Saturday, July 30, 2011

Julienne, Naked.

You're a bitch, julienne,
with your face
braced for the worst
you squeeze the wurst
out of me.

You're a witch, julienne,
waltzing away
all my hard-earned
creative juice,

You're a snitch, julienne,
slicing the knife
down my finger,
lingering at the taste
of fine blood.

One day I'll pacify you,
make love to
you on the counter.
Right now, all I do
is dice.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Rough Draft.

River is wide and
water knee deep, she said.
So deep, it looks black sometimes.
Nothing rhymes with sometimes
unless we rhyme it with itself.
Like a whirlpool. Over again.

One time, my father almost died
in water, before I was born.
I hadn't worn my fabric into the pink quilt
of my mama's red womb, but he knew
of me, and so did others.
Collective, we know.

He gave me jars of water
and now I make it slosh round till the
insides drown, flooding my stomach
quick as it came in. The water
moves rivers through me.
See it on the floor,

falling through the cracks,
the boards, seeping the earth
it stands on. It is good medicine.

This lady tells me bye pretty mama,
but I'm not anyone's mama. Still,
I dance to a song I can't hear.
She wore djembe earrings.

Monday, July 4, 2011

A Serious Man.

If I were to write something serious

if I were to ever do a thing

like that

it would be to make note of the fact

that I've never seen you comb your hair,

more of how it roars

around your serious face

and purrs down each night

into deep pillow creases.