there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia

frying plantains in Tanzania
with rice - so much rice
ageing postmen with bus passes and metal knees
carrying keisters of it
a thousand different ways

slow walkers
married, always
frittering away chances or just
connected,
with the mortal coils of the market?

big coat on in the Kalahari

your scorpions absent from the guest list,
exiled.
the brown bears caged, but should things have
really.
come to this?

fierce heat.
fizzing geysers rumpled by grey fluorescent lights and
plagued,
by the speeding steam trains of their past that took them to
SO MANY GREAT PLACES but they only recall the
endings.
the crashing off the tracks,
the unexpected landslides

revolve
navigate the ridge and don’t funk from looking down.
it is better this way.

stamp the scorpions in.
£5 on the door.

take the free round and dance around their nimbus because even though you WILL NEVER
know them,
you would NOT
BE HERE.
without them.

your corner patch
a feral patch given over to woodworms and weeds
but a patch without chains,
shaded by roses suffering a kind of pressure you will never understand.

the naan breads arrived 40 minutes early and ruined your bath but
WHAT
A
PRIZE.

to exist in a rainforest where naan breads are possible.
and ferns unfurl,
then hang,
and rise again.

frying plantains in Tanzania
slow married women bearing grain

carry your cactuses out into the sun.
feed them.
watch them.

be naked with your scorpions and really feel the
football finals
the canal gates
the shooting stars, zooming by
through the windows of the train.

The sunlight winks from behind the umbrella of leaves and mangoes overhead. It tickles your cheekbones like the first, second, thirtieth good morning kiss. Your sandals are worn. A woven basket rests heavy on your hip, in your hands.

Your fingers, slender and worn by the earth, trace the contours of my face the way they search for meaning in a dictionary. Gravity. We inch closer. Have you always had a widow’s peak? Your hand finds it rightful place over my heart. I kiss you for the thirty-first time today. You taste of plantains and milk. You smell of sweat and the sun. My hand relishes in the traces of heat on your cheek.

One mango drops from your possession. Unripe, but soon to be opened up and worshipped as it is meant to be. Your fingers grasp the yellowing heart and press it against my lips. I rest against the trunk and sink my teeth into it. Liquid sunrise trickles down your wrist onto my blouse. The leaves create shadow puppets on the ground, the story of two young fools swaying in the shade of a tree.

At age 27 I ask myself what the hell I am so afraid of
I was born in Central America and my family
Tree reveals that I am from Belize City
This means that I’m Belizean
I’m mixed with white & black  
But I’m not African American since I don’t have any history
Or evidence of my family living in America generations after generations
I’m not even sure if my ancestors were owned by slaves or not
But I won’t assume that we weren’t


Today I ask myself why I love this country so much
That I desperately strive to become American legally
And I want to feel like an American
I know more about African & U.S. History than Central America
I feel like a disgrace to my culture
Yet I haven’t tried to google, ask my family questions
Or even pick up a book to find out more about my ancestors

Whether they’re foreigners or Americans
They tell me that I speak perfect English
And I look like I’m African American
And they can’t even hear my accent
But I think to myself,
Well it’s still there my accent just isn’t as strong and it’s not difficult for me to pronounce English after living here for 15 years
And as for my skin complexion, hey I acknowledge that fact that I’m half black
I didn’t get this skin color from sitting in the New Mexico sun for too long

From what I’ve learned the languages that exist in Belize are:
1. Creole,
2. Garifuna,
3. Spanish,
4. Maya Mopan,
5. Maya Yucateco,
6. Maya Ketchi,
7. Hindi,
8. And German.

