questionable consumption

I once met a woman

So proud of her own flesh, she fed it to her lover

Never mind the slices of skin missing, bloody fingers

He deserves all of me – she offered

As if the red could forgive a thirst like his


I wonder if I will ever feed a hunger so raw,

I'm willing to bare my bones.

Will I ever find a lover so in love with my soul, he devours

It whole and consumes me?

and it goes...

on and on and on...

in the middle of writing 3 poems. all of which i detest.

it is 5 in the morning and the sun is rising and i can't help but think about mikes diner.

i want french toast.

and a coffee. and a kiss.

but not in that order. i am booking shows like mad for the summer, because the worst thing about being a full-time artist is: when the summer comes, the school funding is DRY! besides, i don't particularly want to be in NYC all summer. it gets too hot. i like to go and come. so i can visit fort greene park for sunday jams. and sit with friends with jamba juice and jokes. my daughter always goes to california so she can experience life outside the city. this is important. i've had it all my life and wouldnt dare deny her that. i mean -- i already moved her 2000 miles away from our cali roots. the least i can give her is a summer of bike riding in the street, swimming pools in the back of yards that line the cul de sac and cousins galore.

but until then. here i am. searching myspace pages for inspiration. watching HBO on demand for inspiration. listening to the keys click away my inspiration. this must be a joke. give me a topic to write about... i'm afraid i'm dry at the moment. unless of course i write about what i see in brooklyn. and who really wants to do that, again?

i have projects waiting to happen - and a bum that hurts from sitting too long. i am still thinking of french toast. maybe i can go to the bodega and get some pancake stuff so i can make it now.

even though, mike's diner opens in 20 minutes. and i'm only a 10 minute drive away...

i have to get ready for Ohio. I've officially run outta books!

a new order must be made. until then -- sheroshima for sale.

yea. that's a plan.

.5

when i think of you,
it is always some kind of beautiful
black velvet painting of a man
forgive my worries and unreadiness to bend my heart
into rings for you

there are times we must spend alone thinking of ourselves
and be welcome with the selfish nature
that spins our dreams into coal and diamond dust -- but never quite as shiny
as it seemed in our visions

you looked at me with wonderment, that day
as if my bones were filled with candies, my insides melting caramel
syrup - where u licked me like your fingers, like it was yours
to do just that

this is where it gets tricky.
the understanding of ones pleasure, with pain in tow
blame it on the rain, and a need for a real orgasm.

no one knew you were afraid of falling,
not even my karma was ready for the bounce
and roll and burn of your eyelids
closing on a love that had no idea, i broke you so bad
there was no glue for cleaning your untidy fractures.

blame me,
the brown girl with a hate for man so cold
i'd swallow you from your insides first and smile upon
your echoes descent.
who knew i'd grow back my compassionate wings
my gavel still mid-air waiting for another you to come by.
like the buses, all women have been promised

as if mass transit was an equivilant to the crack of a human spirit
so undistinguishable it grunts oil and smoke.
mythical creatures, we never knew had a reflection so
similar to this smile
forgive me, torn soldier
i can only teach my daughter how to look closely before
crossing
next time.

.4

.4
in parts...my past...and so it goes



there are more ways to skin a cat:



flip the beast on its belly and scrap

like that of my insides.



the night before,

you revealed girlfriends were never on your agenda

call me your soulmate.

i began to taste hot ice when the word "boyfriend" rolled of my tongue.



who has a taste for commitment when one could swim

around opportunity and never suffer pruned skin...?



i'd like to call myself your lover,

but that is merely a word that one uses to sound civilized.

honesty says, we just fucked.

fed you a plate, before your cab ride arrived

my pussy always left my mate famished - so call this a farewell gift

and leave us just like this:

pleasant.



so when we meet in a brooklyn bar years from now,

no one will notice our smile.



the way you hold my hand, like a secret



a canary,



a skinless cat;



it is then i will think of you.

after men scramble for my pieces

how you left them unopened,



plastic intact, still stacked in corners

misplaced by my own hands.



you gracious admirer,

how you refused to tear at something so



see through.

on my day....

i got a really really big ass cake from Cake Man Raven! yes...

its gorgeous. he knew exactly what i wanted. and yes. i am going to try and eat it ALL

what looks like crazy

with incredible people. reflections shoot back the truth. and the love. and the ugly. and its crazy. milwaukee was a moment that i may never forget. not so much the slammaster's meeting. but the connection that re-ignited with a woman i truly admire. she makes me want to write poems about being better. even in the most fragile of times. she shows me beauty in vulnerability. and life in art. life in art. life because of art. she is me. the reason that i make it make sense when i want to give up because, it doesnt make sense. not to normal people, anyway. but to us. poets and dancers, painters, scultpers, singers: artists - we find solace and chaos in the word, the movement, the hands. and when something outside of that creative force, threatens our productivity, if we're lucky, we produce more. more beauty than we've ever known, cause only the heartbroken have the gumption to get out the truth. they've already lost what glue held them together. they have nothing to lose.

