National Poetry Month 1/30

4.1.17

subway
car to car
the poor plead with the poor for pennies
panhandlers pondering which prose
will fare better for their pockets
the are storytellers

will their tales of poverty earn a penny from your pocket? 

eyes averting as
minds attempt to rationalize 
pinched purses 

contemporary paupers 
pleading 
people
paying 
no mind 

Tangerine

beer stained breath

was all that was left of her innocence

She

a body destroyed by midnight rituals

cigarette burns in inside her thighs

like notches on a man's belt

ticks on solitary walls

This was how she counted the days

Drug induced oblivion

she stopped feeling on her skin

first

A hollow womb and vacant eyes

told the lies momma

fed her as a child

pretty princess

once tender, now distressed skin

tattooed in aging bruises

stretched loosely over frail bones

she was invisible

salvation never came knocking

on motel room doors and

some souls ain't worth saving

she

thought

salt water tears stopped falling

years ago

can't remember the last time

her crooked toothed smile

danced across her face

she lived in nothingness

a faded memory for family

a rare mention among friends

her name, a moment of stillness

a distraction

back to life as usual

she lost her voice amongst

the screams of her youth

doesn't remember what it sounds like

so she doesn't know how to find it

she speaks in monetary transactions now

stopped looking ten feet before her

nothing existed in the horizon

mind deteriorated

A lay, a fix, a place

to rat her misshapen shape

she

amid the chaos and fragments

remembered one thing

her favorite color

tangerine

How She Remembered Him

Her skin had baked

Into a deep bronze

When she felt

A statuesque presence

Blocking her sun

She didn't see

His sea green eyes

Just then

They would would burn

In her memory for decades

Uninvited he sat comfortably down

On her faded flowered bed sheet

Their skin lightly touched

Intentionally she thought

Making his introductions

With charm no man his age

Should possess

She whispered her name

And he'd spend the summer

Rhyming it with his own

His nose and shoulders

Showed traces of red

Where the sun had kissed him

Maybe too much

They played daily games

Of hide and seek

She never laid her blanket

In the same place twice

Some days he found her

Some days she found him

Eyes searching

In anticipation

Hearts beat faster in 90 degree heat

He'd never seen skin quite like hers

Thought he could lose himself

In her curls, forever

Seagulls taking flight

A child's squeals

Waves crashing

Sand encrusted radios blaring

Faded into the distance

They lived for the sound

Of each others voices

She knew he was dangerous

Friendly rumors disguised

As advice against his quick

Movements; when the crew

Came calling

Lips grinning and fingers caressing

Her cheek, signs that he'd return

and he always did

Cradled in his arms

He made her feel safe

She could close her eyes

Nestled against his bare chest

He smelled like the ocean

She wanted to swim inside him

His salty lips stole a kiss from her

She knew then

That she would go anywhere he asked her

But he didn't ask

And she didn't go

The battered boardwalk

Remained the parameter of their love

Bound by the Atlantic

They lay on a bed of sand

Soaking each other in

Summer wasn't the only thing to end

She closed a small part of herself

love

heart

spirit

youth

sensation

It would always belong

to him

The Objectification of the Bodies of Women (draft)

for Mary Wollstonecraft

Sex

sex sells

selling bodies

for varying prices

because pricing

determines self worth

prepubescent virgins

attract the highest bidders

those small and fragile bodies

on display while their role model

prances across the stage

exposed nipples

highlighting how sex

empowers women

the mind’s only purpose

is to determine how to

strategically used the pussy

to get what it wants

sex and liberation

the remnants of the

sexual revolution

has led to the evolution

of woman as plaything

no longer bound

by christian morals

and social values

that spicy salsa mama

with enlarged hips, big tits

and red lips for days

her “aye papi” coos

making men sway

all wanting a piece

of the exotic and erotic  

it is the invocation

of the devil hiding beneath

her skirt

momma’s pleading

with boys about the dangers

lurking there

she’ll use her goods to trap you

momma cried on deaf ears

Me Llaman Negra

Me llaman negra

como si fuera un insulto

as I were cowering

from my blackness

hiding from my darkness

They call me negra

In an effort to enclose me

in silence

As if I was walking

in a montage of Jim Crow

regulated streets, afraid to be

exactly who I am

Me llaman negra

como si fuera un insulto

As I bought into the

“white is right” ideology

unaware that I can’t

take off my skin

The call me negra

to shame me

Into playing the shade game

what shade of black are you?