We eat:
1. Tamales,
2. Rice &beans;,
3. Craw-fish,
4. Pig-tail, meat-pie,
5. Mango, craboo which is fruit with milk and sugar,
6. Fried plantains.
7. Rompopo is Belizean eggnog mixed with brandy or ***

My favorite food was garnaches which:
Is corn tortilla, refried beans, and shredded cheese  
Fried cake which is bread dough that is shaped
Like a moon that was cut in half and then fried in a skillet

Belize has a variety of ethnicity
Chinese, white, black, Mexican, Native American, etc
So you might look at one of us and assume
They’re Mexican because their skin color is brown
Or think they’re Jamaican, African, and African American because
Of their dark skin or their foreign accent
But that person might be Belizean

We celebrate Independence Day on September 21
They listen to reggae music called *****
My family’s dialect is creole
Da we de gon on
Means hows it going

One day I hope that I’m confident enough to embrace everything:
The culture/country that I was born in,
The American life style that I live now and
Accepting the fact that I’m still black
Even though I’m also Belizean
I don’t want to continue to be bound to my shame of my ethnicity
Or this society that manipulates you
Into believing that surviving and
Making money should be your main focus

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay

That interim between dreams and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
When slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

Your scattered thoughts betray reality
and you
question everything - now waking
Smiling chief, chirping loud
Your body gathered and prepared
under torchlight in dusty tents
Ingesting iboga and that old familiar numbness overpowers
You've been here for a life now, looking back on your life now
hatasha hullah - dey
vey, okay, huttah, ulay

Witch doctor, tribal medicine, fanning smoke from a wild fire
flashing imagery akin to memories of when life was decadent
you remember the taste of stray rain drops on your upper lip on muggy British summer days
and waking on a beach, bloodied as the sand at your feet is the next recollection, how powerful
the act of reflection, as you recall the mirrors of the sea and your torn body weakened and inept
The gathered village chant in unison and splinter groups fall off beat only to rejoin intermittently

Remember the Burmese boy far from home on the Gabon shoreline
and he informs you of your own death,
and asks you why do you breathe still?

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey

On some beaten path lost in Angola you carried two packs, food for the world
but you fell starving and spluttered on the rock that looked like your home
Rebels run wild in jeeps black as night, your supplies strewn on rubble grounds
- hatasha hullah - dey
Taken in a flurry, twittering birds in far off trees betray your trust and fly away
in the opposite direction, and the juggernaut jeep catches air over uneven tracks
You were scared and crying under blindfolded eyes and captors jeered, captivated
- parablah nuh parrah
An orchestrated mass of military garbed children with rifles gather you abruptly
when the car stopped with a rumble
And tied to rusted rigs you're gagged and stripped, bloodied your face now
as they beat you and laugh
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
Congolese giant man, sword in hand and grimacing through bared teeth
Making bold gestures and speaking some inscrutable language
You cannot answer and fear is now in control, you shiver in the ghastly draft
On failure to answer you must be beaten, your back is lashed, repeatedly
- narralah, narrah, nutay
You remain silent but cry in disparity, after shrieks of horror finally escape your barren lips
Through stinging eyes you assess the surroundings after hours of torture when they retire
to their leather beds of shame and innocence faltered, try and remember how to live
- Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
Months must have passed, survive off insects and morning dew on the muddy floor
This African wasteland, time forgotten, child soldiers and lack of humanity is trivial
Always scheming, recollect the armament and through door-way shack trapped light
you see a clear path, and it is good
- ley hatasha hullah - dey
The pinnacle nightfall anticipated arrives, and your skinny wrists released now easily
(their faltering lack of knowledge and abundant braggadocio betray them)
AK laying in moonlight illumination, a sign of God perhaps, but experience proves otherwise
(How cruel the dreams you had of such a gift)
When they spot you leaving, the night lights up, wild crackle of gunfire, heart beats, tribal drums
(To massacre children, such proficiency, the dreams were mindful)
No lapse in concentration, you may ruminate on objective morality in due time
(Crawling through blood and bodies of children, so pure, cadavers tell lies)
The clearing ahead in giant trees, you run and don't look back, praying for no pursuit
(Another genocide committed by a white man, justified perhaps this once)
Weeks pass and you falter only to slurp rain water from Congolese sipping cups the leaves
(Blacking out somewhere in the Republic, or on a border or who cares, as you died long ago)
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
  ley hatasha hullah - dey

