There’s an “e” in your name.
2. It’s also composes a syllable of it.
3. Things will always empty, no matter what. Even bottles, for example. Especially ones that contained alcohol. You seemed to enjoy emptying those quite a lot.
4. Once, I emptied a pen of it’s ink while writing about you.
5. There is no “e” in my first name, but you pronounced it as if there was, replacing the first “a” with an “e”.
6. I always, and still do, get annoyed whenever people mispronounce my name, but never when you did it. I always knew that you were the one calling it. You were the one thing I was always sure of.
7. The other night, I tried to think of other things that started with “e” and “a”. I found “always” and “eventually”. Just as you substituted the “e” for the “a”, we substituted “always” for “eventually”.
8. Or maybe it could stand for “eventually an alcoholic”?
9. I just wish that you could have emptied your heart out to us just as easily as you could empty a bottle down your throat.
10. Ever since you told us that you drove home drunk I’ve been thinking about writing an eulogy.
11. Please don’t make me write one. Not while we’re so young.
12. Eventually, everything expires, like our patience, our vitality, and our days.
13. You haven’t spoken to anyone in months, and I don’t know how to reach you, or if you even want me to. When I saw your mother this past October, I wanted to ask her if she knew had badly you had been struggling, but I didn’t because I know that you would have hated me for it. There was a reason you had tried to keep your addiction a secret.
14. The letter “e” is the most used letter in the alphabet. How can you ask me to forget you when nearly every word I write has a trace of you in it?
15. I would never pick up a pen again if it meant that I could hear you mispronounce my name one more time.

You mispronounce my name
You forget I'm lefthanded
I think this is just me
I think this is one-sided

Your warmth has dissipated
It left a hardness
Inside my chest,
Like a plum
Now pitted and pruned
But I still hope
To see you soon

Suicide
Is not an option
Well, not the only option at least
Don't lease
Your life to poor tenants
Who have more money than you
They will define worthlessness in numbers
Under the umbrella of life, i am asked to rationalize my fear
In ratio to careers
Plural is the breeding ground of statistics

And can you explain to me the difference
Between a near death experience
And being on your hands and knees
In the depths of hell?
There isn't satin sheets in satans hotel

The Irony of taking the escalator down
This fiery decline
To where chairs
Don't even recline

Did your mother ever tell you,
"Don't sweat the small stuff"

The Check-in line grows

There is Nancy, who wont stop asking your name
And Doreen, who's daughter clearly doesn't want to visit
And Jasper, who has been told he is insane and wont stop smiling
And Darin, who works the front desk and hates when people mispronounce his name
How do you mispronounce Darin - is this a test, or a sick game?

And don't forget dear Janet - today she ascends from the underworld
But can't stop crying tears of joyless joy
Unlike me, maybe she doesn't want to leave
These people are dying for attention - where the hell are their families?

Ostracized and alone
Its a cut throat battle
To use a single telephone

Let it be known
You don't want to die this soon
Hell
Is a psych ward waiting room

sometimes my apathy falls
like a silk robe to the ground,
and once again I stand before you

naked.

ashamed of myself
I try to cover the monster that you ran from.

I walk on the sands of the hourglass
for our time has ended.

there is only one set of footsteps
because I needed you to carry me
but failed to realize that you were not strong enough.

I sit alone on the beach
unable to listen to Best Coast
because that would make me cry.

I hug myself
and feel very
very small.

the gentle waves of memories
lick at my feet:
your unimpressed face when I laugh at the way you mispronounce words,
or just your face
or just the way you could make me laugh
your disgust when I joke about your **** ***,
or just your ***
or just the way we could joke about that.

it almost makes me smile
but you are the only person alive who knows my tickle spot.

the way your fingers comb from the back of my neck
to my bangs like a fisherman's net,
a feeling the sea breeze wants me to forget
as it tousles my hair violently.

the shore has too much of your face.

I dive into the water to cleanse myself
of the haunting absence of your presence

but I am too small.

my thoughts and your words surround me,
and in my attempt for closure
I am nothing more than closed.

cleansing nothing at all,
I drown in this baptism
as the distorted and unfamiliar
waters of the past soak my lungs
emptying me of breaths of hope
filling me with waters of desperation.

