soft boy #2

wake up. brush teeth.
gut tight. urge here.

hurt knee. soft boy.
new hurt. harm done.

lay down. dream love.
gut tight. can’t sleep.

urge here. new john.
teeth pressed. one falls.

no time. missed call.
missed meal. tug sex.

health check. day dream.
check in. more pills.

day three. sleep now.
slow start. dry skin.

long bath. more food.
call mom. work now.

time spent. dimes made.
harsh speak. clock out.

soft boy. stomach tight.
urge here. skin dry.

lakeside. dried tears.
new poem. old pain.

old pain. walk town.
home now. rest boy.

phone call. urge here.
choose now. he speaks.

lay down. move on.
wish peace. brown child.

wake up. work again.
push through. long day.

long day. eat meal.
eat meal. eat meal.

heal up. warm hands.
wax dry. wick lit.

place fruit. be still.
breathe deep. breathe out.

love speaks. from self.
shape self. know love.

Practical Concern (For Thomas Duncan)

No one wants to die that way.
Caught between the notions of practical concern and real terror.

His body was an experiment, fertile.
Made ripe through melanin.
His body was carted over every middle passage,
over every needle thermometer- red.

The continent has lost a great many to this crisis.
And the few valid voices are given
to missionaries turned martyr.
The modern day saint is a pale faced news short.
An Oklahoma native,
cherry cheeked,
destined for darker lands.

Lucifer is epidemic.
Black cancer.
Flu scare.

And our bones have become less visible
Our bones have become less visible
Our bones have become less visible.

golgotha is no physical location

Golgotha is no physical location
. . . is no moral lesson to be posited to the willing and the listening.
Jesus was blood
bottled
and packeged for voyage
carried on slaveships along with 5 million hearts in holding

no blood- not one drop was spilled as they left the ivory coast
and we drank
believing half-hearted
that the unrest in our spirits
was thirst

At the dock
White men, observing our supposed stupor
demanded what remained of our bloated bellies move out of his vessels
and onto auction blocks no bigger than the spirits of beasts.

what can be found here ain’t salvation
or dignity.
what dignity can be had in enslavement?
what humanity in de-humanizing?
what song in the chorus of screaming?

chains. . .
made legacy songs.
formed dark notes
with sinister organs
and we sang gospel roused of this filth.

it can only be seen as the grace of energies . . .
that we held some part of our spirit indigenous
authentically African.

contraband

dere are terrible nights dat bring us longing
ah am reminded of thousands of men movin’ready ta risk stability an sanity 
for a feigned intimacy
a fleetin’ embrace

ah am one- have been one bent over park benches in a stupor beggin’ ta be plowed
by fantasy men 
possessors of dicks de size of mah shoes

ah know truth well
have been wid it while questioning wat darkness could bring …
wat solace may be had in final closings …
if dis fuck would bring closure …
an wat exctasy may be had in a release while holding an tasting seas of misery some piece left on mah tongue …
if fate had planned me doom long ago …

in truth- ah wanted ta be held
taken in
an care of 
in truth ah wanted ta be seen past nail polish, 
inviting hole,
whorish mouth
hip switch an’ halleloo

ah came ta dis darkness ta get feeling
despite bein’ warned
despite bein’ seein’ evidence of de contrary in rape scenes, suicide attempts, White men playin Risk wid Black skin, luring sin an’ manipulation

he asked where mah voice had gone
“how could you lay here both wanting an unimpressed? why don’t you sing when we touch?”
skin intimate indeed.
ah hold mah skin
in respect an’ disgust.
see potential
an’ warfare. 
skin is contraband. 
contempt
an’ spiritual ground.

ah should have used mah vision 
ta see wat game dis was.
an opted out.

mah pain. 
is immense.
is real. is in need of holdin’
not another night in de hidden temple. 
not in need of another night of exchanging death in ejaculation.

teeth

they’ve come undone

jagged things 

once pieces whole 

one by one falling

sometimes ejected by force,

misplaced hope,

meth,

liquor,

running,

or a weighted misery.

 

ive become comfortable here

in this still death

i’ve come to know home to be a place of fantasy in our minds

co-dependence making romance out of hurt and fear.

making a routine of

first innoculation

sex, wanting, 

then explosion

perhaps some cleaning

and loneliness

 

Always loneliness.

