future retrospective

i bookmark moments
try to keep track
of how quickly time passes

wonder how things will turn out
wait
for the punch line

this too will pass...

i remind myself

and

...everything happens for a reason.

but i click back to the moments
just before crisis
far enough to not miss my cue
and i
regret
with a vengeance

... and i don't believe in that shit
i really DO believe that everything happens
for a reason
it helps me sleep at night
gives me something to curl my fingers around
when i try to understand
why two year olds die
why babies cry when you've done EVERYTHING you can
and they can't tell you what's wrong
why i cannot for the life of me get it right no matter how hard i try
and how sometimes i don't have to try at all
and pieces just fall together

drop twenty dollars
and get a winning scratch ticket
buy a homeless man a hot dog
and sleep through the night for the first
time in two weeks
you can't always trace it back
like trying to explain how you got to
your favorite hat when we were
talking about where we might have
been when the challenger
exploded
and our tiny baby brains mistook it
for fireworks
linked it in our heads with
punky brewster
and crying.

point a to point b
is a long journey
that sometimes we're
right in the middle of
i'm not saying that b is death
there are so many ab's in this rhyme
scheme
that i rap sometimes
just trying to figure it out

and i bookmark moments like these
remember the thought
when the punch line finally hits
make a note
write a play or a poem
cast myself in my own life
on repeat
write scripts in my sleep
trace the freckles on my arms
to make maps
of all the crazy lines
that life draws when no one else
is looking

idle chatter

ok, usually I don't use this for things that aren't poetry or prose, but I've had too much family/friend/self-reflection time to not make some notes.

First observation: my little brother and baby sister are very nearly grown ups... they totally blew me away with their maturity this week. it's weird, i feel like we are beginning to have these grown up sibling relationships. maybe it's because i spent time with both of them and their significant others yesterday, and i got to see how they're actually human beings and not the little girl that followed me and my friends around or the angry 13 year old kid who broke my nose one christmas. now the two boys, that's a different story, but they will both be in high school next year which is scary enough... and I think I noticed pey's voice break the other day. scary, scary stuff.

Second observation: when i say i'm going "home" people need a clarification. i've kind of gotten a repuatation in my crew, particularly my college friends, for having a rotating cast of interests in habits ("any new tattoos?" "are you still vegan?" "who's the new guy?"), but i noticed that when i say home, i mean the place where i pay rent, where the majority of my belongings reside, etc. i've had my own place for 5 years now, but this is the first time it ever felt natural to call it home. to call another city home. but for better or worse, or possibly only 2 years, boston is where i'm building my life right now.

Third observation: ok, not really an observation, but all of my school loans are taken care of for next semester, and it just really hit me that in a year and a half, i am going to have a masters degree, which means i could potentially get an adjunct teaching job. i guess its kind of weird how i'm stuck in between educator and student right now with work and school. Also, since i don't have to make student loan payments until graduation next August, i actually have a real grown up salary. i'm going to be able to afford health insurance and start a savings account. crazy. i may even buy fresh produce on my way home from work a couple times a week... how utopian.

Fourth observation: my parents and grandparents are such amazingly strong people. they don't always know it, but they have built such a strong foundation for our family, conventional or otherwise, and they try to pass it on to us kids, but they have to have done something right for us to turn out ok.

Fifth observation: it's all going to be ok. man, i am lucky as hell. i have amazing friends, wonderful family, and my health. my biggest new years resolution is to truly appreciate that every day.

First Writing For

After Suheir Hammad's "First Writing Since"

For Lisa, Sofia, Jesse and Adrian

there can be no words.
i have not written one word.
no poetry in tears of sixteen year old motherless childs
no prose in the grief of childless mothers whose children will never be anything
but sixteen
not one word.

nineteen is a balancing act between adolescence and adulthood.
it was not meant to be his last- the world is turned on its end.
pins and purple ribbons where once were prom pictures.
memorial cards where once were high school transcripts.

hate boils on cold city streets. no, fear. and I stopped fearing for my
sister's life for 3 months while she read behind bars. and now again,
and for the rest of us, as we watch our future killed off in tens
and at ten.

first, please god, let her need a ride to the hospital, a stop at the flower shop.
then please god, let it be a grandfather, a great aunt.
please god, after the tears came, please, don't let it have been by
another 19 year old hand

i do not know how much better an accident is than a murder
when the result is another clock stopped before evening
what does it matter who took out the batteries?
i have never felt so helpless as there, holding tissues
like a white flag of surrender

more than ever, i believe there is no difference.
police, parents, papers and policymakers, still see only three words: "another teen dead"
between young mothers, drug dealers, best friends, honor roll students, star athletes.
more than ever, there is no difference.

now what?

I had everything figured out but
Now what?

3 weeks ago the world was spinning
Slightly tilted on its axis
The way it’s supposed to be
But
Now what?

Between me and the horizon of
Unknowns
Clearly visible was the next two
Years:
Perfect job
Great apartment
Nice car
And two years away
From a certificate that says
I’m two years away from
Being Dr. Powers
But now what?

the extra pounds that
Troubled me in my childhood
Were melting away
Like the butter I no longer
Eat
And a beautiful man wanted to
Share my bed and my
Ideas
But now what?

Now what?
Now
I want to eat chocolate because
My car just blew a tire
At the crossroads
And I can’t get back to my apartment
Where the locks have been changed
And I have to hide a key behind a shovel
Because I don’t have time to have a copy made
Because the perfect job’s not so perfect anymore
And I don’t make enough money to pay for
The pretty certificate that says
I am a master

And I don’t even feel like the master
Of my own destiny since
You walked away from me
And made me question my
Stability
Like, girl,
What do you really want to be?

And three weeks ago I could
Have told you
With a certainty
But I don’t even remember
Being that version of me
So now all I can do
Is repeat the question back to you
Stumbling over the words
Because they don’t make any sense
And my whole life feels like
One big mess
Like my bedroom
Another problem
that I don’t even have to time
address
And this cycle of over thinking and under doing
Just adds to the stress

So now what?

It is amazing how one week can build
So many bricks on top
Of you
That you can’t even imagine
the sunshine anymore
and you can feel
the mortar seeping in
between the cracks
of the moonlight

sealing out the oxygen
that once mingled
with hand holding, laughing, sharing, reading, writing, loving, learning, LIVING
so that you can feel less and less
breath coming in each time
your chest expands
and contracts
but with the little air
you can muster you
resolve to come up with a solution
asking yourself
as you push your backs
against the bricks

Now What?

aliens

Growing up I always
envied the
dark
complexion
of my grandmother
and mother's
skin
and I
remember
that my mother called
it olive

but my grandmother
does not look green
to me
like an alien
a thought that
scares me for
a moment
but it's ok
because the
US government says
that aliens
actually
come in brown

and one of those
aliens
shot a Black
police officer
in Houston
and suddenly
the black man
is allowed to be the
victim
because he is
AMERICAN
(but isn't Mexico in the Americas?)

but Bush says the
aliens are coming
and so just like
Blacks and Latinos
were lowered from
poplars after
9.11
and told to cheer
while the Arabs were lifted
in their place...

now the Black community
has its evidence
that these aliens
really
are attacking
and Will Smith can't
save us now
We need to secure
our borders
before another
Black cop gets shot

But what if it was a white
doctor
who put two bullets in
the back of that
young Black man with
five children

I doubt it would be
at the top of the
hour
drowning out
word from the
White House
that we are
LESS SAFE
now than 5
years ago

A recent anniversary
which has made
sure
that the
Muslims
continue to be
strangled in
those
trees
just with some new
company

and
we
don't
get
it

that as long as there
are ropes
hanging
from those trees
it could be
any of us
hanging from those
ropes

and to stand in the
crowd
as
ANYONE
is stripped of
their rights
and not say as loud as
you can
THIS IS NOT RIGHT

is damn near as bad
as tying the
noose
yourself

we are not done yet
we cannot rest at
small victories
we need to align
in solidarity
for
and not against

so even if we take all
the guns
off the streets
we're not done

because some
people don't have
food to eat
and my cousin's
marriage
is not recognized
in any other state
and my size 2
best friend
thinks she needs to lose
10 pounds
and a
Mexican immigrant is
being profiled
right now
because a murderer
shares his nation

and if that's the
litmus
test then
we
are
all
fucked
because the
blood
of millions is on the hands
of an "American"
and the crowd is
gathering under those poplars again
and maybe this time
we’re all strange fruit

please do not be a president

It is so easy to get
Mad
I have to
No
Seriously
If I wasn’t so pissed off
I couldn’t do my job
But
If I was only pissed off
Than I could only do
My job
As well as our
President
And I think that the
Young people of
The good ol’
U S of A
Are getting screwed over
Enough
As it is

