From Poetry

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The Compress

Passing You in the intimate hallways of airport terminals You look at me with venom in your eyes sinking the fangs of your consciousness into me as if I were a rodent to be consumed… I am a. proud. black. youth. striding past you as I wear the color of your skin Is it really that hard to believe? enserio hombre I can feel your eyes boring into the pores of my technicolor epidermis, I suck my teeth at your ignorance; but its useless because they’re already bored bitless de-tusked like your judgement is a plague of entitlement sweeping across…

exhalation sensory pit

An extrapolatory tongue dips into jars of ink— Watch it as it jumps down its hole; a rabbit, Elusive, quicksilver rolling down the crease created by your spine… It seeps into your skin, ossmossian mercury; Ichor, blood god of communication takes form: the thought chased, the thought dreamt- now-fleeting while the words become sonic structure in your ear. structure and sound structure from sound, light held back by nothing, birthed from a silent womb dripping down into the depths of words you sink, like a flare dropped deep fading into the pit where sound burns, your imagination, it’s combustion only…

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Airplane Shit-Talk Ain’t Really Shit Talk

Fragmentary engagement, the pen bleeds as if the tongue were sliced open – Black ink droplets spattered upon a page of decolonial au jus,   a patois created as the flight slips from the tarmac: the grip of the tires is required… but words don’t play by the same rules.   “I wish this pen had that ink; I wish people realized the same truths I hold”   yet Subjectivity makes its home in us all; The body is a thatched roof blown open by the gusts of our hearts & our caucus is a flock of sparrows –  …

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Ripped Open

What in the fuck is going on man Seriously I’m quite confounded Up and down and up and down, back n forth and again   and again and again and again I swing my mind to and fro   as I stumble into myself, words hang from me like   trinkets I adorned myself like cracks on a broken   pane of glass, once fully transparent now abject – a spider’s web; a hideous grace   momentary astigmatism, ouch.   followed by silence cut short like the hair on my head   and every drop of magic has evaporated from…

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What Strange Times We Live In

  where “fuck you” is synonymous with “fuck me,”   when “you” is a reflection of the self and “me” is lost, rarely seen or mentioned – being too informal or perhaps not fashionable enough.   So “me” is used when necessary and never indulgently, (we do enough of that as it is) – indulgence, I mean – oh yes. Oh, yes…   yet “ego” fra(mes)(&)(its)elf, hiding between prefix and suffix, rooting a canopy of an idea in your mind.   It’s not really applicable, or compatible or even, odd, et al – and you realize that “me” is kind…

In this Vacant Room

The setting of the sun, The rising of the moon; How I want to hold you in my arms             And look upon you as you swoon.

Names to Nicknames (Respectively Ordered)

First, I was Cole then I became Cher, Her little sack ‘a puhtaytuhs.   First I was Cole, then I became Cola, my Father’s Bubba.   First I was Cole then I became Coley Oley Oley, Mama’s infinitely expanding Roley Poley Oley.   First I was Cole, then I became Mole, Mecca’s best mate, (Halo at Brandon’s).   First I was Cole, then I became Chaos,  Darcie’s Umbral Knight; her tween scion… of her battle, for her husband, that Aidan be her memory. (I grieve)   First I was Cole, then I became Lil Moco,  (Bats in the Cave), blurred line between…

Reflections at Two

Reflections at 2 usually consist of reflections on “you” the subject of the self – the unlaced shoe –   I smack my little soldier of death hard on the rim-lip of the ash tray and lock it’s smoke into limerick   stealing the key away as if to say “Goodnight Gorilla” a subtle trick, child’s play   and I hope this dread ceases to curl up into my face, its wispy kisses stinking,   the cat whiskers fresh in my mind, the old memory uncorked to breathe   and though it was just this morning, I can’t shake this…

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I Lurk Late, Futon Dreams

And so the raven peers perched atop my head into my perception, bores with its beak a bolt– hole through my eyes   and the hands descend fanning out behind my skull, each enladen with an eye in the palm   and it all fell into place when I traversed the hallway of consciousness, looking down that corridor of books, realizing just how much I’d gotten myself into.   So now I recount this dream on the backs of poems while my three black cats sit idly by– one of them now jumping for the paper hanging from the nail…