How to Read This Poem

Another from the hoard! This one's actually one of my favorites from my UB years.

How to Read This Poem

Get completely naked.

Fill your tub
with water, as hot
as you can handle
it (foams & oils
are optional).

Get in, slowly,
one
foot
at a time,
easing
yourself down
until you are
entirely immersed,
letting the heat
envelop your body.

Fill your lungs
with a deep, slow
breath. Hold it
for a second,
& ease it out.

Close your eyes.

Let this page
fall away.

Feel the touch
of a lover's finger
glide
along the bridge
of your nose.

Smell the scent
given off
by the tears
of a crying rose.

Let your tongue roll
around candy-colored
rocks flavored
amaretto.

Listen to
Caruso's voice,
flowing
with falsetto.

Watch the love
bounce
against the walls
of an infant's eyes.

Revel
in the feel
of velvet drawn
between your thighs.

Feed
some honey
to a bee.

Watch Fellini
dance
on your knee.

Teach
a lemming
how to read.

Plant
a river
from a seed.

Build
a mansion
with a hair.

Pluck
a mango
from the air.

Continue,
careful
not to let your skin
prune.

Rinse.

Repeat as necessary.

Lost & Found Poetry, Day Three

Okay, two more from The Hoard: These are from a later semester at UB, when I was still either too egotistical, or too lazy to edit my poems. Sorry, Kendra! Anyway, I'm editing them as I go.

Five O'clock Shadows

Mid shave
I notice the small
grey patch
on my head.

I think about growing
old. I wonder,
will I age like the famous
latino men of old—Ricardo
Montalban, Lorenzo Lamas, Omar
Sharif, who isn't latino, but looks
good enough to be?

Then I realize the patch
is the same size it has been
for years: seven wiry silver
strands, marching to a make-
believe beat, refusing to bow
down; & I think, how typical;
I start things & never finish—
all the schools, novels, scripts, sitcom
concepts, friendships, meals,
lovers, careers, religions—
Start strong, excited,
all four feet: fleet,
until the thrill bays
like a broken breeze...

Well, maybe, I think,
When I finish going grey,
I'll finish all the other things—
maybe going grey is the only
thing I'll ever finish.

I wipe the blood
from a fresh cut 

on my face,
shame exuding
in tiny red polka
dots, & walk away,
tired of mirrors
for today.

smacking birdies from the foul line 

in the bed that eats tired men

It's Saturday afternoon at the edge

of the world, I'm dreaming

of basketballs: there's a game

on the tube. I spread

my eyes to catch

the score—in my dream

there is no score—

but my eyes are not done

sleeping. It's sixty degrees

outside, the spring heat

strokes a dusty patch

of white across my chest,

& I tell myself, "You should be out

there."

Myself rolls over to tell I,

"Shut the fuck up!"

I'm mad at myself, but I have

to sympathize.

I've worked long weeks before,

struggled

with the desire to abandon

my post,

fought off futility—

Did I

sell,

push,

smile,

hustle,

clean,

order,

give,

slave,

suck enough?

Sleep becomes me,

I become sleep

It's Saturday afternoon at the edge

of the world: Tiger's shot

an eagle off the tee—

There are things I want

to do. 

Eat—yesterday

I only had one

meal, a taco: cold & soggy

before I took the first 

bite—& frustration

didn't let me finish.

Drink—my tongue

is dry, fills my mouth,

a bloated beaver whose dam

is bigger than the river.

Finish—I promised

I would clean the room,

install the light,

fix the hard

drive, empty

the dishwasher,

lick the toilet

until it shined.

Write—I have to make

it sound like I really did read

The Odyssey in three to five

pages, & I have to find the poem

hiding

in my depths. But the game

in my head is so thrilling:

It's tied

in overtime

sudden death

only a few seconds

left on the clock

everyone has the ball

& there's absolutely

no pressure

to succeed.

These Lips (Both Versions)

Here's another from the "archives." The original was written in 1994 as an homage, of sorts, inspired by Lucille Clifton's Homage to My Hips. The "sequel" was part of an assignment to write a form poem. I don't really enjoy writing form poems. I took my lip poem and created a rhyme scheme for it.

These Lips

O, how I hated these lips,

these obese pieces of meat

that hang under my nose:

thick bits of pork fat

These lips stopped me

from talking to girls

because I knew

they secretly laughed

at these lips

I did all I could

to hide them,

posed in front of the mirror

for hours, sucking

them over my teeth,

looking like some amateur

Humphrey Bogart

I dreamt of the day

my face would sprout hair,

some down, at least,

to camouflage their unsightly mass

Until I found someone

who loved these lips

& licked these lips

& sang to their lusciousness

Now, these lips are lover's lips:

bearers of deep, titillating kisses

to which even the most resistant

must succumb

These lips are liquid lips,

flowing swiftly, clearly

over every hill & valley

in their wake

These lips are liquor,

intoxicating,

take a sip

These Lips (a sequel)

O, how 

I hated these lips

These hulking beef tips

Thick port fat strips

big pink buffalo chips

I thought, "These are some god's slips

or some wicked cantrips

'cause I surely could eclipse

half the world with these lips."