So I get Mad, yeah
I get downright furious
There are days that
I want to punch random
Strangers
Because they look in
My mind like
That jackass guy who penned the
“that’s just the way it is”
Bullshit letter to the editor
Last week

Yeah this 5 foot nothing
Ray of sunshine’s a
Pretty big anger ball
But for all my yelling and
Fuming
I love a whole lot too
I create
I encourage
I mobilize
I understand

But there’s a whole hell of a lot I don’t understand
Like why 3 beautiful children
Get drowned and stuffed into the washing machine
That should have their school clothes in it
And I hate to say it, but I am
Almost
Relieved
That there mother was killed too because I have a hard enough
Time looking at their
Faces
Smiling back at me from the color pages of the metro
So I can’t even imagine how she
Would begin to rebuild her
Life

But I can imagine that picture multiplied by millions for every 3 children
Killed
By US bombs and
UN sanctions
And NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND
And every child
Locked up or
Gunned down or told they are
Stupid or
Ugly or
Worthless
And their parents don’t have enough time in their daily grind to tell them
“Don’t listen to that shit,
You
Are
Amazing.”

So I am saying it now
To every 16 year old girl
Who doesn’t fit on an 8.5 glossy
And every young Black man who thinks he’s got four options in life
Gangster
Rapper
Baler or
Dead

You
Are
Amazing
You are beautiful
There is so much ugliness in this world
And you don’t have to be a part of it

You are smart
You are creative
You can be a doctor
A lawyer
Senator
Youth organizer

But unless we fix what the hell it means I beg you

Please do not be a President.

blind faith

There's nothing left
to say
because as cliche as
it may sound
the cliches have
said it better
than I ever could.

For example
someone once said
"an eye for an eye
leaves the whole world
blind"
and how the fuck
could i say that better?
or even add to it
except to say
"hell yeah"
because it's so
damn true

It's too late though
and we're all
blind
walking into walls
piecing together
our other
senses
so convincingly
that we don't
recognize
our broken noses
and crooked paths.

How else can you
explain
so many people
standing by
as innocent people
of every
color
creed
gender
and age
are raped
killed
blown apart
and buried in
mass graves
called
Manhattan
New Orleans
Bagdhad or
Afghanistan?

How else can
we
explain
our lack of outrage
as an adminisration
who plays a hand
of 2500 dead innocents
to
strip billions more of
the
right to say...
well anything really...
and then somehow
the right
of a 16-year-old in
South Dakota to
abort
her own
brother or sister
from her womb so
that even if her
rapist father gets
locked up for life
the trauma
of carrying the result to term
will live in her
blood
in another
until that son turns
18
and gets sent to
WWIII

Another cliche
that is only a
cliche
because it looms so
impendingly
over our broken
world
and we are so
blind
that we still
cannot see it
but we can
hear
it in the distance
behind the words of men
telling us
that if men can
marry other men
than the
terrorists
win
and I can't say shit
about it
because my phones
are tapped
so instead I
weep
openly
on the T
over the morning
paper
and I can't see anymore
but I think
I hear the
baby
next to me
whimper
in agreement.

nice pretty words

It has been hard
lately
for me to
indulge
in beauty

when it is not
intrinsically linked
to revolution.

It would be
wrong
for me to say
that i had been
only dealing
in ugliness
just because
I have found
myself
dwelling on the
death
deceit
and destruction
that seems to
absorb the daily news
and my daily planet.

because I have seen
great
beauty
in between the lines
of poets
and singers
and rows of people
coming together
for the beginning
of something new
and not against
something that
has more
than runs its course.

I have felt my blood
pump faster because
it united with the blood
of 100 other people
in the same space
reaching together
in clenched fists
for a better tomorrow.

I have found my mind
wandering into
bedrooms
where it can lay
in my body
with the pumped
fists and the bodies
attached
and the beautiful minds
underneath
singing revolution song
and making a better
world with our hips
neglecting anything
but ourselves
until we are two
frames for pictures
of a new world order

Because I have been
very self-involved
lately.
despite my quest
for knowledge
and my sore
muscles
from pushing against
walls of beaurocracy
I have been doing
it all for me.
Because I love it
and I have been looking
for some nice pretty words
to talk about my love
of reshaping our culture
with my own hands
and waxing philospophical
in a hotel jacuzzi
with people I have wanted to
meet for years
and being blown away that
they want to
meet me too.

