"unflavored" poems
I like milk tea
like I like my men
Oolong—
deeply rooted in
his beliefs, strong,
slightly bitter— rarely
compromising
Milk and sugar—
delicate, able to bend
rules without losing
integrity, sweet yet
lasting, like the
aftertaste I’ve
grown to love
Cold—
ice cold, only to
complement the
warmth I’ve been
saving for a lone soul
Pearls—
sinkers to my tea,
unflavored yet unyielding.
the anchor of any man
willing to stay with me—
this I have yet to see.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
~~~
someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me
review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces
particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:
*valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living*^
don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human
strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,
working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps
the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds
these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms
the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope
the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing
to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights
come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass
believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
Ropes of fog dangle the fat moon outside your window
A soft fuzzy halo blurring the cratered outline.
Everything is blue
And the city breathes like a giant slumbering animal
Heaving breaths through the tiny squares of light
Sparsely dotted among the skyscrapers.
I am gently tasting your world
A drop at a time
And I wonder how you take it in tablespoons
Like unflavored cough syrup.
Do long nights give your soul less oxygen
Than mine?
Is it like watching the world die slowly
Bedroom light after bedroom light
Or like watching a bird fly into a window?
New York City is made of windows.
And so am I, really
Panes of stained glass waiting for a rock
Or a bolt of lightning
Or an earthquake.
Is it possible to miss you when you're awake?
Is it possible to miss you when you're holding me?
Make me a cup of tea
And let the moonlight fill it up
And spill it over the rim of the mug
Like too much milk and sugar.
Let it soak our hair and our clothes
In light
Until we emerge, dripping
In an evening summer rain.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
The things that used to stir me?
They don't anymore.
I am tiny particles
from a concentrated,
heterogeneous drink,
sinking slowly
and just
settling at the bottom.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
every time my mom would cook,mind you she is Spanish.
she would use "Goya". almost every time she would cook she
would use that. she once told me she needed it for her food to have
flavor, she needed so her food won't be dull. thats how i felt without
you. Unflavored and dull, ur my goya. how funny that sounds but it's
a fact.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
on the gallows pole
at the turn of
the womanhood
of resistance
I am naked
with my sins
but not
to the touch
white men
will be devoured
outwitted
unflavored
by my kind
because of the government
we know evil
because of the government
my people
rise from the ashes
of our pain
our grief
out of sleep
and into a riotous
rebellion
of soft skin
and hard fingernails
of women
who were never held back
but silenced
of women who were never held up
but let down
we will be the ones
to remind The Man
that we have been here
all along—
as prophets
as keepers
as an articulation
of the people
we refuse
to
keep quiet.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC