BLK CUNTEMPORARY WHITE GALLERY — A WALL
s if u could evr find home there
s if the wall were evr strdy
(will not elaborate with further metaphor or the furthering of n analogy
with no stretching)
this s exactly what it s
— the falsehood of a prceived possibility —
I do believe in the ability of alcohol to soothe a sick throat.
I cannot seek articulation within the confines of the thesaurus.
I write in straight lines that do not so much resemble the curved nature of the stalagmite in my chest.
I cannot help but suggest that your poem
birthed the suggestion of a curved line towards myself.
I can imply
the jagged line of my person
I do try
to look past
but that is not the way seeing works.
FOR THE REVEREND GARY DAVIS
I shape my hands into a circle
everything inside becomes an expansive tunnel
for some dirty train to run through
unpaid prison laborers lay down tracks through this tunnel.
Hands unshape themselves
not actively un-shaping, just moving
the shape of a body changes
un-shape themselves, un-circle
fold onto themselves softly
orchestrating tunnel’s collapse
there is a light there is a light there is always a light at the end of the tunnel lie
sweet lie like smooth liquer to parched spirit
lilac lie pink lie green lie
lie like lye to kinky haired scalp and all those curls unfolding themselves
like the most unnatural hands
actively un-shaping purposeful moving
the shape of a body does not change
Blue Bed (in progress)
The room radiates a spit-soaked cotton candy blue. Doors close. We are quickly forgetting.
Face is seeking, in that mirrored ceiling, a prettier reflection. One can only hope.
(most times hoping means nothing. hope is words stuffed in black plastic bags, tied, placed perfect on the pavement. hope is prayer that stinks of begging.
that knowledge came slow. I learned patient.)
We paused here in our stopping to savor all the dirty bits at the bottom of our bottle. Stayed sweet slow sipping backwashed memories. Throats don’t think about tomorrow.
Who knew one could spill so beautifully.
White unfolded on to purple sheets.
Body stained cotton cup of warm milk
fallen on imperial bed spread limbs
taste your vastness
wide like indigo.
I laughed, threw my head on your shoulder
the way trash cans throw themselves on the pavement
and give up all they’ve got to the sidewalk.
I love you the way trash cans blow over in harsh wind.
The way drunk girls beg for taxis at 2am
but can never dial the right numbers because their fingers keep forgetting.
One day, I want to love you like forgetful or fallen
or other plain words that speak softly.
Tracing the coffee stains you left on my windowsill with my right index finger.
Your misshapen feet.
The way you woke up afraid and speaking.
I remember cleaning out the old room and rubbing the windowsills white again.
I remember laughing boys’ teeth falling on each other
like the chains that hold train cars together.
The way city-christmas sounds.
And then their jaws unclenching,
cheeks filling with their own viscose liquid.
And then their sacred spitting,
annointing that train car’s entry way.
I remember, I loved you just like that.
I love you, now, the way my nose loves urine soaked platforms;
only in remembering.
In a dream, I remember
standing at the beveled edge
staring down the arch-shaped tunnel
watching that train spit itself at me
like a bullet out of a dirty barrel.
All the while, you were dirtying your knees at my feet
holding a white rag tight with all your fingers
rubbing that filthy beveled edge yellow again.
And the loud man saying:
“Stand clear of the platform edge as the train enters the station.”
You always loved me
just like that.
brown paper bags
here are all of our archives
packed them up
tightly, I tied
each bag tightly
turned these black plastic bags turned these
brown paper bags into
tied them with timelines I
I carried all our hours on the subway
took the Brooklyn-bound 4 train to the last stop holding
all that was ours tied tightly with timelines I
I tried to hold tightly tread lightly with those bags pressed beside me
it was heavy trust me let me let’s see,
let’s be honest.
the hours float off in the distance behind us and these bags are doubled over and empty beyond us your houses sleep there doubled over and empty and all the distance that sits here is empty. I, I lied when I said this was heavy.
Multiple voices rejoicing
we are a metaphorical chorus.
Fingers stat singing,
Soft hum of slipping
across soft flesh;
You hastened your tempo to match my
steady metronome movements.
You raised your silence just a few notes above mine
so that these bodies could harmonize.
This is not science;
which is sometimes like math
but much louder.
Which is kind of like science so,
maybe this is academic,
an educational interaction.
A 2-hour streaming sequence of flashbacks to our
and the film was spliced so perfectly
turned disjointed minutes,
spread across 3 years,
into a 2-hour streaming sequence
of you next to me.
Sweet singing silence
almost too gently.
SELF SHADOW ROSE THORN CITY FATE
Self faces self only in the shadows,
Or in the wet dark.
Only come night fall,
when it all falls
to the ground.
People go home,
like petals falling off of dying flowers,
finding their way back to some soil somewhere.
Self faces self only when going home.
When all fades to black and we’re back
to where Self started; in the darkness.
Imagining blemished beat-up-trash-can-body,
long-stemmed and thornless.
Self faces self only in the absence of Self’s body.
This city has torn Self
Disconnected We at the joints,
with a seeing dagger.
Wedged neon signs and
coke-laced crumpled up dollar bills between Us.
Piss-stained pavement fills Self’s nostrils
tints Our eyes.
Now we’re both seeing yellow.
And on every other corner
there’s a man,
with some mythical gun strapped to his left thigh,
warning Us about Our greatness.
Telling We, we’re destined
for the pavement
cold concrete is fated.
Self faces self only in the dark when going home,
when Self forgets about her figure
and is told about her destiny by a man with some mythical gun
that tastes just like going home.
We live in hues of gray,
caged in by towering complexes.
Lately I am finding
myself seeking shelter outside.
Find myself mourning
each setting morning.
Back rests quietly on earth
eyes open and seeing
I find in your face,
Find myself forgetting that I don’t know god
because you are.
You are here shining