And it's really that
last part that sticks
because even Mother Theresa
had to have gotten
some pleasure out of
her work.
And I have been looking
for some nice pretty words
lately
to explain why I love
what I do.

the heart is a muscle

I could never love a poet
Now, please don't take that as rejection
It's a challenge

You see
I have
lost my footing from a well
executed
"What did I do to deserve you?"

And I've swooned over
a convincing rendition of
"Baby, you are so beautiful."

I have even
had my heart "skip" a beat
from a simple question like
"Why aren't the other girls more
like you?"

Screw the skip
and the pitter patter
I think that your sentiment
laced with a simile
or a metaphor
might make
the machines
flatline

And I'm sure you could
revive me with your
rhythm and rhyme-
your flow could teach
my blood
And have my heart
dependent on the
breakbeats
that lay the canvas
for your paint

Now that's a serious
responsibility
so if you're not ready for it
think
before you spit your clever line
and save your poetry
for a girl with a stronger heart

traffic (revised)

Red
Green
Yellow
Stop
Go
Slow Down
Slow Down

Why don't we ever slow down?
Stuck in the constant flux of
Stop and
Go
We forget to take our time
We only know how to
kill it
While we wait in the stand still
both picking up smoking
so that we don't have to think of
the ghost in the passenger seat.


We have stopped so often
That when we
Go
I do... as fast as I can
holding you close
kissing your lips
trying
to get you to take your g-d damn shirt off...
fitting as much as I possibly can in
before we stop again.

I miss yellow lights
the warning...
knowing when to start weaning myself off
of the needing.

But we never did have those
yield signs...
It has always been
hot and cold
night and day
not being able to get enough of each other

and then...
STOP

Never sure what triggered the red light
too much
too close
too fast

But it was you who wouldn't let go

You who kissed first
You who crept to my porch
You who kissed me and told me
how much you would miss me
the night before you left...

And I prayed for a yellow light then
an extension on our parting
But city traffic is unreliable
and I have been stuck smoking
at this stop light for
two fucking years
and I don't think I can listen to
Suzanne Vega sing
"Cracking"
one more time.

I can see the light turning yellow
for the traffic to my right
This is the longest three seconds of my life...
one
did you miss me?
two
who's that other guy?
three
when are you coming back?

the green light is coming
but I'm sure there's more
red
ahead
and it is high time
that I quit smoking

warning signs

Have you ever seen those tags
attached to hair dryers?
You know, the ones that warn
you not to shower while
drying your hair?
What concerns me most about
that is that if I have to assume if
there's a warning on it
it probably means that someone was
dumb enough to try it.

Like those boxes on application
forms
that are only big enough for
one letter
and for some reason
there are specific directions
that say to ONLY FILL IN ONE
LETTER PER BOX
so there must be some idiot
trying to fit all of the letters
of some ridiculously long name
like
Schwarzenegger
into one teeny tiny little letter sized box

and the idea that these
things need to be reiterated seems
so ridiculous to me
when people
don't come with those warning
labels

like road signs for relationships
"slippery when schizophrenic"
or
"has a girlfriend

and doesn't care"

I have to warn you
that I don't come with one either
but I believe in being fair
so here is my warning sign
for you:

don't get involved with me
boy
I'm no good for you
See I have a penchant for
fucking up a good thing
and you are some
awful beautiful shit
that I can't shake

kind of like
stabbing myself in the leg
is excruciatingly painful
but the blood
on concrete looks beautiful
on frames of celluloid
spinning at 24 per second

like 5 scoops of ice cream
seems
like a good idea
before we go on this
rollercoaster
and it lands in an amusement
park wastebasket

I am all wrong for you
and I don't come with the warning
tag that I should so I'm telling you now
I am an awful beautiful mess that looks
best after she has just fucked up again
and I don't want to put you on any list
of one night some nights morning after what’s his names
but I can read it off to you so you
can cross all the others off in red pen
and I promise I will try not to add any more
in fact
crumple the paper up and throw it
away

don't let me near a pen and pad

see I am just looking for someone
to be better for
I tried it already myself
but I can never hold me
accountable
maybe if the stakes were higher
than my face in the mirror in the morning...
like yours in my bed--
maybe then I could shape up

I want to sleep next to you
fully clothed

I don't know why I fuck strangers
to feel sexy
but I can tell you right now
I felt more beautiful
in your embrace
and a winter coat
with sleep weighing down my
eyes
than I did naked
as he traced my shoulder blades
under the flattering
glow of
candlelight