Me llaman negra

como si fuera un insulto

as if I didn’t know

exactly where my people come from

blood flows through my veins

in pulsating Atlantic ocean waves

direction descendent of the slave trade

They call me negra

As if to frighten me

into avoiding mirrors

and seeing browness

blanketing my body

Me llaman negra

como si fuera un insulto

a dagger meant to carve

my soul right out of my body

remove my essence

disconnect me from a hidden history

They call me negra

to remind me of my lack of beauty

those afraid to be

spending thousands of dollars

on rhinoplasty, skin lightening

blond hair weaves

The call me negra

como si fuera un insulto

Poet-On-The-Run March 2013 Calendar

Poet-On-The-Run March 2013 Calendar March 2nd 8pm LAVA's Night of Renegades Will be performing excerpts from Vivisection 524 Bergen St. Brooklyn, NY 11217 March 4th 7pm A Women's Worth in Words Wagner College 1 Campus Rd, New York, NY 10301 March 16th 7pm The Vagina Monologues/Los Monologos de la Vagina La Casa Azul Bookstore 143 E. 103rd Street New York, NY 10029 March 17th 4pm The Vagina Monologues/Los Monologos de la Vagina La Casa Azul Bookstore 143 E. 103rd Street New York, NY 10029 March 29th 9pm Vivisection (excerpts) Urban Juke Joint Baha'i Unity Center 53 East 11th Street NY NY March 30th 4-7pm Latino Authors & Writers Society Performance* April 13th 7PM Harmony Project Banquet at Dartmouth College* April 29th-May 4th As You Like It, Oxford Shakespeare Company* *These performances are tentative. The calendar will be updated as soon as the performances are finalized.

Skin, a persona poem

“I don’t see color,” she said. 

As she smiled and turned 

Was it so easy to

Disregard

Denounce

And deny me?

Was she too blind to see

The history that was written

Into my epidermis?

This color don’t come for free

I’ve been charged 

Done paid the price 

For my color

Too many shades

Removed from my 

African ancestry

And she said, “I Don’t see color” 

How could she so 

Conveniently ignore

The weight that I bore? 

The brunt of 

stereotypes 

miseducation 

misunderstandings

people’s prejudices playing favorites

with me

Did she think she could erase my past

With one sweeping stroke

Of a sly tongue 

Trying to avoid the 

Consequence of seeing me? 

Did she think I would

Shrivel up 

Let go 

Accept

Her desire to white me out of

History and a collective memory 

Reminding folks of what 

Browness truly means?

She straight up

Tried to play me

And before my nerve endings 

Received the electrical impulses 

From my brain I screamed

STOP, right there

Did you think it’d be

That easy to escape from me? 

I’m in everything your eyes 

Can see. This skin has

A long legacy 

Belonging to proud people 

My melanin plays griot storyteller

And if you stopped to see

You might just learn 

What it’s like to be me 

Every layer of my skin 

Is embedded in an 

Identity, who’s past

Has made her path quite clear

Don’t let your eyes 

Fail or fool you into 

Believing that I am not me 

This color is your destiny 

Bleaching creams

Need not apply and I

Don’t care to hide

From the sun’s golden touch

And the nourishment

It provides

You may not see color 

But your gonna see me 

Take a good look

I’m the largest organ

On the human body

I deserve some respect 

Preaching color blindness 

As if you could forget

The haunting voices

of my ancestry are speaking

to you through my genetic code

If you listen close

you can hear the cries 

of caciques left to die 

If you listen close

you can hear the prophecies 

of Yoruba healers 

calling out

If you listen close 

You can hear the

Pounding of power filled

Hands on congas

If you listen close

You can hear the bomba

In my skirt

If you listen close

Your eyes would tell you

What a tragic mistake 

It would be 

to try 

And deny me