I am sinking into the darkness of depression
my chest compressed like the lungs
of a deep sea diver with no chance of return.

The silent planet of crystallized dreams

Nebula clouds emitting translucency

Nothing is ever what is seems

With God’s touch and delicacy



The song that remains and forever played

Amongst the promised womb before

The mother goddess loved and swayed

While the child watches from the hallway door



“Mother and father copulating with the door open.”

Read the words on the off-white typewriter paper

The boy tedious and tired, working and hoping

His work be acclaimed before meeting his maker



Telling stories of psychopath magicians in Long Island

Or Chicago lawyers fighting underground matches in drag

“A disturbing, fantastic point-of-view, from a ****** man”

Said one critic before nitpicking as reading a greasy pulp mag



Countless images worth their weight in gold

Majestic ballrooms ravishing supple choirs

Groping masked ballerinas with a urge so bold

Witty fops and serving props aiding proper sires

Sir Xavier proclaiming the night as a celebration

Showing sharpened teeth behind his mask

The shadows merging and demonstrating mutilation

With enough wine to soak, bathe and bask



The man breathed in exhaustion. He cracked his fingers and wrote:



“Circles of Blood, of **** and pain.

    Audacious institutions praising the Goat Head of Fame

                    Vicious clowns of chains and leather sought to cleanse the mind

                             The flesh and struggle that was kindled at the discovery of Gabriel’s find

                                      Stiffening, hardening clay over roots and glands

                                      The skin of earth ravaged from birth

                                      Yes men and polished conveyor belt twins

                                      Nodding, prodding and smirking

                                      Evicting and molesting the commonwealth

                                      The taxpayers and voters

                                      The people, new and old

                             Sewing fishing line into us

                   Like strings to puppets

          Severing wings

Denying us flight

          Expecting us to fight

                   With blank expressions

                             And

                   Collective motives

                             Because we should all think the same

                                      While in the jungles of Vietnam

                                                The cities of Korea

                                                          Deserts of Iraq

                                                                   Caves of Afghanistan

                                                                             Or

                                                                   Anyplace our leaders

                                                          Mispronounce

                                                What is to gain if not

                                      Something profitable?

                                                Thieves condemning thieves  

                                                Murders judging murders

                                                Psychopaths killed for killing

                                      Women ***** and thrown into a

    guilt trip for not keeping a child that

    was forced into them, saying the

    will of God is infallible.

    Children without homes suffer for what they are

              While more populate the world with their own

              Before helping the needy


The names of the world

          The foundations built upon on another

The empires envisioned and dreamt

          Destined for glory and prosperity

Then torn down in the cataclysmic volley of change

          Then the cycle, the circle, is repeated again

          This is how the world functions

In the name of one

Or many

Or God

Or even the Gods

The Circles, the rings and arena.”





The man wrote with the typewriter on top of books and clippings

Watching riots outside his window, bottle of liquid fire exploding

Screams of terror, of revolt and damnation drippings

Calling out for all to see, the fury and loathing



What the man wanted to write was a simply story to tell

But his rising emotions took hold of his fingers

Instead, he told a story of malicious passivity in living hell

Where in his room the fumes of gas lingers



What if on other places in space

Where we’ve discovered other Earth-like planets

God Created different forms of humans

And watched how they grew

In their own way

Eliminating one previous flaw from the next

Till there was no conflict



If he did and kept doing that

Till he had the perfect human

Then there would be no more

And just God again.

Mystic moons and puppy dragon tales
Silver oceans with crystal silk sails

Frozen lakes above the stone angel choir

Marble pianos soothed by fingers of fire

Your name is a sharp thing on their tongue
and they always mispronounce it
and it always has an odd way
of sounding like boy
as it leaves their mouth

they are still spitting the last syllables out
and already their teeth
are full with your ******
and their eyes can’t see
anything wrong here being done

now that you aren’t breathing anymore

and your fifteen minutes of fame
have stretched out
to a twenty minute story
on sixty minutes

if you weren’t already boxed
in oak and velvet
and buried under the ground
maybe you could have enjoyed
the lime light of it all