Maybe you could give me
a chance to
be beautiful in the daylight
instead of creeping around
under the moon like I always do
even with you
but we could take
a walk in the park
or go to a book signing
out for coffee
or to the zoo

and you could hold my hand
notice the sun getting caught
in my curls
know me by sight
instead of touch

maybe that beautiful wouldn't
be so awful

maybe, but
baby you're young
so I'll tell you the
one thing I've learned
that maybe you haven't yet

see, when someone tells you
they're no good for you
that they'll only break your heart
that they're a mess you don't want
to get close enough to to fix
that they're awful beautiful poison
with no elixir and a bitter aftertaste
they're probably right

baby,
trust me on this warning tag
I know it may sound silly
like you should know better
but remember
that tag is there for a reason:

if it needs to be said
it means someone was dumb
enough to try it.

blood pressure

sitting at the subway stop
waiting to go home
I inhale
deeply
watching the fake fur collar
of my coat
rise and fall each time
my chest
expands and contracts

and I'm thinking about
how much
harder
it is to feel that rise and fall
when your chest is
on top of mine
how I take that breathing for granted
when it is through your mouth

I am more acutely aware
of the limbs that still
feel
your touch

the hips that have settled against yours
the lips that you carefully traced
even as I whispered endless
nonsense
afraid that if I stopped talking
we might lose each other
to sleep

the fingers that you held
beside me
underneath me
so that I could feel the arch
in my own back
where you traced the outline
of the tree of life
at my waist
carved karma over the
characters in its trunk

and I must have been real good
last lifetime
to walk with the memory of your
fingertips travelling my spine

my waist feels more
defined
remembering how small it felt
in your hands

and don't tell me that fingernails and hair
are dead cells
because they still feel
where they left marks in your shoulders
where they draped like velvet curtains
over your chest
while we slept
so that I could remember you
even in slumber

still waiting for the T
minus 30 degrees from
the 70 of last week's November
heat wave
I breathe as deep as I can
my coat tight as a blood pressure cuff
storing as much oxygen
in my veins as possible
to hold me until I
get home and

so I can breathe through you
again

like a virgin

I am a new woman
every day
when I wake up
and not just because of the
diet, wardrobe, and makeup

I've been pouring through
books
with each cup of decaf
coffee with two splendas
and light cream
listening to all of the songs I
feel like I missed

making lists of films I have to
see
and books I have to
read

Almost like I've regressed to
my senior year of college
stocking the too many bookshelves
in my room
with Salinger, Vonnegut, Mamet
and Ginsberg

Listening to conversations between
people who seem cooler
measuring myself against them
with this imaginary ruler
trying to mold myself into
the same kind of perfect
that they seem to me

And every so often I stop and
question myself
about why I've embarked on this
self-improvement journey
how I've developed these benchmarks
whose ideal is this
size 8 revolutionary
practicing
self-control, yoga, perfectly coordinated
ensembles EVERY DAY
and abstinence

from sugar

I wonder to myself as my friends
do aloud
"how much of this is for me
and how much is for you?"

but really it doesn't matter
because it's all for me
after all
I want you for myself

so I'll keep dragging myself
out of bed before the sun decides
whether or not to shine
make it to the gym before the rush
run without going anywhere
(I don't want to run away
if you can't find me)

stock up on Miles Davis albums,
Kerouac volumes and
thrift store designer fashion

and I'll make it all look good

and if you don't notice my giant
silver earrings
my slimming figure
my makeup so perfectly painstakingly
applied that it looks like I'm not wearing any
my copy of Catcher in the Rye sticking out
of my knock of designer gym bag
my on stage prowess
my hair like a lioness
my casual on purpose Rick Springfield T-shirt
ripped jeans and hot pink heels

maybe this self-improvement plan
will seem like a waste

but if it really works
I'll actually believe it this time
when I shrug my shoulders and say
"his loss."

breaking

there is self loathing love abound
there is little to do and little to say
and leaves and snowflakes on the ground

your breaking heart does not make a sound
I think I could be better for you another day
there is self loathing love abound

I am looking to be lost and you to be found
It is cold here with the breeze coming off of the bay
and leaves and snowflakes on the ground

our words only circle and confound
we can't say what we want to say
there is self loathing love abound

neither of us dares to expound
there are prices here we cannot pay
and leaves and snowflakes on the ground

before you're out of sight, I turn around
you look at your feet, or the other way
there is self loathing love abound
and leaves and snow flakes on the ground

poetic license

Fuck You
Ok
Fuck you hard in every fuckable orifice
of your
perfect
beautiful
body

6 months in LA and
you became so
HOLLYWOOD
that you don't even recognize it
when you paraphrase
Jake Gyllenhaal in last year's
sappy Best Picture
"You wish you knew how to quit me…"

Well listen up
because I am quitting you
right now
No
you don't get 2 weeks
notice
and I'm not giving you a chance
to give me another pink slip.

