Tuesday, February 26, 2008


There are only so many cups of coffee you can consume. I say this with the same sentiment I feel towards men and the art of consuming them. Before my present relationship, I had attempted to find myself in the arms and beds of other men. In the wake of these suicide missions, I believe I am the lucky one: the one who walked away with third degree burns and a fear of fire; the prey turned predator turned benevolent assassin.

click here to read the rest!!! comment there and let me know your thoughts: http://spindlezine.com/index.php/coffee-and-brooklyn/oakland.html

Saturday, February 23, 2008

so sad insomnia

i cant sleep
dont know how explain this feeling of hopelessness

its funny when you see the monsters behind the shadows come to life.
not "ha ha" funny. but funny like, aww damn. not you too silhoutte of a protective shield. i thought you were different.

and then you remember the old school saying: BIRDS OF A FEATHER...

right. so i guess we keep it moving. pretend like nothing happened.

and syllable crazy has moved dates. thursday is the new date. but i can't lie
like i ain't disappointed in cats. all that community shyt we pop -- then how
many of us show up to a free event...? exactly.

so it's back to the capitalist in all of us. support your bank account. stop pretending this art is fed on human contact alone. biters. go away. my back is missing pieces of flesh.

but the amazing thing is: i'm preparing for my 1 year anniversary at the nuyorican next friday.
its a beautiful and scary thing, ya know??

most of my favorite poets will be in the house spitting something insane to remind me that there is something to doing this poetry thing. hope to see your smile there (feb 29, 2008 @ 10pm). the line is unfortunate. so don't be stuck outside listening to how much fun we're having inside...

on a real painful note. i gotta say this.
ma: my heart breaks for so many people these days.
just splits in half heaving in puddles
you are worth everything that matters.
i dont think i can say that enough.

Monday, February 18, 2008

adventures in brooklyn

this is the net. these pieces of string hold my fate

this is howe or hal...? either way. he was the shyt. word he was our instructor and i actually watched him freefall into the net -- on purpose!

this is jason and i. our first interaction of many. which all included me not listening to him. atleast, not at first.

this is the harness/belt thingie. basically a white girdle. im just saying! it was TIGHT on my abs, kid.

and the journey begins. it was a long climb up and in the middle - i considered coming back down, taking my child and the camera and crossing the bklyn bridge back home.

all im thinking is "HOLY HELL! MY HANDS ARE ON FIRE!!"

all that fun and you knew my camera girl had to join in!

overall: would we do it again??

most definitely!

Thursday, February 14, 2008

brink of

i forgot what day it was.
i actually jumped up and thought
v-day was already over!

im doing too much.

tell me how to slow down.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008


in parking tickets.
that is 3 tickets, that i lost
in the hustle and bustle of life. they
were once $45 and became 100 each... plus
i've been fighting parking tickets all morning

oh yea, and i got another ticket.

gab don't fail me now.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

yea, you.

it is the silence of your tongue
that keep them heaving,
half-heartedly they'll extend a hand
to throw you off the scent. they may
offer morsels for your obiedence, stay
hungry. it will keep you focused.
shield your heart, ribcage behind the bend
of your fist and let the vultures feed on
your words, alone.

Saturday, February 09, 2008


i want to finish writing like i know how. deadlines always remind you that you are dope - but you are still a vessel. i love how i don't make sense to many, only sometimes him. and he still thinks im funny. so thats enough. i have friends too. the ones that would cut for me from tx or pop trunks for me in brooklyn. they write poems like they mama gave them a pen in the womb - so i feel safe. i have a maniac. shes turned ten and is growing into this body of a young lady. i dont like that part much. actually, i'm quite scared. but she's pretty damn brilliant when i'm not around - so i think we'll be ok.

i still have a deadline. looking forward to my freedom of sorts in 10 weeks. i worry about my kin. i worry about myself. how will i ever fix this broken heart if i'm always on myspace. ok, that was a metaphor gone awry, but it sounded so good in my head. i miss the bass. still fight for her when she isn't looking. still wave to those with judging eyes and scuffed up shoes. they might drown with their noses that high in the air, i think.

