of the rainbow
where only gnomes go,
a guru appeared,
a man with a message and
a helluva beard.
'More colour', he said
from his bed full of nails and
the gnomes all complained until
the guru explained,that
only colours could light up the sky,

Oh
why didn't we think of that? that's why
the rainbow is flat and the gnomes
were in agreement that the guru there
was heaven sent to show
just how their rainbow could shine,
you know it's all about the little things
that make each day and each day brings
another guru, another teacher and the trick is
in the learning.

i'm really high
clutching a ****
between my legs
               and the threats
               come in all individual invitations
               can i feel you how are you erica
     do you feel me,
     do you bite
     are you hungry
           the hands of time slow
       and i feel like touching them
       until they grow petals and bloom
       but im not that fast          not         quick
                       enough for thirsting
               for the colors that a god has given me
                  and allowed me to see them differently
                  i cough and lean my head back on the wall

James?

Mm?

James?

Yes, I can hear you. What?

Do you, um… d’you think it’s… is it still ****** if they’re, you know… not all there? I mean, if their brain isn’t working and their eyes are listing, but they’re still breathing? Kind’ve dead, but there’s still life in them?

The soft trickling of rain.

What the **** kind 'f question is that to ask?

I just…

Listen, okay? It was a kindness we did him. You have to understand this-

I just don’t think that’s right. That kind 'f power. I mean, his head came apart like a ******* eggshell.

The soft haze of white noise. The sound of meat.

Jesus. Jesus Christ. The *******…

A giggle.

The ******* gall. You’re coming over religious. This isn’t like you.

I know, I know. It’s… hypocrisy. Phony. I hate myself for it, but somehow what happened…I mean, what we did… doesn’t feel right. It’s not alright. I mean, did you see his eyes? His head… came apart like a *******…

A choking sob.

This isn’t like you, you know. Going to pieces over the past. Can’t be changed, you know that.

Thought. White noise.

****.

I’d just like to bury him, at least. Give him some kind’ve…

White noise. A guttural sob.

******* it. ******* it.

Gray mountain concrete
       elephant underpass
groans on six foot wide
legs
      
       bones of steel
       re-bar bend and break

As it all begins to crumble
in the cold November sun

Leviathan highways
   strangle the hills
      with cold grip- They
            spill steel and smoke
       blood on the city streets

Delivering poison
     to your door

Robot brain control center
Oversees the operation
from tall towers
        geometric shapes
          
        Obelisks & Skyscrapers

Father Culture thinks with
                                   his ****

I was not born afraid of strange men.
I was not born to panic when the only empty seat on the bus is next to a man.
I was not meant to cross the street when a boy walks towards me.
I was not supposed to check the underpass for rapists when I walk home at 4 o’clock in the afternoon.
Were you born to make me itch and crawl in my own skin?
Were you born to sprawl your legs out on the bus and occupy much more space than is necessary while I perch on the edge of a seat and pray that the driver takes the corners slowly?
Were you born to give me sweaty palms and panic attacks and an uncertainty of whether or not I should wear that V-neck shirt to school?

I am going to tell you something that you will not want to hear, but you are going to listen. You are going to listen because I have been glaring and sighing and crying and screaming at you ever since the first time I wore a bra. Since my first period. Since the first time I wore makeup. Since a boy catcalled me before I knew that it was wrong.

You need to stop.

You cannot do this anymore because I will not let you. You are not allowed to follow me home because my hair glimmers in the sunlight- you are an obnoxious boy and I am thirteen. You are not allowed to ask me my name while we’re on the bus- you are a middle aged man and I am sixteen. You are not allowed to stare at my ******* while I debate whether or not to sign up for AP Biology- you are a hair-raising teenage boy and my body is not yours to stare at.

I am not a quiet, soft thing for you to ogle and speak to whenever you please. I am a person, and my favorite pair of socks are green. I am a girl, and the next time you open your legs and overflow into my space, I will sling my foot on top of your lap and ask your age until you understand. I am a human being, and I do not care if you think my hair is pretty. You need to leave me alone.

I am a person. I am strong and sarcastic and lazy and funny and weak and smart and riddled with anxiety, and I will not let you stare at me.

Let me understand
just one conversation
magic to nightfall, mythic notation
I wanted to impress you
and I still do
I wanted to best you,
lion-mane moon

rise as soon as the clock marks
sunset
this is the dynamic of you and me
and if I can't explain it right,
I don’t deserve your empathy, but
I’ll carry on in different ways
observe the other, inhabit the area
night takes, and refuses
         to adjust

yesterday, I miscalculated my city and found myself stranded alone

I wasn’t afraid, but had you been there I wouldn’t have felt

so lost

for now, I can cut corners until
my surroundings are common
to me, I can fold paper but
somehow the creases never end up
how I want them to be

last night, the sky was orange but you weren't there to see it with me
day to day I vacillate between trying to find and escape you
and you, parallel,
        don't see any of it