National Poetry Month 12/30

4.12.17

knees buckled
under the weight of my memories
not what I've endured
the pain radiating from my core
is something more sinister
more dangerous
the pain that I've inflicted
haunts me

National Poetry Month 11/30

4.11.17

Dangerous thoughts
invade a quiet mind
to protect her belovéd
she grew distant
withdrawn
her skin wilted
her soul a desert
vast
empty
full of death

National Poetry Month 10/30

4.10.17

What is freedom really

when we are prisoners

to love
     to work
          to family
               to time

National Poetry Month 9/30

4.9.17

I do not recognize my face
I know that it's me starring
at myself in the mirror
I cannot tell if it's
time or age or something else
the women starring back
a stranger
there's a hint of familiarity
in the sadness of the eyes

has she always been there?
I cannot tell where reality lies
in the past or in the present
Mirrors are supposed to be
the keepers of truth
but this one
no this one taunts me
with a face I do not know
What truth is there in a
reflection?

National Poetry Month 8/30

4.8.30

I want to write you sonnets
alas my love isn't that profound
I want to sing you ballads
alas my lungs are short of air
I want to give you every thing
alas my pockets are full of lint
I want to show you my scars
alas I've forgotten where to find them
I want to give you myself to you
alas I lost her along the way

National Poetry Month 7/30

4.7.17

tall
stalks of green
i hydrate them with love
bright yellow buds
greet me at dawn

daffodils in bloom

National Poetry Month 6/30

4.6.17

I will not parade my pain
     on a stage for you
I will not make a mockery
     of my misery
for voyeurs looking to get off
My history wasn't meant to be
     scored on a rubric
My tears were not meant to be
     validated by an audience

No

I will not parade my pain
     on a stage for you
This stage
This venue
This theater
This house
this is my temple
my holy place

This is where I come
     to commune with goddess
this is not an office
you are not my therapist

I will give you every ounce of
love
     grit
          fight
                 flaw
                       light
but I will not give you my pan
that burden belongs only to me

So no, I will not parade my pain
     on a stage for you
I will not send you home
with comparison notes
I am not looking for acceptance
I don't need validation
This work isn't about me
This work isn't for me
This work
    is greater than my personal narrative
I don't step to the mic seeking approval

I am merely a vessel, here on this stage
the cries you hear in my throat are not mine
they come from another place
Stories I was destined to tell
You were destined to hear
but let this one thing be clear

I will not parade my pain
     on this stage for you

National Poetry Month 5/30

4.5.17

we are the wretched 

what world is this
where children are expendable? 
a child who has yet to live 
and life will elude her 
poison will set her lungs ablaze
decades before she speaks revolution

she will never know beauty 
she will never know poetry 

she 
     will
           never  
                    know 

this is not holy
this is not political 
this 
is 
war 

war waged on the wretched 

National Poetry Month 4/30

4.4.17

I wonder if the moon is lonely 

night watch woman 

guarding the sky 

recipient of prayers 

giver of energy 

mistress of tides 

what do we give her in return?

we take and take

then abandon her at dawn 

seldom mind her waning and waxing 

wait impatiently for her full return 

we watch in wonder 

      with nothing to offer 

National Poetry Month 3/30

4.3.17

She doesn't listen to Townes any longer
a feeble attempt to erase him 
     from her memory
gazing on the world with vacant eyes
some ill begot love lived laced 
between whiskey and longing 

the past had become a raging river engulfing her
her lungs burned with lack of oxygen 
all she could think to do 
was turn the music off
save her heart from hearing another note

her soul lingered suspended between
guitar strings; it go so 
she couldn't stand to hear men sing 

the blues 
stuck to her marrow 
she wanted to loose her/self 
silent 
dormant 

she doesn't listen to Townes any longer

National Poetry Month 2/30

4.2.17


He 
took great pains to hurt her
used his words as weaponry 
hoped to carve deep into her psyche

he was misled 
thought there was something there
something worth cutting
she

had no feelings
a vacant vessel 
incapable of sensation 
he tried to damage her 
she swallowed his insults like
     morning coffee 

wondering when would this madness end?

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

Skin (working title - also work in progress)

You
you’ve been become an expert
telling stories about who I am
reading my skin like tea leaves
you think you know my past
no charge for your services
arguments to no avail
you say
you, you dominican
you guyanese
you indian
you brazilian
Statements
not questions
your conviction
even has me trippin’
believing the fairytales
tales of my skin
see my skin
be telling stories
before my mind begins to think
before my mouth begins to speak
your eyes are sending you messages
too dark to be favorite
too light to know pain
she can’t relate, you say
she speak so well, you say
she got that good hair, you say
forgetting/unknowing
your words like daggers
created gashes in my self-esteem
funny you seem surprised
for someone who’s become an expert
in my skin; a storyteller
telling stories about me and my skin
weaving strongly spun tales
you’ve waged a war on my skin
forcing me to make weapons
out of words
that seem to fall on deaf ears
you think you know me
think you know my history
know who I am
and where I come from
and have the audacity
to not believe me
when I tell you
 who I am

NYC Performance 11/9

BoriMix Poetry Reading at O.P. Art Studio Weds. Nov. 9th 6pm $5 cover O.P. Art Studio/Clemente Soto Velez Cultural Center 107 Suffolk Street b/w Rivington and Delancey (LES) BoriMix