To awake from hallucinogen dreams, and cruel memories linger, it's painful you agree
Witch doctor still sings, lonesome now as the tribe apply ointments and silently pray
The fire still dances to some incredible song and your scars redacted, physical and other
How incredible the mind feeling fuzzy and that insane dream is just that - a dream
You black out again, a common occurrence but upon waking you're free, no tribe exists
With a sheepskin rucksack full of cassava, plantains and sugarcane and cocoa beans
Months pass and you make it to the North, when you leave Africa your body is new
and your mind is stable, no lingering cognizance or frightful thoughts of a forgotten ordeal

You arrive in Turkey, to partake in ***** with nimble girls
and I see you floundering on silken sheets,
My memories were fresh as the nymph on your lap
I write to you a note, and you turn alabaster, moon faced being
I was there always and saw every moment
Your ideals on morality are hazy at best, and to your behest I detest all that you stand for
Is your afterlife so pure, now that bodies litter the forest floor
and do you believe that I am not (a) God
and is this mere poetry, or an indictment of your folly and a warning to all whom engage
but do you not also see that every reaction was an action taken to your original action
and when all is said and done, do you no realise that from the day you were born
you were born a God and that God was born dead
and this is just that interim between expiration and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
when slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey

demon in the bathroom mirror
last rock of crystal went missing
bulging eyes in my reflection
I didn’t like that
i couldn’t find crystal but i don’t ask
those guys actually saved my life.
two hours to billings, montana and the
prairie grass glistened in the
last minute Sunday morning sunlight
thanksgiving day drive.

designer machete and the wineberries
broken shabbat demarcation line
and i tried yet again to perform a task
to completion without getting distracted
screaming from the bathroom

‘i can’t hit a vein! I can’t hit a vein!’
water in the rig
miss crystal swimming in mine
Christ in the Cosmos
two plantains on the kitchen island in
a town house on west orange.
no man is an island
but I pretended that i was so
i could finally climb the double helix home.

i  can’t be creative if i’m always in
a mad rush.
‘Prove to me your value! Justify your being here,
can you see me? Why can’t anyone see me?
how about now?’
tongue caught in a snare
pestilence in the mason jar
smoked paprika in the finish
water in the rig
‘Jordan? Was there even anything in here?’

i used to lay prostrate on the
couch
ad infinitum.
one thing they don’t tell you is that when
you’re dope sick you have to take
a giant **** about every five minutes.
the free cable in the apartment complex
actually saved my life.
furniture - mid century modern -
had to let it go.
hadn’t really listened to music in 18 months
besides pop country radio stations
‘i got that summertime, summertime sadness’
ad infinitum.
somehow I had decent pair of headphones and
a small, black verizon smartphone circa July 2013.
‘do what you want, what you want with my body…’
Lady Gaga actually saved my life that day.

demon in the ikea medicine cabinet mirror
giant rock of crystal
missing
water in the rig
‘was there even anything in there?!?!?!’
the mirror reflected back to me a stranger’s eyes
mirror is another name for a stranger's eyes.
i tabernacled in the high desert plains,
Sheridan, Wyoming - powder river country.

i felt the God-force emerge yesterday
up and outward from deep within my belly.
but today i’m fussing over straw-men
in plaster-of-paris suits
and i ate tortured beef at a
diner in Leesport, PA
and I can’t turn back into the man I was
no matter how hard I try.

so now I sit before
the most holy apostle St. Jude
located at Our Lady of Fatima Grotto
across the street from Kings College, Wilkes-Barre, PA.
‘The quickest way to Hell are the temptations of the flesh, exclamation point.’
i came here to reclaim my value but
i can’t seem to find it anywhere.

i keep getting flashbacks of the water in the rig
and the screaming from the bathroom and
if i didn’t tell somebody about this i was probably
going to *****.

3 cheers for the Black Madonna and
the big surrender.
i’ve swallowed so many shadows by now
that i don’t recognize myself in the mirror
or in your eyes.
but my body is a christmas tree and
from the branches i hang
plastic tinsel and
crystals and
broken timing chains
and a cedar wood mala.

