wallpaper fall.

wallpaper fall
you'll be wound
singing raw bone blues
a portrait
who moved and couldn't be found later
paranoia season
traced back along the word lines
me editing
books on the sill
we used to wander
mysterious haired
reposeful hands
transforming milk into wine
water color illuminations
wise eyed for wry conversation
honest at the kitchen table
focus'd on the clothesline raindrops
this is it
wash the negative
palatable cleansing
swimming between tear soaked lips

(captions of Ginsberg intertwined)

volume no. 53,4111

november 27th, 2005
New York Times.
African Times.

there is a push
pull
try to keep up with the times
try to keep our cultural lines
some things aren’t meant to last
some traditions don’t stand a chance
when are we going to speak up
start raising our intellect
if you listen to an anthropologist
he’ll show you a view beyond your own mind
but tell me how can a baby be sold still
the value of a girl child
compare to food on the kitchen stove
debt unpaid
your son with his own wife
the sorrow in her eyes
when you tell her
she is your bride child daughter
to a man with seventy years
paying your going rate of 16 dollars
the price of your adolescence
taken away
by your parents own blessing
did you know then
you were the sacrifice
the lamb upon the alter
its been happening since bible times
told you to consider it an honor
but you child are a child
the lamb was just a lamb
there is a push
pull
on demand
come with me now
let me show you
how we disregard
societies lower rungs
so we lower the sins
for the guilt of our own stakes
resist the efforts of change
divide our sanity in desperation within
to think it’s okay
to mutilate
and mutate
fight the laws
that govern land
sell the soil
with our own plans
give away our righteous daughters
with attempt to believe
they are our own rightful martyrs
to keep lineage
right
and good
with who lives in new money
who lives in old money
who lives with no money
and lets keep it this way
who would want to divide up the profits
the rich look richer
richer with goodness
to give their portions to the poor
to the needy
to the cause
but the tax dollars
get bent
and they get relieved
by there own reductions
so they can sleep at night
but there is a push
pull
and I am not sleeping
cant sleep
because I am middle class
middle street
twenty four
and still im coming home
still blessed to speak my mind
to say what is so
of my belief
to write these lines
and scream with rage
to find food
rotting in the cans
below the sink
because water still runs clear
on this share of land
and I look away
turn the blind eye
but today new york times
haunts me
with Africa front page
center stage
because this is our world
yours and mine
food enough to go around
airplanes to travel the time
but how can things still be so harsh
just another 12 hours away
how do the streets stay so full
and the homes live so empty
the doctors told me of my dis ease
but blood is thicker then water
more knowledgeable then eyes
today I was granted with the gift to be humble
and still spared my own purity
but there are so many
mis fortuned
layers
to unfold
overlapping
the how
and why
and who would
when
you could
but never did
and we have not be honest
with our intentions
not been honest
with what really lives beneath our surface
viruses and bacteria and little bugs that manifest on the flesh
this is how we live
an epidemic
of tribulations
there are so many ways
to look
and point the finger
to many ways to tell a story
into believing it’s a piece of fiction
a world to far
gone away
to believe
and to regard
because even our families
even our bodies
even our own souls
get looked over
denied
into caring
because it is easier to numb pain
take the vice
find the muse
and write about the tragic occurrence in the mind
what does it take
to share the burden of the soul
to reach out
and be the needy one
and still find that steady hand
there is a push
pull
and here I stand divided
here I am broken
how many volumes of new york times
does it take to feel your heart strings felt
how many children have to be sold
how many viruses must be spread
how many victims of hunger have to die
how many human beings must be prisoned
how many words must be written
how many people must lose their way
until we find solutions
does it have to reach into your home
drag you out of your warm bed
shake you down to core
push you until you are pulled
how do we fight without the rage
how do we find a new way
because we keep on repeat
the past becomes the
future becomes the past
and we keep on repeat
there is a push
pull
the past becomes the
future becomes the past
and we keep on repeat

momma may i.

momma may i

jump across that dividing line of symmetry
over the borders of self loathing
and the loathe i tasted in him
it was a tuesday night
it was a war wound
a life wound
a dirty push towards the edge
he kissed me like he knew he was kissing a stranger
i woke up without the fight
and all my sunken poetry concealed itself inside the pacific
cold top confessions of the confession less

momma may i

trust you with my words
because i am your daughter
because ive made mistakes a mother would question willingly in her own eyes
i love this city
but in my love i am bordered
by time and money and myself most of all
because here i am alone
you think that i reach to far towards the deepening depression of repression
after i write this
i will fill a bath and remember my senses
cleanse myself of my disease
of dis ease
and i will pretend it is like any other day
but it is not

momma may i

wait for you to hold me tighter
but the truth has always been that space cannot be taken back
again the womb will never hold my body soft
pure
this day has brought on a heavy weight of metal or lead
and there is no vice that can make me tell you where my soul holds me now

you tell me to go and make myself known
to live the day towards the other days

but there was a shift that night
when my body lied broken
by possibilities
and human distinction
3am
i woke up
never the same

momma may i

be honest
always you would say
if i could take your voice and morph it into my own understanding

its the theme of my life lately
double sided
rear view mirror of someone lost
me
and no one can save me here
no one can grasp my hand
and take care of this for me
take care of me
because this is my internal war

elevate.

elevate this
eight million
categorizing in your brain
creating lines
when truth lives solely in the bend
so this is tuesday
mixing jazz with the hurdling roar of the F train running a line
that borders the geographical center of alcoholism
singing an old nina simone song
un expected
me there in my 7th street loft
the body of a girl
and the woman i would become while i waited for the rain
five stories up the steepening stairs
along with the sleeplessness of wired telephone lines
ravaging hunger
pennies in the pockets
broke
watching the way i create life out of itself
around the corner
past the man with a freckled nose
between tompkins square park
and that hairy-lipped woman that resides forever at the windowsill
here i arrive
after the flat irons of boulder
after three nights shacked on a peruvian bed
after early morning matte in the pan handle
after wine drunken nights skinning dipping in the reservoir
after desert nights and a full moon expecting
here
lost in this city i just had an idea of
elevate this
oh! lower east side
how i wished to lay long
naked on your brownstone bed
a muse for broken days
between exposed brick
and the words echoing off of someone else’s page
grit wedged in the spaces defining my teeth
it doesn’t matter where I go
this city haunts me
with temptations to fall hard in love
as
the world falls hard
crashing against two ankles
shattered expectancy
of how well the mind knows what it knows
and knows nothing at all
elevate this
eight million breaths before you die
below the bowery
breeding life into the indifference
living is such risk
the street
a bus a second off schedule
the airplane i will board tonight
poetry itself is a risk
staying here is a risk