Thursday, April 8, 2010

The New Yorker

will stand on her most velvet red painted concrete
rolled out on the Brooklyn bridge.
Hike up her white custom made wedding dress.
Watch her lover hail down a yellow cab,
because the skyline doesn't know how to hold
his peace in the face of risks like forever.
Releases 100 hand picked pigeons
into the sky. She knew better
than to invest in doves.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Sweet On You

She spreads the thick
balmy sky on her lips.
Lets the antsy of him
dance there like light
off a vase.

She does things like
melt sugar cane
in her navel.

Let her palms crush
grapes into libation.

Collects a montage
of mangoes, passion
fruit and cassava
between her breasts.

Spreads her back
like a tablecloth
over a crippled
palm tree resting
on the ground.

She believes
her purpose
is to taste
of all the sweet
things the earth
hides underneath
its tongue.

To be the ultimate
indulgence of men.

Never considered
being sweet
on herself.

Heavy Things

She’s always had this fetish
for heavy things that refuse
hold their weight.

Wanted to be under them
like chests and commitment and anchors
Sometimes we only acknowledge
the unbearable.

She appreciated her anchor
the most. Hanging from her
like an ornament.
She swore it was magic,
how it held her
still, in the mouth
of a growling sea.

Tried to work this magic
on old lovers
who never believed
in her power.
Made a jewelry box
of dried banana leaves.
where she keeps
the lips of women
who didn’t make good
on their promises.
Safety pinned them
to the pink shivering flesh.
Tied them to her anchor
Dared them to leave
and take flight.

Monday, April 5, 2010


He wakes up smelling like liquor
At 10 o’clock in the morning.
Pours his dreams in plastic solo cups
at the breakfast table. Places them
next to mugs of old grease.

His mama taught him how to cook,
so he would need no woman.

His mama taught him
there are no preservatives
for the future. Everything
is spoiled except for now.

Don't talk about my cousin.
He has a well prepared heart,
With jokes seasoned only for those
who have seen the world ass naked
with a 40, telling God about her day.

Give him a feverishly sweating beer
and a plate of food. I’m sure
he would die with his ribs dancing
together like wind chimes. And a parable
slow cooking on the tip of his tongue.

The 5 Year Old In Seek of Wisdom

Mommy, where do blue-birds come from?
The hollow part of the world that still has a song.

Mommy, where do dandelions come from?
Your clothes line full of wishes
waiting to be taken back in the house.

Mommy, where do the dragons live?
On your tongue.

Mommy, have you ever met the devil?
He is beautiful.

Mommy, why do you sing to the moon after the sun rises?
To let her know she is not forgotten.

Mommy, I can’t find God, where is he hiding?
Go look in the mirror, Baby.
You just don’t recognize him.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

To the woman who thinks she can live without him

go ahead and pack your bags.
Leave the eulogy under his
pillow. Press and starch your heart.
Fold it into a pocket square
and abandon it in his favorite shirt.

Leave the heirloom of his eyes
in the kitchen sink. Be brash
and unapologetic. Edged with
the type of silence that forces
the soul into hiding.

Close the door behind you,
Softly. Do not wake your
once lover. Do not go back
for the things you forgot
on purpose.

You would love to be there
under him. Suffocating in the taught
of his embrace. So you left your
breathe, feisty and daring on the
coffee table. In case he missed it
in his mornings.

Woman, locked in your sister’s
spare bedroom. Stop searching
the dank of your chest for traces
of him. That is not living.