i still have a deadline. amari is singing loudly and on beat. she has always been better than this drama that is the poetry world. where poets life and fuk and wait for a chance to be the popular kids, so they can in turn be mean to the other kids and make up for being unpopular in the first place. i get it. you rock. now how do i find your soul strings? right - you sold them for a threesome in the bathroom while your baby at home waited for you to return with diapers. ok. so that was totally drastic - but that's only how people listen.

no one cares about the everyday people. the woman crying at the airport when i was leaving for kansas city. the man checking the newspaper for want ads two months in a row. the college kid that fell in love who only feared he would turn out to be like his father. the other college kid that got his heart broke after giving his heart to a girl that said please, before she crushed it with fingernails and a grin. the mother who aborted her baby because she didn't know she could do it alone. the baby born thrown against a wall by its 14-year-old mother. the poets that pander to the audience in hopes of feeling better about themselves. and all of us that watch the fire burn. extinguisher within arms reach.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

a job description

it is my job
to write about the hurt
the raw bruises still beet burgundy
concrete cascades and tumbles from their lips
this is how i pick up the pieces. this is how
i clean the highway of the rubble, this. is. the.
first. line. of. defense.

my daughter was called a bitch today. and everything
in me screamed murder. not another brown
girl will learn or adapt or accept that name.

in vain, i'll call God a mecernary. if it'll save this
babygirl. this child of breath, eyelashes and every
phrase that told me to rid of her before she formed fingers.
the echoes of a village still dillusional fills my skull
and tickles the memory with a feeling of despair.

light bulb blown, shoeshine, rockstar
too cool to see the sun gave out years ago,
you've been living off a woman's pulse since then,
but this is not about you anymore.

i met three young men and their eyes checked me with
an honesty that says they don't know how to stow their
baggage, so i will write them this poem. prove them i
believe their gender is not the cause of all evil and
anger can't stop the beauty that dissipates from their fingertips.
they are of the moon, these men, with young boy features
stubble still not setting in on jagged eyes of confusion.

they bob their head to the beat, because the rhythm is fat
and the daddy's aren't always wack - sometimes its just easier
to fish without nettings when claws grow inevitably, who will
tell them the truth. that they are love personified and
everyone deserves a love poem atleast once in their life. i
cannot beat them into submission, because it will take their knowing
to fix all the shyt the blowout kids have broken.

i'll ask them "help me place this little girl into
the crook of the truth. show me how to rig the alarm" because
not everyone is like the man that watched us walk away with a
future tied into her bloodstream. as if the phone number to heaven
were hidden on her tongue, it has always been here on earth. in the arms
of a newborn, in the smile of a toddler. in the hug of a 6 year old. in
the palm of a 10 year old. it will always be about the babies. no one
is above the questioning eyes of the young.

so i offer those young men my heart. let this be their love poem.
because sunsets are necessary, and in them i see the sunrise.

my daughter will learn to fight with her name stitched on
the soles of her feet. her fist will toss thunder and she will
always walk like a lady. we are blessed beings. protected by a
man that gives freely like God and you can see the swagger when he speaks,
it is mesmirizing. i will always thank his mother for teaching her son
how to hold a family to his chest, without having to be asked.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

the she's that inspire me (eb)

they will always blame the mother
point finger, encourage the devil
truth so heavy it coats a tongue with blisters
as you kiss her like i never lived there,

beneath your shoulder blade.
my place in bed between your arms
you laid with me counting stars
chose the name of our children as they
slept in heaven

fallen angel, you called me.
before the pregnancy test. and the dream
became too expensive for your fairytale life - i
know. this is how it always happens before
shit gets complicated and you whimper
several states away blaming my womb for
a manhood that never existed.

find me a river to drown our chance. i
rather keep my eye on this kin of circumstance,
with your name, your eyes and your smile.
and when they are old enough to carry your shame,
with the same blistered apprehension of your tongue

i will hug them daily -- so they never
forget, God don't make mistakes.