and when you try to have the nuclear family. the fairytale that the world spoonfed us, you find the crossroad, ready to penetrate your facade with some real life shyt. some only in the movies shyt: unbelievable, i cant believe it happened to me shyt. and it makes you wonder. second guess and begin to hate the art inside of you. until you can no longer deny the pull. the need to push out your voice. and others gravitate to your light, so its even harder to deny its some dream you had, while you slept next to your soulmate, your lover, your enabler. you want to be happy with a person that makes you happy. but you want to be happy with your art. and its an unfair battle. so the question is: why is it so hard for artists to find and stay loved...?

as a touring poet, i can remember how lonely it was, offering yourself on stage for 20 minutes at a time, then again off stage, then again at the all night eating spot and then you are left alone with your adrenaline rush. left to talk to the shadows and the corners and the tv, and if you're lucky - your sleepy better half over hundreds of miles away via telephone. that life is a hard one. only those surviving thru it can explain the despair. some of them find solace in other facets of that world. but those are just easier ways to the destruction of your soul. in my opinion. and i have many. if you know me personally. this isnt even a poem. its the honesty exercise i commissioned of myself this morning. i don't know what it means. just that i know that i am beginning to see the hardest part of love and life is meaning it -- to find it in sea of worthlessness, is a blessing. to hold it close - is a test. to hold yourself closer, rather than trigger buttons of self-destruction, can become a distraction. and most of us artists - could care less anyway. happy, in love, and emotionally and creatively fufilled doesn't sell well in the art stores. ive checked.

so where does that leave us. the ones attempting to balance the weight of the world and the weight of our heart? what statue will be made in the honor of the woman that loved her family enough, she cut the core of her creative soul for it to flourish? who will make the bumper stickers for the man that rather get on stage and say a poem before going home to his wife, rather than be admonished for not sleeping with the same fans he loves entirely with his words. how will a week off for the slain artists look in a calendar setting? and which state will take a vacation because of it? when will it be worth it? this life that dares us to dream big before sledge hammering our soul down to a manageable size...

slammasters point 2

9 oclock in the morning.
i hate meetings
i always have -- but this confirms it
loudly...

atleast dasha is sitting next to me -
which makes my typing look less appalling,
as she is texting on her phone.
i love dasha

she makes me look good...
word. i'm sure i will be typing
again -- as i don't get the reasoning behind the motion, motion to dismiss, motion to amend, youre out of order! im seriously lost. i'm saying - i know this means something real important here -- or even in the world. but damn. i don't think i'm built for it.

it is now 10:09.
only
7
hours
2 go

slammaster's point 1

watching myla and sydney (dasha's daughter) perfect the salsa with spinning and matching bows...

falling over after hershey, the chocolate lab known as kelly family, jumped on me. not once, not twice -- but thrice!

finding some real good smell good in dasha's bathroom. then being rewarded with two handmade soaps (something with oats that fell in my noise and another really good one) for my aromatherapy addiction

eating chicken wing dinner with mac n cheez, yams and green beans, at a soulfood joint that gave me lemonade in a MASON JAR!

driving from milwaukee to madison with dasha's stories and ed mabrey's fill-ins
was priceless...

do something worthwhile dammit!

I AM SO DOING THIS! - big ups to Verse for putting me onto the site
www.forgenow.com

shoesize

i've loved you like brown babies love sun
longer than you've known what to do with it
my throat itches with instructions:
open your arms and hug me back
but
you have a way of staring my kind into silence
shut mouthed, i hum songs that only i know,
would rather you guess what i'm singing than tell
all the to my secrets soul, again

at midnight,
i press flesh to face and whisper my chromosomes into imitation
learn the rapture of silence
practice the gutted shell of brooklyn brownstones, still
solemn in their windowless doors and bare hinges

this is when the eyelids lie rusty in your wake

learn my temples to tense, in spite of myself
conjure a myriad of bloody tragedies
death tolls in Gaza, Iraq, my heart
spins a web of heavy promises to forgive a manhood
like yours, for leaving me bare

maybe, i have a problem with men...