but there is no joy
surrounding your name today
but thanks to the alchemist
who turned the pound sign
into a hashtag
you’re part of the movement now

hashtag slogan

hashtag your name

hashtag another body breathing
at the wrong time
in front of the wrong fear
being pierced by an old hate
bullet after bullet after bullet
till it isn’t breathing anymore

hashtag slogan

hashtag your name

maybe I already forgot your name
maybe I’m guilty of mispronouncing it too
maybe I’m just too tired to say it
tired of being tired all the time
tired of watching things get worse
tired of knowing we could be better
tired of knowing we should be better

tired of the painful burden of hope
as someone else’s name
falls in line
and becomes part of the movement

hashtag slogan

hashtag your name

i don’t know what comes next
or where you might be

I hope wherever it is
It’s somewhere better than here

Somewhere better than us

Stranger Pallbearer
Don't let that coffin slip
through your sweaty palms
Faithless preacher
read your psalms and
don't mispronounce his name
No one may have knew him
but he was still somebody
This sad little man
in his unmarked grave

The first time I say your name, it is a new sound on my tongue.
I take it and roll it around a bit, mispronounce a few syllables.
The marks on paper that define you are an absolute work of art.
It is curious and new and alive, and so are you.

I say your name thousands of times, then; again and again
til it is worn thin with familiarity.
Soon I no longer need your name at all: I have expressed
your entire existence in a single breath.

Your name becomes a formality. Like clothing, it is not
entirely necessary. You do not wear it to bed.
On the streets, it is how people recognize you;
but I do not even remember its fullness any longer.

Something changes. Speaking your name is an insult,
a raised voice, a painful twist of annoyance.
I hurl it at you like a sharpened knife and it sticks
deep in your chest, tearing through the parts of you
I once knew with such certainty and confidence.

Then it is a plea for forgiveness. I use your name
As an item to trade with: I will whine out your existence to you
And in return, will you return?
Please say yes. (You don’t.)

Empty beer bottles line the corners of your name.
Sleepless nights fill in the dark serifs and smooth lines.
Your name makes my heart ache in my chest
where it has broken in two, due to you.

The last time I say your name, it is the name of a stranger,
someone I once knew but no longer care for.
You will always be with me, but your name
has moved on. Someone else wears it now.

Consistency is a lie. Your name is a different moment,
means a different person every time it is spoken.
I do not trust in the undefined words that define you,
instead, you are to me still that single breath of pure existence.

Don’t go, oh baby don’t go.
I’ve been around the block
Looking high and low,
For the answer we keep,
For the workers are weak,
And it’s time to turn the tables.

So listen to the fables,
And the tales the preachers tell.
They mispronounce disaster,
Though their lives are a living hell.
And the rainbow comes
To save me,
When the daisy cutters die,
And the shadow boxing household
Gives us a better chance to cry.

For the angels find the future,
And they hear the shadows fall.
The ragged rangers read their books,
But they never hear the call.
The mission bell it screams and yells
To the missionaries on the floor.
They just shot up
And are taking to the cup,
But their heads are now out the door.

To be discovered never more.
I don’t mind.
There is no time.
But for me, I’m out of line,
When I say to you
That you never know who
Will come out from the shadows
And into the light,
And the one that you love
Is directly in sight.

Take your time my dear friend.
Open your gates
To the mythical plates,
And the place that you know,
Where you go to be alone.

All of your friends
Want to see you again.
They want you
To *** all their smokes
And hold all their hands;
To drink all their scotch,
And snort all their lines,
To smoke all their ****,
And to drink all their wine.



j.b.

