I’ll rewrite my words
Hundreds,
Thousands of times.
Erasing periods
Commas and uncommon verbs
So my style will mimic yours.
I’ll speak my words
Hundreds,
Thousands of times
In a voice in my head that mimics yours
Hoping they will sound like yours
Hoping they, like yours, will
Will sit at the foot of my bed at night
And seep into my clothes the next morning
Like yours, eddy inside my ears
Hundreds,
Thousands of times.

Winter teeth bite
deep and harsh.

Snow does fly,
and ice imprisons.

Chill the bones
to brittle ache.

Hibernation
has its season.

Branches spike
the low hung clouds.

Hunters hunger
on hidden trail.

Skittish prey plays
hide, don't die.

Life is sparse
during Winter's reign.

I hate September
The lies of June through August persistently linger in you
Playing with my fragile mind, teasing my senses
I’ll never adjust to how those months erase you
Lightening your hair, leaving nothing but freckles on your cheeks
I’m sickened by the thought of it
That ******* superficial summer stealing you away from me
Masking your beautiful frustrations with a bright sun and tanned skin
Leaving me waiting for your return

I miss your pale face and even paler eyes
Your pure radiance against the reflection of the stars hitting the cold ocean
How I lust for the honesty found in our fall
Only in autumn can I find your soul in full bloom
The warmth from your chest versus the crisp evening air
Tired eyes opening halfway with the arrival of the morning light
Surrounded by bright oranges and pale browns coated in grey
Whispering delicate love songs and sleepy thoughts long into the afternoon
You were mine

But dearest, these months have been harsher than expected
Our October and November have transformed into a bleak December through February
Which in turn became a dark, rainy March through May
Followed by a painfully hot and uncomfortable June through August
And now September refuses to release you from its grasp, my beloved
The seasons are so cruelly passing us by
It’s almost as if you never were
But when leaves are shed and days disappear
I’ll close my eyes and I’ll listen for you in the wind

Who Am I?

Well,
I must be
that ******,
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.


Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.


You see,
I must be
that ******,
a stand-in
for all other *******.
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******,
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******.

In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.

But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."

And If I happen to be a ******,
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******,
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******,
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******."

Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.

And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******,
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-*******
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."

Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,

not in the ****** way,

but the familial,
species way.

Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.

Search and find "******"
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.

I miss you
girl
with the hair that smells
like sweet beer
and
breath
like iron.

I am anemic
and brutal
without you.

witty witticisms
profoundly profound
flung
        from
               fools
guarantee gibbering garbage

woke up today
smoked breakfast through
my lungs
words flowed from my
pen, unbidden in the end
blues guitar in my head
lyrics written in my soul
the buzz brought on
by this drug in my veins
the rat - tat of the snare
a ghost note on these shelves
books of the mind
opened to the masses
i spent my afternoon in
my classes
with thoughts of the moon
daydreaming loops
round like a record
skipping flipping
and ripping this
poetic veil