Then a goddess worshiped

the breadth of these lips

her tongue forming ellipses

her mouth taking sips

Now these redeemed lips

are proud sailing ships

taking extended trips

from head to hips

bringing pleasure

in long,

slow

drips

[LIKE A DIAMOND TRAPPED IN LODE...]

Another written for class. The assignment: write a poem after a beloved master. For this I chose Constantly Risking Absurdity by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

[LIKE A DIAMOND TRAPPED IN LODE...]
After Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s [CONSTANTLY RISKING ABSURDITY]

Like a diamond trapped in lode
the poem resides
deep within
the mountain of our hearts.

Always mining,
we poets are compelled
to dig them out
lest they erupt:
the grieving
for a mother’s death,
the tasting
of a lover’s breath.

& perpetually we polish them,

until

from raw emotion,
we are left
with nothing
but a gem
we cannot keep,
but feel compelled to give
to the first person
willing & able

to take it

up
&
away.

Jim Crow 2.0

Affirmative action has been part of our social and political landscape for over fifty years now, ever since JFK signed an executive order in 1961 that called for  "affirmative action to ensure that applicants are employed, and that employees are treated during employment, without regard to their race, creed, color, or national origin." Four years later, President Johnson took it even further when he stated:

Nothing is more freighted with meaning for our own destiny than the revolution of the Negro American…In far too many ways American Negroes have been another nation: deprived of freedom, crippled by hatred, the doors of opportunity closed to hope…But freedom is not enough. You do not wipe away the scars of centuries by saying: Now you are free to go where you want, and do as you desire, and choose the leaders you please. You do not take a person who, for years, has been hobbled by chains and liberate him, bring him up to the starting line of a race and then say, ‘you are free to compete with all the others,’ and still justly believe that you have been completely fair…This is the next and the more profound stage of the battle for civil rights. We seek not just freedom but opportunity. We seek not just legal equity but human ability, not just equality as a right and a theory but equality as a fact and equality as a result…To this end equal opportunity is essential, but not enough, not enough.

So here we are, trudging through another presidential election cycle, and as always, Republicans have begun to talk about the inequality of affirmative action. They call it “preferential treatment.” They inspire students to sue colleges over it. They claim that it’s no longer necessary in an America willing to elect a black president. They say that the United States can never be a country based on equality as long as we continue to offer a leg up to a part of our population.They’re right!
Read the rest of the story on The Urban Twist.

lunacy

Lovely Luna is waxing and nearly full. Here's one of my Lunar Cycle poems, this one published in Life in Me Like Grass on Fire. This one was inspired by being surprised by the moon being clearly visible one early afternoon in Reisterstown.

lunacy

I love to see
the moon,
at noon,
high
hanging
in cerulean
sky,
fighting
the bright Sun,
proving
Her own power
does not rely
on His
absence.

I Promised You a Hate Poem

Final Letter to Maria
You think you're so fucking slick
with your adoring looks,
& your sly touches,
all the while pretending
you don't care.

You want to confuse me,
as if you hadn't hurt me enough,
and you hadn't let me fall
a million miles,
once you cut me from your web.

And I hit hard—
you know I hit hard—
shattered to a million pieces,
& now that I'm almost whole,
you want to try and rip me apart,
again?

Well, it's not going to work
because I'm being held together
by a force you could never understand—
more complex than your jealousy,
stronger than the smell of your cunt.

So you can have the money
you think you deserve—
I've met whores who deserve
more than you—& you can have
my advice in times of utter despair—
funny, you never wanted it
when I first offered—
but I won't let you have my heart,
again.

Not so you can crush it
between your palms, 
again,
& smear it on the walls, 
again,
like some gory graffiti
for all to see
...besides, it's no longer mine
to give.

Embers
I sometimes find myself
combing through the ashes
of what we once had
digging, hoping to find something
salvageable amongst all the dead
embers.

I search deep and long, longing
too long, because once I find hope
I uncover burning, breathing coals,
blue-hot to the touch,
remnants of you
burning me, watching me
blister & boil
and catch
until I almost become
one of you,
one with you,
or whatever the fuck happens
when two flames
meet.

I know one day I'll accept that there is nothing but pain within the ashes.

Clean Rinse
I wash my hands,
I wash my hands of you
and everything about you,
the little burdens you try to pass off.

I wash my hands,
I wash my hands of you,
scrub beneath the nails—
if only I could pluck them off
to be sure the residue,
the rest of you,
was rinsed deep clean.

I wash my hands of you,
scrub them to the bone,
and even then I scrub & scrub & scrub
until the bright white light of reflection
blinds me!


Is this all the brightness you could give?