how many more tiring tyrants should i allow into my skin
before washing dirty my spirit; lay flat for shrinking
self-esteem is imminent,

this is the siren for the misguided
find a home in me for i've always had a thing for the unloved

who else will practice french kissing broken mirrors
for a taste of manly reserve, i want to learn your shape
let it grow on me like leather,
the way a lover's fingers trace the hair on skin and suckle
the shadows for an idea,

allow this moment as your safe space. know i could never
hurt your dreams or hinder your strides
we are of angel breath and gods wings
zulu strength and slave's resistance

in our pain is the shape of the most beautiful things
shifting images of life, bless me with your resilence,
teach me to scare away the tears
forgive the world for striking us with fear
of our awesomeness,
watch the stars watch us back and blink in disbelief.

milwaukee n tings...

i got here
slept the entire 2 hour flight
it was cool
dasha was late getting me
it was cool - cause i got to stick
some starbucks down my throat...which was good

i think im going crazy

days like this

i dont think my mama said there'd be days like this. but here they are. nonetheless. i tried to remain optimistic throughout it all. but energy is what it is. it moves and settles and ignites chaos.

internally. i am nuts. externally. i am humming songs and sitting thru the fire. waiting for god to bless me with something more than silence. i am not a mean or evil person. things tend to happen when i least expect it. and i forget stuff. not intentionally. but i do. sheesh.

i feel so, tacked to a cross, right now.

............................ this is me trying to be optimistic...

tutor time

i hate trying to tutor my child thru
division
i am such an angry mathmatician... its not like
i got this shyt on lock. i tell ya,

i hate math. for real.
and now, i have to help my daughter, who loves it
but act like she doesnt get it (for whatever reason)
until i start screaming like a banshee at the heavens

ugh

learning

i never suspected i was one of those women that lost herself
in her mate. forgetting her friendships and sisterships and
independence. but now. after watching friends fall out of the
sky when their single and hibernate with their dating... i think
i can learn a thing or two about space. so i turn off the phone
at a certain time. i try not to pick up in the middle of our
conversations. i restrain myself from playing security officer,
psychiatrist and personal cheerleader. this is new for me. but
so needed. because at the end of the day. he has my back. he holds
me down. and while i love my girls. they're willingness to share
their lives with me has blessed me so... however. i've learned from
them the art of priority shaping.

poem without words

this was an exercise i assigned... and then did myself...


sex without the word


stretch your fingers across me
roam my blades and quarter my soul into fours
slip your index down my middle;
tease my sternum with greedy tongue
crease my flesh lik wet napkins,
rumpled flesh of a woman you make me
whisper into my peaks, make it your microphone
or just pull them with your teeth
wait
now, hurry my panting with your brush against
open thighs
leave me dizzy; keep me scorched;twist my insides
please...
lather this pink softness with fevered mounting
wholly man -- you keep me wanting of all things
purple and black and rhythms dance around our mouths
lift our tongues with sparks of sentiment and tears
escape my lids

for dike

this is the poem i wrote and read at the dedicated showcase in manchester...

a dear friend, dike omeje


you had a way that stood out in the darkness

hands firmly yielding a beer

as you spoke of your alter ego

a way with words,
you were

super, intense with minefields
of metaphors

your craftmanship - unmatched
and so

it will be you words that hold us warm

freshen our memories with glistened tears
stars will

tear across the sky everytime

your image is spoken

and ideas birthed in your name
will appear in the next lifetime

i imagine...
you'll still be the admirable man

with a soul-searching stare

a penchant for gangsta rap, fast cars

and a spirit that always cares about the word

i imagine...
the syllables formed will remain just as magnetic
as the first time we realized
you
were put here to remind
us
that greatness Is possible

witching hour

news headline:

Creole-Jewish Long Island Teacher-Lauren Berrios-Fired by Christian principal for Witchcraft?


this is what i came with... an exercise, if you will.


witching hour

when the clock strokes midnight
i will whisper you a reason
keep my bosoms to the moonlit wind
and wax your feverish breathing

most men run from thunder, so dark
it slits a permanent crease into the
shadows
so we forgive the masculine soul for
fearing the unknown

and still you wonder of what lies beneath
these dressings
where i lost a grip on his fingers
misplaced his first digit and thumb
like a roll of quarters

close your mouth, help
me find them

before the sun follows our movement
from slumber
copy my fingerprints, you carbon man
awake with fire on tongue

curse me holy
before tossing my teachings to the dust
this womb
was built
to understand

ugh, argh & other indistinguishable noises

air india really sux
no really...
26 hours later than originally planned,
i make it home

i want to tell you all about how i met
some really amazing people as we ran thru terminal
to terminal, trying to find a way home -- after
air india overbooked, by almost 2 dozen seats...

i want to tell you how i cried at the mention
of amari while on stage - or how i talked to him
until they wanted to charge me extra dough for a
promnised then reneged - international call...

how i brought my mum a teapot... or how i almost
got into a scuffle with a pissy 14 year old that
thought it was funny to kick my seat.

but im tired/have class/will do it tonite.

promise