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They Know

They know their words are munitions 

conjugated into letter shaped bombs

Feed the masses their morning thoughts 

and lattes with connotations of fear 

They use alliteration as gasoline 

throw dark stereotypes around like lit matches 

and when their narrative becomes flame

twists bonfires to gun fire

Tomorrows headlines will be the same

the ones who read the in between 

are the ones to blame

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In The Key of Silence

With gobbling chins

he debates our fates

just to hear his own 

tuning forked tongue

sing in the key of silence 

the melody of yellow bellied violence 

He’s perfected the coward’s theme

the late night gas lit anthem of brutality

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I’ve tried again and again

to leave this place

Where the rain and I were born

leave behind the hold me downs

with it’s gunmetal cumulus thumb

And him

always him

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I’d love

I’d love to be the kind of poet

who takes to stages

believes their words put together just so

can change what the audience knows

Bring color to sound

taste to phrase

meat and potatoes to cadence

Who leaves their bellies full 

of all the things

they’ve never considered before

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White christmas

It’s a white christmas

a rich vs. poor gentrification winter

eviction happy overlords

made of mediocre white men

with minds the color of oatmeal

A nazi culmination of a year

determined to exterminate us

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Untitled

It was late spring of my 7th grade year. The clouds had given up the sky to the sun long enough for the ground to dry and this meant conditions were good enough for dancing. It was my routine to pick a tape, place my pink boom box with silver buttons on the curb and dance for hours in the street.

Mike lived two houses up and I loved him. He was a tall, sandy olive, brown eyed gorgeous. Wore flannel shirts and smiled straight and white. The kind of smile that feels like they saved it just for you. Fresh from the Marines the summer before, sweet as ever, if a bit sharper around his edges. He drove by in the brown van he takes to kiss girls in, grin on wide, hand on its way up to hello, except on this day, in the time it took him to go by, his hand went to his chest in the universal sign for “I” and then he put a two fingered gun to his head. 

There were lights, spinning a loud silent red and blue when we got off the bus the next afternoon. But it was when Mrs. Gould, ran from her beige house to meet us, voice soft, tone kind, that I understood something was wrong. She held our hands, walked us to our door and would say nothing but stay inside, Mom, be there and soon. 

My mother did not lie to us. She said Mike and committed and suicide but it would be the neighborhood tyrant who would say shot gun, mouth, and blew his head off, and coward. And I would say nothing before I used the yellow metal dump truck to smash his face with. His cheek would swell purple, flatten to green then yellow over the next few weeks but no adult ever said an adult word to me about it and I became the kind of angry, that 30 years on  I am still hunting  the words to light it on fire.

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Tune in for my Talking Earth debut. Let me know what you think… But only if you love it. Thank you to Sophia for inviting me, and to #Kboo for having me. https://kboo.fm/program/talking-earth

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Cold Comfort

These days it is cold

comfort that most of us

feel the same when

the cold hard truth is

the man in charge is warm

in the comfort of yes men

and women he’s told

to wear dresses

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My Kind of Woman

She’s a cheshire grin kind of monster

A take her hand if you dare kind of beast

She’s a leap of faith demand

A both feet to the fire siren

And if you can’t find the courage

to follow her into the dark

There are others upon others

lined up and starving 

to dive off of cliffs

for a piece of her mind

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Glass Blown Men

He is the same 2 hundred 85 pound

6 foot 4 eggshell of a man 

he’s always been

Humpty Dumpty in the flesh

clinging by his fingernails

to the crumbling reign of his glory

To college football and a time

when he still had hair

pecks instead of breasts 

his fists were allowed to solve things

and no-one cared how many noses he broke

or that he beat me

Oh how he laments

the good old days

The way all

glass blown men do

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Even If

Even if I never find you

and you never look for me

I will still recall the sun

on the days we laughed

The moon light we spent

in lust and forget

And the way your silence said

“I love you”

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Untitled

Been chasing your mind

Running after your heart

Searching your fingertips

for my soul in the dark

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Between Kisses

He still sleeps in my bed with me

Forever sixteen we

gave each other things

no one else would

Told each other the truth

in between kisses

we lied too

Spent our nights pretending 

okay existed

and the mornings remembering

it doesn’t

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Angry Hands

He was the first to describe them that way

The first to put words to

the righteous anger that curls

fingers into teeth that bite palms

The first who did not tell me to ignore

Took my furious fists in his

larger than life hands and said

"Hit me instead.

As hard as you can.

Anywhere you want.”

So I did

And afterwards he

held me close

held me up

in front of everyone

as my heart broke open

my knees buckled

and my chest heaved with grief

loud enough for the whole street to hear

He was the first man

who didn’t let go

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My heart breaks easy

not made for this world

it beats more erratic each day

god speed every morning

in time with the rat race

So I can sit punctual behind a desk

with my fellow vermin

when the clock strikes 9

and we start a collective

silent count down to 5

to quitting time when

our hearts are set free again

On the bus I close my eyes

let it rock me home

with it’s lefts and rights

And recall the days they told me

my life would be mine

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The Best Thing

The best thing

about someone leaving your life forever

is that all at once you’re allowed

to forget the bad stuff somehow

And if that’s what it takes

to remember you this way

As the person I thought you were

Then I am content to pay the price

of never hearing your voice again