I see that Christ is always pointing to
his sacred heart
but no one ever told me that
the anahata chakra had a back door.
no wonder sometimes I feel like i’m a
hydrogen bomb welded inside a lead casket.
someone open the ******* door and
let some light in.

the sun doesn’t rise from the west
and there is no rest for the weary and
to this day I act like that wasn’t only
water in the rig.

I left the plantains you sent me
on the counter. Wiped
around them on cleaning days.

Eyed them as they sat there,
expectant and unwanted,
for hours into weeks.

Let them blacken and soften
until they resembled
the dental records of a corpse.

Were they lifted from the soil
of your Dominican hometown?
Did you farm them yourself?

The bruises speckled on its skin,
were they hand-picked? You always
had great aim with that sort of branding.

I'm awake at the birth of morning,
early enough to see dawn's rosy sun
crack onto the horizon like egg yolk.

From my bedroom window, I can also see
a garbage truck craning its rusty claw
towards the pile I set out last night.

Talk about a metaphor.

The things I love include
Sunsets on a Friday evening and stargazing on a Friday night

Barber shop conversations
Talking to people about politics and sports
so in essence Barber shop conversations
I love going tubing and playing other water sports
Even though I can't swim, but so far I haven't drowned so  far so I'll keep winging it
I love when people jump in after me when I'm drowning
Not only literally but figuratively
When I am submerged in fear as if it were water
When my heart beats against my chest as if it were trying to break free
When my neurons fire like a gatling gun, you my heroes, you save me from me
I love cocoa puffs, a lot
I also love when black women wear there hair in afros or puffs because it's something beautiful about all the shades of black and brown
I love Sunday morning church and Sunday afternoon lunch with family
I love ice cream
maybe because it is the closest thing to love I've ever found
Cold and sweet
it reminds me to enjoy the simple things in life because they won't always be around
I love girls with pretty smiles, and tasteful laughs
Brown eyes with a big heart
I love looking up at a night sky filled with stars and a heart wide open
and feeling, and knowing that God exists
I love talking to people that suffer with depression
I know that may be an odd confession but it's something real in the words they say
They see the world as it is not as it should be
Instead of hiding their flaws, their burdens , they show them so clearly
They remind me to be honest about me
Some things I love
Orange juice
Plantains, not bananas, plantains

I love SEEING black people in Unity
Whether it's to start a government or tear one down
With their hands over there hearts or knees on the ground
I don't care because for too long we as a people have been divided
So to stand for something, or to stand against something,
To run for president, and not from the KKK
To put our knees on the ground so the police doesn't put a knee in our backs
To put knowledge in our heads to prevent bullets in our bodies
I love seeing a room full of people, dressed to a tee and in one accord
I love seeing it as much as I love hearing Nat King Cole's "Chesnuts roasting on an open fire  while drinking a cup of hot chocolate
on Christmas eve , next to the fireplace, surrounded with family
These are some things I love

"Faith can move Mountains."
I've read in some book.
Now mind over Melon
can be done with a look.
Hooked up by electrodes,
a test subject's brain
exploded a melon
and fried some plantains.
The Watermelon trick
sure excited the crowd.
The comedian, Gallagher,
truly was wowed
He's been in the hospital,
truly heartsick.
Physically unable
to keep doing his Schtick .
Soon, with his brain,
He'll resume his pursuit,
popping jokes while exploding
some innocent fruit.

