Less Than Self

How is One
supposed to Love 

selflessly
when all that One
has ever received
is love tied to strings
or grandiose things
or worship, which
is not Love at all,
but a need to believe
in someone, something; 

when all that One 
has ever known 
has been a lie, 
or little more 
than inconvenient truth, 
or love out of convenience, 
out of proximity: 
nothing from nothing 
leaves nothing, 

 or less? 

One can learn, 

perhaps only after breaking, 
often destroying, 
the only person 
to ever offer 
selfless Love, 
the one person  
who needed 
Love the most; 
but One was too blind 
& ignorant 
to even realize. 

In Love’s loss, in lost Love’s pain, 
the lesson is learned, 
but often too late 
at a cost that’s too great. 

The Jewel & The Shogun

The Shogun got locked up, again.
The Shogun’s spent quite a bit of his life
locked up, but The Jewel isn’t concerned
about this. The Jewel’s concerned
with how much of their time
together The Shogun will spend locked up.
The Jewel’s concerned with whether to pay
her gas & electric or her rent. She can’t
afford both.

The Jewel’s a sweet girl, sometimes
too sweet. A few weeks ago, her bestie
used $150 worth of her Food Stamp money
& never paid her back. The Jewel has a hard
time turning men down. This often gets
her into trouble. She knows this,
so she’s trying to stay celibate
for The Shogun. That’s really fucking
hard because sex is her favorite thing,
& there’s really nothing else
to do. She can’t watch TV. She can’t
use her computer.

The Jewel’s neighbor, The Yoruban, let’s
her come over to charge her phone. She
was fucking him, until he started getting creepy,
saying shit like, “This pussy’s mine, right?
Tell me this pussy’s mine,” & she decided
to stay away from him. Then she lost her power.

The Jewel recently
rededicated herself
to The Shogun, so she has resisted
the attempts by The Yoruban
to take ownership of her cunt,
especially after learning
that The Shogun will only lose
2 years, plus time served,
which with good behavior could end
up being 18 months or less.

The Shogun got locked up for selling $20
worth of weed. No big deal,
except he was still on probation
for that time he hit that cop. He’s lucky
he’s not serving the rest of his 20 year
sentence. The Shogun’s lucky to have someone
sweet & nonjudgmental, like The Jewel,
willing to wait.

The Jewel won’t.
Eventually, The Jewel will give
in to The Yoruban,
or to one of her many
other suitors. It doesn’t matter,
as long as The Shogun thinks
she’s true, as long as he has something,
someone to rely on, to lessen the weight,
to soften the time, as long as The Jewel
shines.

The Jewel can be honest,
or The Jewel can be true.
She can’t afford to be
both.

These Words Are My Children

Danae—Gustav Klimt, 1907

...written some time ago, between 2003 & 2007... ...found today when browsing through old journals.

These Words Are My Children

These words are my children,
floating freely in the lukewarm womb
of my mind, incubated
in the darkest valleys, fed
from my fears & frustrations,
my fury & futility, my fire
& foreboding—floating,
spinning, fighting, kicking
until it feels like I can no longer
hold them in, as if they were about to burst
forth in some great eruption of blood
& brains & meaningless verse.

These words are my children—
each one delivered to the world
after hours, days, years of hard
labor—the more I force,
the more they fight. I push
& push & they dig,
dig their claws into my skull. Would
that it were as simple
as an episiotomy to bring them forth;
I would slice my mouth straight
across & live
at peace with my jagged grin,
if it would promise to ease the pain.
Yet, at the very brink of despair
they ease out—precious
& unsafe. 

These words are my children—
infants to be molded & metered,
measured & mothered
until they have matured
enough to meet the world.
I am sad
when they leave me.
I am ashamed.
My children
lost in a world
where their power
slowly dwindles,
where they will be left
unloved, unappreciated, discarded
& forgotten—lost
in a world where apathy
reigns & truth is devoid of meaning.
& I, their once proud mother,
must suffer 
that pain worse than labor.
I must watch my children
die. 

These words are my children—
but alas, I cannot protect them.
They are doomed:

These words are not fertile
enough to feed you.
These words are not elusive
enough to free you.
These words are not intelligent
enough to teach you.
These words are not gentle
enough to touch you.
These words are not powerful
enough to incite you.
These words are not even eloquent
enough to express how much I love
you.

These words are just my children—
from my lips to your ears,
from my hands to your eyes, looking
for homes in your hearts where they might live
forever,
if not for the cold,
iron bars.

Saint Trayvon

Why Trayvon Martin’s killer may go free, & why that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

I started this article over a year ago, when the wounds of Trayvon Martin’s death were still fresh. I never finished it, in part, because the emotions were still so raw. There hadn’t been enough time to process what had happened to that young man who only wanted to get back home with his Skittles & tea and watch basketball, only rage and disgust. Then there was the feeling that nagged me, a sense that Trayvon Martin’s killer might get off. The rage and disgust are gone–not gone, never gone–subsided; but I still can’t shake that feeling.

Keeping up with the case, as presented so far, the prosecution has done a fine job of establishing many of the facts, but a number of the prosecution’s witnesses have played into the hands of the defense. Some of the testimony has bolstered their claims that, at the moment of the shooting, it was the killer who felt his life was in danger, that regardless to what happened prior to the shooting, the killer thought he needed to kill in order to survive.

Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter...

Read the rest of the story on my latest From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist.

Moon Madness

Spring cleaning & I found these poems I started during Shirley Brewer's moon poetry workshop at the January 2013 MWA Baltimore Chapter meeting:

Rave

The music is so loud

it feels like it’s coming
from within, each bass
beat expelled
with my breath. I am
surrounded by neon soldiers
spinning, popping, rocking

nodding. They dance in dreams
fueled by ecstasy & immortality.

I am mesmerized

by the movements
of these modern

day whirling

dervishes, oblivious

to eyes

like mine.

Even the yo-yos

being spun, glowing

on fluorescent strings,

dozens of tiny moons

in awkward orbits,

beguile me.

Disconnect

Do you remember brighter days,

days  when I stayed
close, days when your extended
arms could not be wrapped
around me?

Do you recall those times
so long ago when you could climb
a mountain, and if your heart
was big enough, you could leap
from the peak & I could catch

you in my fullness?

Of course not. We were

so much closer then, back when

you worshiped me, revered me,

coveted my cheese. I loved you

then. But now? Now you have

grown up, grown old, grown

bitter & cynical.

I have become nothing

but cold rock to you.

Painting the Moon

I cried the night I realized
Gustav Klimt had painted

the moon. Before then

it was nothing more

than a ball

of rock, battered & broken,

sterile & lifeless.

And then came Yem,

a muse sent by the moon

itself—sent to show me

that its vitality lied

not in the presence of life

but in the weight

of our souls.

So, for Yem,

I went to art school.

I learned to see the life

in everything—nothing

existed in a vacuum

when I could make it all

breathe.

Like a willo’wisp

returning to woods

Yem winked out

before I could catch

her. Rumors were

she had to go

home, home

to money claiming

playtime was over.

So I mourned

for her. I climbed

to the rooftop and screamed

at the moon until I was raw.

I saw

it then, the face

was Judith’s;

tonight, she held

my severed head,

Holofernes’ rejected.

I cried.

I cried for Yem.

I cried for myself.

I cried most now knowing

everything had life,

everything

but me.

Tongue!

I'm four, maybe five. Mom has everything I need laid out on the bed, except for my shoes, of course, because shoes don't go on the bed. "Okay, you know what to do," she says before walking out of the room and closing the door behind her.

I know exactly what to do. I'm ready. Underwear first: bright blue Spiderman Underoos with red trim. No problem. The matching Spidey tee, easy peasy. The overshirt's not as easy. My head slips into a sleeve a few times before I realize it's supposed to go through the larger hole in the center. I eventually get it on with not too much effort. Pants are a little harder. Somehow, I get both of my legs into the same pant leg. I fall over, wriggling like a lost  caterpillar until I can squeeze the wrong leg back out. But even a pair of slacks is no match for my four-year-old thinking process, in the end.

What truly trips me up are the shoes, specifically the right shoe. I remember the way mom taught me to get socks on easily: roll them all the way to the toe, first. Each sock completes its trip over my toes, ankles and calves like magic. Not even my left shoe gives me any hassle.

The right shoe, however, puts up a fight. No matter how hard I try, it refuses to slip on. Eventually, I hear my mom's voice. "Fernando?"

I leave my room to ask my mother's advice, waddling the way we all do when we walk around with only one shoe on. "No me puedo poner el zapato," I tell mom, dejected that I've failed.

"Le sacastes la lengua?" she asks, sincerely.

I'm confused, but brighten up. I hadn't thought of that. I'm not sure how it will work, but mom's full of wise advice. I rush back into my room to try again. I sit on the floor and do as she say: stick my tongue out at the shoe before trying to slip my foot in. Nothing. However ridiculing this shoe is supposed to help, it isn't. If anything, it's getting worse. Perhaps my shoe's mad at me for teasing it.

My mother walks in. "Fernando, what are you doing?" she asks curiously.

"You told me to stick my tongue out at my shoe to get it on!"

Mom laughs gently as she takes the shoe from me. "No, Fernando, sacale la lengua means to pull out the shoe's tongue, not yours," she explains as she does just that: pulls the tongue that is stuffed deep in the toe, the tongue that I had driven even deeper, right out before slipping it easily over my foot.

I get it now. Shoes have tongues. As I take mom's hand to walk to the PATH that will take us into New York, I just can't resist sticking my tongue out at my right shoe one last time, just for spite.

Ode to Joy

for Joy Lowe

Joy is dying,
lying comatose
on a hospital bed
in Franklin Square.

Joy is dying
& there’s nothing
I can say or do,
pray, perhaps,
but even that
is no guarantee.

Joy is dying
& all I can really
do is remember
the fun we had
getting ready
to go dancing
on a Sunday night:
Destinations, Chaps,
All three floors
of PT Flaggs.
Do you remember
the Powercore?

I watched her
then, so full of life,
vigor & vim in every writhe
& spin, strawberry
blonde locks of hair
grabbing at the air
the way I wished
they would want
to grab me.

Joy is dying,
I have no time
to say goodbye,
instead I will remember
the dancing, remember
a young man’s crush,
remember the flames
of her eyes.

I want Joy to live
forever
inextinguishable
in my soul.