I am packing up my desk and
cuting
this tether
so pull all you want
cuz I won't feel it
anymore

Fuck your 8pm drunk dials
and your poor excuse for chivalry…
bringing me tokens of your affection
that you just happened to have
in your pockets anyway
like a crumpled souvenir from the party
that made you two hours late
is supposed to make me feel special

Fuck your apologies
and your playing innocent in
love
and hard in
life
Fuck your
sweet talking
bed rocking
no feeling
deal sealing
heartless, thoughtless self

and fuck the notebook that you "left"
under my bed to "remember you by"

Fuck You
and I hope your listening
good
cuz that's the last
fuck
you're ever getting from me

you weren't supposed to see this

i know all of your
words. why am i even here?
you won't take me home.

i found this line for you
but you don't read my poems anymore.
i hope i wrote the right zip code
on it. the postman is lazy
and i know he won't try twice:

i have not lain with
beauty all my life telling
over to myself

telling over to myself...
my best laid plans have been
torn up
again
and
again
by my tiny hands
not even strong enough
to hold you

i didn't mean to
falter this time. he was just
a notch. you'd be more.

if you wanted to.
i would hold you
like the teddy bear I fear
I'll never outgrow-
sleep with you on top
of my arm
and wear the pins
and needles like
your scent throughout
the day

you could be my pen
i could be your paper. we'd
trace calligraphy

on each other's skin
like a pillow book
carving our names
in each other spines
so our bodies could
follow the instructions
in our marrow.
you don't have to say
a word
and i'll try not to-
let our hips say things
we're afraid to.

you feel right right now
and right now is all i know
right now i want you.

i don't care if its cliche
a poet for a poet
Ginsberg finds his Orlovsky
Plath her Hughes
Miller his Nin
and who is June?
i am a gemini with
cancer tendencies
to build a hearth
and home
where I can
have midsummer night's
eve
parties and toast under
the mistletoe to your kiss.

i know all of your
words. i could repeat them in
sync with you. our lips

would match
tracing the air between
like a promise to
eliminate it.
you said yet.
yet is not a promise
but a hint of one, and i know
you didn't think of it
the words flowing out of your
fingers
like my ribs
could
would if you wanted them to.

if i did this right
this pantoufle de vair will
find the right person.

butterflies in my tummybox

I hate physical manifestations
of emotions
and NO I don't mean our conscious
actions
of holding, pressing, interlocking
so I can manifest, physically for you
how it feels to press my heart
against yours

No, it is those subconscious
unconscious
belly flip flops that I can not
control
and I cannot
stomach
hitting my chest like a head
cold
or a stategically placed slug
to the gut
The physical discomfort of
needing
you
hits me harder than any
winter virus
ever could.

(how can it hurt this bad to feel this good?)

Hurt is the wrong word though
the staggering in my breath
when I think about you
is not a pain
but the contraction of my lung's
already shallow depth
cannot be good for me
You press you hand against
my chest
and whisper that it is fast
but I am slow
so instead of devouring you
I press my hand against
your heart
and we connect bloodlines
that way
tracing from our thumbs
to our central nervous system
Blood pumping hard to make
up for the fact that

I
cannot
breathe

From where I sit
I cannot see your face
so I study the movement
of your foot
keeping time to the music
and I long to feel it
travelling up my leg
in my bed
rustling me from sleep
just so that I know
you're holding me still

but not holding me still
I want to run with you
loosen those muscles
that tigthen when you
smile
That clench together when
I watch you come alive in your art
3am and you're no longer tired
in fact you're wired
painstakingly studying each note
on the page
The way I study you when you play
and you are amazed
that you can amaze anyone
this much
and even still it is enough
for me that our legs
touch
while you compose your next
masterpiece
and I am working on my own feat

because you amaze me so
much that now I'm inspired
now I'm wired
3am and this physical manifestation
of my emotions
bleeds from my pen to the page

and this one does not hurt

though words hold that power
And I count each hour that goes by
until I know I have to tear myself from
this world that is just you and me
and I know I should sleep first
so with each passing hour I rationalize
1am
Seven hours is plenty of sleep
3am
Five hours will do
5am
I've gotten by on three before
7am