I prefer the strays —
shuffled in homes of
nails and wood.
Their bare soles agile
atop scaling stacks
of stucco boxes.
Cooking rice and plantains.
Sipping life from corners
of plastic bags.

we played parchissi, grandma and I
the race was on to get home first
we never kept track of who won more
it was ocassionally the same
her eyes were light grey and saw the world
with all its bratty twerps therein
and yes, I'm from that happy gang
I'm sure she knew...yeah, pretty sure.

she cared for birds, plants, and small things
and she would cook for me most days
she hardly smiled, didn't hug me much
but the weekly allowance she gave was great
when her blood pressure wasn't soaring
we'd walk to church and she would pray
I'd stand at attention  thère somehow
but irreverent anyway
once she tried to teach me how
to not fall far from grace
but in all my numbskull glory,
that lesson' was a waste

then her day came, she passed on
I felt sick inside
I was grossed out at myself
and yeah sure I knew why
with mixed up and cold indifference
I treated her in life
lack of gratitude I'm thinking
gets us all the time

When I see her up in heaven
it's my turn to cook
fried eggs and big golden plantains
she'll have a proud look
we'll discuss it all and bygones
will all turn to wind
some nights we will play parchissi
and not keep track of wins.

Florida hot sand winds carrying the rich scent of citrus
Waft through open stalled markets
A thousand flora exposed to my salivating glands
Creamy veined melon rinds, sweet and dewy
Are pale globes gracing the chest of our own mother earth
Feeding all of her children with sun drenched nectar
I discover the prickle of Pineapple
Sharp edges similar to that of Loki's temperament
Playful, forgiven,  excused for it's very nature
Bins of giant emerald plantains
Sit bulbous, suggestive and engorged
A not so delicate reminder of the Forest God's potency
Enough to curve the blush of any maiden's cheek
My hair lifts with the breeze
Catching every scent in a swirling kaleidoscope of colors perfume
Ready to bottle and bring me right back to this moment
The market's end is near, one last row
Mangos as far as the eye can see
I pluck a Champagne from the pile
Bite in deep, juice running down my now-happy-childhood chin
Mmmmm....giving over to the experience of such bright flavor
Spirituality at it's most base
*This must be the taste of God's ******

They tell me to watch my weight
But how can I?
When I love my spanish.
The gondules, the rice, the meat
The repollo with the olive oil dressing my mami makes me
Oh so much mixture in my spanish!
And I stroll these streets with the mixture in my walk
And the taste of sazon in talk
The boys, they can't seem to look away.
And can they?
with all this red meat on my bones
With the beans in my hips
All this spice in my soul
Oh, please save me one more bowl
These plantains aren't mashed enough
And i got the special recipe of my aunti's mangu
So I switch my way to the kitchen
To show these rookies what i can do
My hands smell of onion
My hair is tied
My hips move to the beat of the steel bowl tapped by the wooden spoon
I cook from morning to noon
But what do i care?
As long as I got spanish on the table
They won't worry about who said what
Who got how much
Or how everybody is "Fulano"
Because I serve it well
So let me feed you and show you how much I love my Spanish.

Leaves of palm fall to the ground
As fish and coconuts abound
Children swim under the sun
Searching for some summer fun
Grownups head on to the bar
Or to gatherings where their colleagues are
Winter's left, snowbirds are gone
Some tourists are here, but most moved on
Sun climbs over the naval bases
Shining upon uniformed faces
Sailors clip along bays and coasts
Besides mangroves and shipwrecked ghosts
Plantains and barbacue, fish and rice
Lemonade for kids, and beers in ice
Corals are shining, and so are the jellies
While artists sunset performances spark passion in bellies
This is the hot passion of summer in Key West
Where oceans meet and birds come to rest

Slicing avocado with a grain of rice
I add a pinch of salt to the flesh
And the pulp of an Urchin, thumbed -
From the Sea, with a frozen teardrop
shaped like a hook.
I mistook your Virginity for Indolence.
You smote my ardor, with apathy
and Grace.

Carving the pumpkin with a blade of grass
I save the seeds to roast over blarney stones.
As i blacken the plantains with shards
Of Ash Wednesday and night sugar _
You broaden your scope to match the vistas
Of my Accusation... You false my Hope
with a True Face.

As i groom my submission.