Sit up straight
And listen up,
Because this is not a drill and
I am only going to say this once:
I am not ebony -
A piece of decorative wood.
Nor am I chocolate-
Ready to melt into myself with the heat of your touch.
I’m not you’re “sista” –
We are not related.
And I’m definitely not your “gurrrrl”.
We never dated.
I will tell you what I am:
You may want to take a deep breath now…
I am a Black woman.
Yes, with a capital ‘B’.
I am a Black woman.
Who is exhausted because
everything I do is silently political.
Whom I choose to dance with in the club
Is political – “is she into white guys, or black?”
The way I answer the question:
“Where are you from…?”
“No, where are you really from?”
Is political – “You look different from me, so I need to put you in a labelled box and **** at you with my mind.”
Like saying I’m from near your ends isn’t a good enough answer.
My accent?
Political – “Why is she so well-spoken? Who adopted you?”
It confuses you, because it doesn’t match my South London skin tone.
The way I choose to style my hair
Is political – I wear weaves because I want to be European and hate myself. I wear afros because I hate Europeans and love myself.
How I pronounce my own surname
Is political – Do I simplify it to spare your blushes when you mispronounce it?
The music I proudly declare to enjoy –
Political.
I must be a secret bloke – like that Serena fella of the telly.
‘Cause no fuckable girl has looks like that.
And my skinny arms?
Well, they never fed me in the orphanage, remember?. I’m obviously malnourished like my family back in the Motherland.
You say: “I don’t see race – we are all one.”
Good for you.
but, I cannot afford to pretend to be colour-blind because
I am a Black woman-
Bottom of the rung.
I am affected and I am exhausted.
I am a Black woman-
But that is not all that I am.
Are you still sitting straight?
Can you hear me in the back?
Because this is not a drill
And this woman is Black.

You can call me Po-dae
if you’re Korean…
hic! – you got every right to mispronounce it if you aren’t;
and the Japanese might call me – hic! –
Hotei…hic! hic!
And of course those ancient Indians
in their radiant romantic way might call me Laxmi
(but then they’re too reverent, those Indians
and you can’t joke about any these days)
but me – hic! hic! – hey call me Po-dae
and yes, the more erudite of you might know
or the Indians out here would have guessed by association –
HIC! HIC!
yep- I’m the good god of fortune, ancient drunkard!
(That guy who wrote “The Richest Man in Babylon”
he asks you to court the Goddess of Fortune –
Silly ******! He doesn’t know Goddesses don’t drink, does he?
Ah, well modern *** Goddesses might smoke and drink,
and all that)  -
but hey, I’m Po-dae - HIC ! HIC! – fill up that cup and invite me in
and I’ll give  five or six tips to fatten your wallets
better than the ones that American God
George S. Clason throws at you
(Pay Yourself  First, and all that miserly pedestrian living)
But fill my cup, dear – and I’ll show you how to fill your wallet –
HIC! HIC! HIC!
Oh **, **, ** yum – where do you get this stuff…?
These modern drinks really drive me crazy, baby!
Hey, hey, hey –
I’m Po-dae
and for watering me, baby
I’ll tell you the dao of fortune:
I come drunk
and I never move straight
and I walk side and side
Oh baby, I’m Po-dae
your miserly elusive fortune!
HIC! HIC! HIC!
Prrrrrrttttt…..!
Sorry about that, guys –
once in a while I also make wind!
Hic! Hic! Hic!

I write an evening by the
waterfront with candlelight
Freemasons paving the
boardwalk. In the
morning the newspaper
prints my biography and
I laugh cacophonously.
I stand in my treehouse
and scream a note of
finality. I learn how to
synchronize and mispronounce
waning and soon I
realize.
I have left my voicebox
in my other pants.
Ulysses sang the blues today
but the sirens had more soul.
"So wrap your head in a scarf,"
I say! "Paint your house grey
and your churches red."
Jesus sang the blues today
but the sinners had more heart.
Dare ye burn a cross or
run afoul or sob for the mountain?
Then name yourself an apostle
and head for the hills of your
heaven above.
I sang the blues today
but the liars-
The plane lands with a thunk.
I roll my window shade up.
Sand turns to grain and
rainbows to tornadoes.
I have arrived.
I go to the gun shop and empty
the cash register before it is
too late. My uncle calls from
prison to wish me a happy
Boxing Day. I rent an apartment,
a car, a television, a diploma.
My thoughts are scattered and
my words ring through my head,
but these blues shan't get to
me any longer.
The truth, I decide, is overrated.
I study metaphysics, pataphysics,
and I am going to be sick. Our
hero reads Hopkins and takes
another shot.
Today I stay in bed
and count the cracks
in the ceiling.