Can a poet be an introvert?
Because an introvert am I.
I am outgoing at times,
but mostly I am shy.

Can a poet hide behind the curtain?
Of all things hidden inside,
I get them out furiously on paper,
but in turn to speak I hide.

Can a poet be imperfect?
In the respect of not all things memorized.
Even so, I love every word I write,
and hope to leave you mesmerized.

Can a poet be I?

hands
clasp
grasp
yours, mine or a stranger's
line of life, line of head, line of heart
it is said that the hand is the map, and the heart is the guide
but how come whenever it is that you hold my hand you also hold my heart?
(in your hands)
feeling the strength of your hold
on my heart
and my hands
letting go
of my heart
but please,
not my hands
I need to keep that clasp
and grasp
and hold I have on you
I need to feel your roughness
and clamminess
and softness
between my fingers
yours fit so perfectly
what if I never find another fit?
what if the next fingers are too short, too long, too bristly, too smooth?
I only remember yours
and what if their lines tell too different a story?
what if they crossed an ocean to find me,
or have never picked up a knife,
or have never lost themselves in another?
and I am left holding my own hands
too familiar
when all I yearn for are yours
I should have never let go of yours
even that one morning when you said it was too cold to hold mine
I should have locked yours between mine and assured you that I would make you warm
now I am grabbing for something in the dark,
a phantom limb; your hands
I wish I had clawed up your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder to your neck
and held on
because my hands are empty
nothing I hold bears weight
nothing I touch, feels
nothing I stroke shudders
nothing I scrape bleeds
my hands hold nothing
my lines of mind, head and heart have blurred
I can feel the reverb of my heart's beat as it left my hands and fell into yours
they are bony and frail and stained and drained of colour
what do I do with my hands?

i am a slave of words, i am a slave of pen
i am a slave of books, my heart was stolen  by the words of my thoughts
and stored in my books and used by the pen which i wake up everyday to find that is using my words and hiding them in my books.

You're my favorite cake;
I don't get you too often but when I do its exciting. It's the best one. That's you. I be like, oh can't wait try her!

Like that one time you gave me that head. I was like omggg this *****... esta mujer, gotta be my girl.

You wanna be my girl?
She laughs, and roles around as if to be searching every Window surrounding for faces. No!

Oh, so now I get it.
You hit me up every year or whateva, you make me beg every time I see you Mami. And when we finally ****, it's amazing, & then you wanna bounce. so I'm here to serve you, hu'?
Aye, you listening to me?
Yeah
I'm serving you? You come here but can't **** it mami. Here chula, put it in your mouth.
She laughs, I don't want to.
Psh, agghh.You get me so tight, so why you come here then?
But he's right, she thought, why had she come? She had imagined it wouldnt happen this time.

Did you ******' slap me?
What? That was hard?
Tss
Come on, we was playin' around. If you hit me I wouldn't get tight. I know it wasn't hard.
It was unnecessary.
You like that ****, why you playin?

He turned the lights off while she laid on the bed still fully clothed.
He was taking off his shoes then pants.
She waited.
He creeped onto the bed headed her ways.
Why didn't I try to leave again, she thought
Come on mami, you gon' take this off or what?

Is that mine? Is that mine?
She moans.
Who's is this?

Huh, he grunts.


Yo..
You..
Youurs.
Yeah!

No worries, I'll always serve you. As long as you're alive.
We laughed and I walked down. The last three steps and out the foggy air of season June,

Delete finger
go back
to whence you came!
Most usually deployed
when I’ve done something
inane, lame or insane…
In my mind I suppose
to knows
all what people think of me
and thus supposition
(the annoying ******)
sometimes threatens creativity.
The pieces will eventually make sense
and be understood
by those who are not dense
that I do what I do
because
I am compelled to
So I cannot delete myself.