I am the product of two distant worlds
But my tongue dances with only one
In my dreams, I hear my Mother’s cries
Praying for her lost daughter’s return
I am too much for one country to swallow
But not enough for the other’s acceptance
Yet here I stand, with my heart in the middle
Of a custody battle with unclear intentions
I cannot choose between the two
Without erasing half of my story
I cannot undo all this writing
Stained on my blood and bones
This heart, of plantains and sweet tea,
Fights a war inside her own body
I’m unsure of where to call home
When I’m not wanted by either country

I went a walk, I'd been to school
Over the fields
All along I picked flowers, pretty ones
Mysterious plantains and dandelions too
Some tiny pink things and frondy grass
I brought them home and gave them to you
And you put them into a clean glass
Sun shone into the water
Sparkling diamonds

In a crocus bag, I remembered home.

The familiar flush of a Saturday’s work
we would fry some green plantains
and head to town.
Women with long, billowy skirts and red handkerchiefs wrapped around their heads line the street.
Some pumpkin, cho-cho, a bag of pimento seeds
carrots, Irish potatoes, scallion and a piece of thyme are bought
The threaded lines of blood, sweat and tears
bring home a bowl.

When there is no water to fill our basins and buckets,
we get up before the roosters.
To bathe, drink, wash, live
the assorted empty plastic containers get acquainted in the bag
on their way to the pipe.

A tablespoon of sugar for my fever grass tea
The zinc fence that cut a portal on my leg
A sip of Saturday’s soup
A container for other containers.

i saw a trader the other day who stood out by the road
and in his basket he had many fruits and vegetables for sale
i spotted plantains and chayote
and asked how much they would cost
he held out his hand and waved to me
and said he wouldn’t take a penny
I asked him why this sudden spur of generosity
and he said not to worry
it was a gift from the heavens, truly
and it’d be best if i left off this inquiry

so i thanked him profusely
and said goodbye humbly
he just smiled and i could see his essence shining
he was more than a simple trader
he was truly a divine being
who had incarnated as a merchant
in order to disguise his fruitful deeds

No, it didn’t happen in classrooms                                                       ­       
Of syllabus and assignments. But
Somewhere amid the iron rusty
Windows Of 28-rupee bus tickets
From yellowed Platform signs. All  
from          
                                            ­                      (Kayankulam to Cantonment)
No, not the gust, but visits a florid                                                           ­   
Breeze after 6 over my garnered age.
Sliding beneath her gold embroidered
curtains, under the ashen newspaper
Speaking of potholes and crows.
How you commute in colored notes                                                            ­  
                                                                ­                        (Adoor to Adoor)
from district to the next is unfamiliar.
Surely, spicy how it rolls from me
Tongue to hers/his/theirs. Carried on
To the red slits on their skin. Fleshed.
Pages, the her-story of breasted warriors,
with ease. You slip off the sky’s night
gown. On the same earth hurried kings,
Queens, and ivory throned British malice.  
                                                                ­                                            
                    ­                                         (Adoor to Thiruvananthapuram)
Exiting from a throbbing earthen stilt
kindness, a dry sandy footstep. From your
children’s 44 rivers, where song and dance,
clamored from the shore. Must be that glued
pride, divine of your esteemed royalty
                                                                ­                  (Periyar, Achenkovil)
Perhaps a brown rattlesnake, you slither
into all riding on health magazines, pamphlets
and late news debates. In hymns of praise and
folded envelopes of austerity from the rain dren-
ched postbox.
Like drizzle at night from a cup.
And if you were a spirit, you swim about
in the death of fishes in cat mouths begging
around with crows in busy smelly harbors, stray dogs
with their tongues out flicking ripened mango                                    
                                                          ( Aluva Central Stn. To Thiruvalla)
pickles on railroad tracks packed with rice and Coconut milk.
Children of mammal and mamma fighting out for
A leaf foiled bundle or rise and rotten fish.
You and I
We share a familiar vision of spring
Bedding an acid sting like memory
                                                          ­                      (Kottayam toThrissur)
Of raw plantains in mouth. Coconut oil                                                      
On head. Crying with my tooth on a
String from my greasy door handle.
There’s a way she rolls of my mouth
To his/hers/theirs.
After all it’s the better language
To kiss with. And after bury with.
                                                                ­           (Adoor to Ranni,Kollam)