 

We lay in pieces.

Jagged like what remains in our mouths.

 

If salvation is true. . .

if it can be really done

without complete removal

. . . then it requires mutation

and the development of superpowers.

 

i know what powers is

i harness them daily to endure

to save every life but my own

perverse

like religion

and just as contradictory 

the ability to heal worlds with loving smiles

while still unable to chew

 

i continue biting down

with hope

working on steps

and moving muscles men rarely see.

 

 

 

 

soft boy.

wat is a heart?
hows does it move?
touch?
can it
be great enough to manifest itself like love
even when starting encounters speak contrary?

my thoughts are always corridors
walking trauma
and male shaped silhouettes
who made their own endings
from acting…

acting…
i am acting.
screaming
and begging rape
with a soft voice

“your body feels warm”
he kisses to me
for once this room is closed to the other eyes moving about
we kisses
scratches
sucks nipples
bites and makes well before another tearing.
he massages into me. my limbs can hold but feel cold
should i be a bridge…

should i decide that
then i know. i must be be
much more than carrying.

cause healers cannot heal with cold hands
and a love gained through dissonance
no matter wat other intention was present

i came here to feel something. i came here to feel something. i came here to feel something.
i came here longing for something at first physical.

“i want you so much”
our skin desires intention
and i manifest truth out of his words regardless of what their actual meaning is.
i need him to be truth speaking.
to encourage my own
to encourage a new blossoming
flowers don’t birth out of maddening craze and i have been in this one for a month of Sundays.
my spirit begs for an out
warns me of its coming death
if i am not careful i will be a vessel
hollow

our skin
with thirst, limes, sweetness, and courage
have moved over these places before
where seeing is discouraged, where we retrace the same
continuously obsessed with reworking the outcome
because we know no other way to meet passed exposed asses, one syllable smoke signals, or wanting eyes.

continuously obsessed with a world free of harm.

spirit and craze
like oil and water
originate in separate powers
sit in disharmony
things move without gravity, up walls and ah question, albiet foolishly, that if i can move past these same steps
if i can get to a point past heavy
then maybe something more can be mine
truly

an’ if pieces of mah heart are found
shattered,
neglected,
in filth,
then i ask for them to be spared of wat hurt can be added
save them the strain mah running gave.

i came here to feel something physical
because it is one of the only ways i know to connect

i see him in smiles
he offers an opening
an’ i can’t hold that real

its whimsical
a memory- an air thought
of asking to be held
a sensitivity

a space my heart knows and yet cannot discover

only evil finds itself unable to find reason in kisses
an’ its a constant undoing
to find reason
it demands great bravery of us.

an’ here i hear, ancestors
be careful young creator, we need you well enough for words

we need you well
unpenetrated
left alone
from from bad alchemy
transmuting disease.

we bout to live now.

the aids whore

she became a home made of half healing,

verbose

in patterns and speech

in the actions taken to speak to

encourage and hold others

She in her isolated misery did that to a fault

cause hands not fully warmed cannot possibly provide a whole healing

not in this place cause healing circles require doing of all the members on the in’s and out’s

she in her secrets went through a madness

she attempted to give what she had not for herself and in the process

made herself somewhat of a fool hearted monster

an arrogant piece

in loss she picked up glass

blew

turning her hurt into a force for hurting

what was not found in pills, friend, time, and smoke

and potential attention of of would be lovers

she manipulated … as was her way

being one who once was used

and she resented her feelings.

felt weakened and ran

in crisis

in addicted- afflicted pain

in thought

she tripped

she gave her self over

her desire to die

made genocide seem causal

she wanted to become less

and they cried

at first only heart tears birthed of memories of when star dust was our makings and we played in infinite

they pitied her

hated her

called her a whore and became blunt with their warnings of death

“we will leave you hear, song bird.”

they became most watchful of her terror

the aids whore

takes drags from men she barely knows and most certainly despises

she deflects

because living on life’s terms is much

and bothersome

she is a creation

made both by self and society
she is a complete being

hurt. human. and hero

dese hats were picked up not completely by her choosing

but the wearing of them is what gives her movement

value