this society of ours is so gargantuan,
policed by the daylight we hold at night for ransom,
Like a Jesus or a black Aphrodites,
I'll be your daddy if you let me call you my mommy,
give me your milk, the nectar that forms at your eyelids
We can go out in public on a weeknight Ireland,
I won't drink, but I'll wrestle every penny you
throw into each fountain, unless each wish
you make puts us together in California. At 55º it's as
cold as it seems your heart is, you whisper the omissions
of lies over mute. Every silver trinket on this charmers'
bracelet abused. Be the freeway and I'll be the car, drive around my circles, and we can drive the map of the Hollywood Stars. This circus- paddy-wagon, sewer stardom, I've always been the over-roasted beans from your local Starbucks. I grew up to grow up, I got up to throw up, I sought you to show up, and give you this leigh garland. Egyptian or pitiful, critical mister 'are not.' My words were worthless and wounded by such ardor of this perfervid martyr. Enveloped by threading the eye of this tempestuous hourglass, just another sign of being extremely intolerable to the minutia, the worried, and nervous curse of being so human and the fear of being, quite heart broke.

I dreamt of you last night
my room was bright, bursting with sunshine
my window open, letting in sounds of a match outside
strangers in my room
but you called
"I have to tell you something
I think you're my soulmate
we were meant to meet
that sticky summer
when I burned at the sun's touch
and you beamed with your bright eyes
and I love you
and I want all of you."
and stunned I only said
"you are the same for me."
I asked how you were
and barely made out your response because the noises outside drowned you out
and I tried to find somewhere quiet
because I haven't heard your voice in three years
I haven't placed my hand in yours for three years
I haven't felt you near for three years
it feels like eternity
like time was stretched over the miles and ocean and land that have separated us for three years
and how often do I think of you
the hint of home in your voice
the tightness of your hold
you, leaning across a table to kiss every feature on my face
I was becoming myself
three years
both gaining and losing control
both seeing and shielding my reality
running to and from myself
and you were there
and I became yours
and I was safe,
finally
and sometimes when I walk
without purpose
down College
or Bathurst
or King
or Richmond
I see you
hovering in doorsteps
and watching on corners
and I hear your roots in your voice
your roundedness
and I am safe
and how I wish you could ground me now
my roots are pulling themselves from the earth
my trunk is decaying
and my leaves fall dead on the ground
I am no longer safe from being cut
all I want is for you to plant me again
as you did three years ago
and water
and feed
and shed light on me
because you were a time when I was happy
you were the broadest smile on my face
you were the lightest air that brushed past me
so when the noise from outside my window masked your voice
I ran to the closet and closed the door
because you are my reminder
that I am loved
that I am thought of
that I am whole.

I want you to consume me as I do you
put me in your mouth
chew me up
swallow me to be absorbed in your system
because you have been drained of me

the smell of cooked meat is
too strong in my nostrils to ignore
the sizzle of oil in the pan is
your fingers running across my stomach
the steam from that *** is
the way my heart flurries when you look at me
I can’t consume anything
because I want to consume you

and you can control the temperature of the pan
and you can check the doneness of the meat
and you can whisk the homemade gravy until it thickens
but can you find me hidden in your meal?

we marry together
like pork and apples
like steak and potatoes
like crepes and dulce de leche
but my shell is cracking
and my form is melting
and my alcohol is evaporating
I am being sautéed, julienned and sous-vided by you
I am losing my flavour

do you promise your pigs you won’t hurt them
before you carve the meat off their bones?
I don’t wish to be hung in a cellar with all the other carcasses you’ve left
hanging by a hook and swinging,
the blood draining from their bodies

I can’t cook
but I would cook you:
reheat your stock,
and rehydrate your fruit,
and flash fry your heart
so your colour returned
and you were mine,
on my plate,
at my table,
holding my hand,
and I could consume the only thing I want:
you
yes, chef
you.

*******, and it's definitely past afternoon.
I need a better motivation than coffee
and people possibly leaving me alone.
I slept in my clothes
and smell like fire.
Ignition- I need to
ignite something.
I'm scared
of drugs though. Talk about
drugs; even a prescription.
We were making sense once.
My face has melted like butter
into the flannel sheets
and pillow
cases. Be awake for what?
Dreaming lucidly but
unaware- just like real life?
I don't think I've woken up.
I just have coffee in me now.
I've been on both feet.