Give to me specialized, cowardly retreat treatment while I'm navigating the subtle history of what my elevated toilet seat meant in the throes of bowel movements that require knees with feet bent, housed like ***** hoes with raw beef refrigerated in a meat tent on polymorphed mammaries subjected to inflated **** rent. Chicken's tasty from Shake 'n Bake, better than creepy Cake-My-Snake. Elvis mashed American bananas into fresh peanut butter while his mammy fried plantains for a twinned-dead brother. [Mexican inter-course is what Mexicans do to each other to make Mexico bigger.] Share in my stupefying hugeness! Get what's due to you! I'm all woman! I weigh 350 pounds after strenuous dieting that doesn't work! Let's chat. My body's dazzlingly groovy like a ***** who acts in a G-rated movie. ~ Of all the girly crones, Shirley Jones speaking on curly phones in surly tones, cussed out more burly clones with pearly cones. You're up Europe to throw up & up chuck while the sunny sun's up. [I'm looking for someone who enjoys the bankruptcy experience. Have you not wondered what it would be like to give your money to me? Things, material possessions, OWN you. It's a trap-shoot I tells you!] ~ I'm sweating like Jackie Gleason over a bowl of chili. If I smoked I would smoke cigarettes with a mild menthol flavor. If I had a best friend I would take her to Wales after Scotland and spend my inheritance on the Isle of Man. If I had a car I would have flame decals on the hood so people would yell: "Hey *******! Your car's on fire!" Why they'd call me "*******" I don't know. One'd think they'd show respect for a man who's got flames shootin' out his hood. Geez! Could I *** a sample o' your blood? You look anemical. Make it a small sample, enough to smear across a slide, because, the job of making new dogs, with dog fluid, is the job of dogs.

People were scared of udagan
she talked to the birds they talked back
people cannot see and despise those who can
she cooked plantains and drank brack
She was a modern shaman
Her lips were catching morning dew
she lived on river Nyoman
she talked to the animals
drank birch tree brew
walked the trails
didn't trim nails
her spirit animal was a grey fox
and some people said she was a hoax
Some called her old but oh udagan
she did not care her life just began.
She was just fasting and was thin and pale
she knew  her age was nothing on the Universe scale.

Give to me specialized, cowardly retreat treatment while I'm navigating the subtle history of what my elevated toilet seat meant in the throes of bowel movements that require knees with feet bent, housed like ***** hoes with raw beef refrigerated in a meat tent on polymorphed mammaries subjected to inflated **** rent. Chicken's tasty from Shake 'n Bake, better than creepy Cake-My-Snake. Elvis mashed American bananas into fresh peanut butter while his mammy fried plantains for a twinned-dead brother. [Mexican ******* is what Mexicans do to each other to make Mexico bigger.] Share in my stupefying hugeness! Get what's due to you! I'm all woman! I weigh 350 pounds after strenuous dieting that doesn't work! Let's chat. My body's dazzlingly groovy like a ***** who acts in a G-rated movie. ~ Of all the girly crones, Shirley Jones speaking on curly phones in surly tones, cussed out more burly clones with pearly cones. You're up Europe to throw up & up chuck while the sunny sun's up. [I'm looking for someone who enjoys the bankruptcy experience. Have you not wondered what it would be like to give your money to me? Things, material possessions, OWN you. It's a trap-shoot I tells you!] ~ I'm sweating like Jackie Gleason over a bowl of chili. If I smoked I would smoke cigarettes with a mild menthol flavor. If I had a best friend I would take her to Wales after Scotland and spend my inheritance on the Isle of Man. If I had a car I would have flame decals on the hood so people would yell: "Hey *******! Your car's on fire!" Why they'd call me "*******" I don't know. One'd think they'd show respect for a man who's got flames shootin' out his hood. Geez! Could I *** a sample o' your blood? You look anemical. Make it a small sample, enough to smear across a slide, because, the job of making new dogs, with dog fluid, is the job of dogs.