I don't want to unplug
from you
and you're shower is unfamiliar
and you're drifting
you're gone
standby mode
until I return
sleeping so that I can go to work
and I wonder if I'd be able
to remove myself
if you didn't
and I am terrified
that I have to go about
my day like I'm not
so preoccupied by you
that my brain squeezes
around the memory of your
smile
like a winning scratch ticket in my hand
and part of me
sleeps in that bed with you
all day
feeling the ghost
of your foot
on my thigh

Love in the Time of Science

for every action there is an
equal
and
opposite
reaction

so I'm trying to break it down--
does that mean that if I
advance
2 inches to kiss you
you will retreat 2 more
to
reject me?

or does it mean that you will
advance those inches
in my direction
and the velocity of our
mouths pressing
will send shockwaves to
our fingertips

because I understand
the laws of kinetic energy
but trying to apply it to
double negatives
has got me trying to
decipher
language from science

and that's difficult for me
you see I aced English
but failed chemistry

so maybe YOU could break it down for me

see I'm trying to understand
if I take your hand
will you pull away
or can I convince you to stay
resist the magnetic
push
of polar opposites
and press your palm into mine

or does Newton's first law mean
that we'll always miss?
what goes up must come down

so does it even matter if we kiss?

I mean, even if we overcome that
other law
if we can convince science that
language is right
press our bodies together
and catch electricity
like we've got a key
and a kite

does that falling apple mean
that in the end
we'll still be reduced to
sorting records and books,
fighting over a wagon wheel table
and looking for that kit and key
desperate to recapture
the chemistry

maybe my
scientific theory
is just an excercise in
metaphors and similes

you need me like two molecules
of hydrogen and one of oxygen

your love is any object
falling constant at 9.8
meters per second
gauranteed in a vacuum

but we don't live in a vacuum
and while scientific inquiry
claims to be infallible
literary fantasy is anything
but

so where does that leave us?

sitting in this car at one in the morning
straddling Shakespeare and Einstein
I'm still not sure how to proceed
but I think you can help me

you see, whereas I have only Dorothy Parker
I feel like you have Slyvia Plath and Marie Curie
You understand both sides of this anomaly
So, I'm asking you now, without language or science
could you please just kiss me?

Just another MC

It took me a long time
but I outgrew you finally
When you told me
that Talib Kweli
was just an MC

and not a poet

You love Hip Hop
but think poetry is lame
and I'm a poet
I love Hip Hop too
probably more than you
but our relationship is more complex

See I didn't fall in love with Hip Hop
at first sight
I didn't grow up in the Bronx
didn't feel the power of a culture
rising up around me
My ghetto is not brand name
but it is a ghetto

Hip Hop was the boy next door
and yes we kissed in my closet
and in forts we made of bed sheets
draped over kitchen chairs

but we never fell in love

Maybe its because I took it for granted
maybe because the music blasting
at the block party
wasn't KRS one or Public Enemy
but Sir Mix a Lot

... and yes I like big butts and
I cannot lie
But love is something else

In 1993 I listened to Salt n Pepa's
Very Necessary
until the tape would
not
play
anymore
I studied the lyrics to Crossroads
by Bone Thugz n Harmony
and the Score by the Fugees
and I wrote bad
middle school angsty girly poetry

And there were b-ball style
boys by the mile
smooth brown skin with a smile
but it took a snotty white boy
from Scarsdale
to make me fall in love

with Hip Hop

You clung to Ice Cube, Chuck D
and Blackstar like a phrophecy
never fully understanding the
humor
in your empathy
but you reintroduced me
to the boy next door

And with my own words ready to mature
I realized something
I hadn't before
Yes I was in love but something more
we had a
relationship
a give and take
want and need interplay
than no man has given me
to this day

Hip Hop believes in me
pushes me to be the best I can be
cares about the same things as me
and most importantly
lets me be me

You wear Hip Hop like a badge of honor
a "look how down I am"
symbol
of your street cred
You bling while I organize
and the more I step into
this role as a model for young people
preaching about 4 elements
and the struggle
the more you
nod your head to the next top 40 album
and talk about the hussle

So I want to thank you for
bringing me back to my
roots
which I now wear natural
I can tell you with all sincerity
that you were my first love
as much as those words have
stuck like peanut butter
to the roof of my mouth

Maybe it could have worked
between you and me
if you'd never made that remark
about Talib Kweli
But I've learned to align the Hip Hop head
and the poet in me

So fuck you if you think
all I am is an MC

Window Shopping

my timing is off
again

like the jeans I wanted so bad
in that thrift shop window
but could not justify the expenditure

I waited too long
before dreaming about the way
they would hug my curves

and now they look good on her

me getting there just too late
with the emotional funds to commit

which you tell me all the time
"that's your problem, you never
get close enough"
and you get so close that I don't know
what to do
so I let you get close to women
who fall quicker than me
because I bruise easily

we talk in metaphors
you say
"see, you wait too long to tell
people how you feel"
and mean
"you could have kissed me a year ago"
I say
"you always fall for girls like that"
and mean
"what's wrong with me"

and we're talking about other
men and other women
but somehow it feels like
code
and I still don't know
if I have the emotional funds
necessary to purchase you
but I want to put you on layaway
which isn't fair to either of us
but your name pops into my head
whenever I see a star

and I can't tell if you're trying
to play salesman when you
call me
"babe"
or invite me on weekend
getaways
ask if you can spend the night
trying to get me to fork
over that heart
that part of you thinks I
don't have anyway

but it's not true
I do
and I know those jeans
would hug my curves
in all the right places
they would even look
good on my floor

I just don't know how many times
I would wear them
before they got tucked in the
closet
with all of my other
impulse purchases.

1971

the italics are sung (marvin gaye, what's going on; bob marley, redemption song; lauryn hill, ex-factor; india arie, video)

my mother spit rhymes so elequently
so naturally
up next is me
i drop it truthfully
so all of you can see

what's going on
whats going on
whats going on

nineteen seventy one
and mother mother
there's still too many of you cryin
and too many young people dyin
and politician's ain't doing shit
but whinin
and Kanye was right
cuz Katrina showed us they
ain't even tryin

but everyday i see
shit that's inspiring

brother brother there's so
many of you smilin
sister sister sister so many of you
tryin

trying for a better day than yesterday
skipping lunch on saturday
just to find a dollar to brighten a day
by any means necessary

holdin it down on the block at night
stepping in to break up a fight
even when the combatants are
twice your size
you have the guts to look them in the eyes

won't you help to sing
sweet songs of

freedom, love, and redemption
of more youth than ever before
voting in the last election
of holding hands
and holding eyes
holding politicians and big media
accountable for their lies

making a difference in some other lives
getting up each day just to strive
for a better dream
than what may seem
the only way to get the means
to win this game that some call life
and others call strife
and even when it is rife
with shit that makes it difficult
they still say "the struggle is beautiful"

but it's not
the struggle's an ugly motherfucker
when you get caught
but the people that walk with you
make it worth what you're taught


it could all be so simple

but it's not
so you have to learn from the life you live
give all that your heart can give


put your salt on the shelf
go on and love yourself
cuz we can make everything just fine

love in the time of science

for every action there is an
equal
and
opposite
reaction

so I'm trying to break it down--
does that mean that if I
advance
2 inches to kiss you
you will retreat 2 more
to
reject me?

or does it mean that you will
advance those inches
in my direction
and the velocity of our
mouths pressing
will send shockwaves to
our fingertips

because I understand
the laws of kinetic energy
but trying to apply it to
double negatives
has got me trying to
decipher
language from science

and that's difficult for me
you see I aced English
but failed chemistry

so maybe YOU could break it down for me

see I'm trying to understand
if I take your hand
will you pull away
or can I convince you to stay
resist the magnetic
push
of polar opposites
and press your palm into mine

or does Newton's first law mean
that we'll always miss?
what goes up must come down

so does it even matter if we kiss?

I mean, even if we overcome that
other law
if we can convince science that
language is right
press our bodies together
and catch electricity
like we've got a key
and a kite

does that falling apple mean
that in the end
we'll still be reduced to
sorting records and books,
fighting over a wagon wheel table
and looking for that kite and key
desperate to recapture
the chemistry

maybe my
scientific theory
is just an excercise in
metaphors and similes

you need me like two molecules
of hydrogen and one of oxygen

your love is any object
falling constant at 9.8
meters per second
gauranteed in a vacuum

but we don't live in a vacuum
and while scientific inquiry
claims to be infallible
literary fantasy is anything
but

so where does that leave us?

sitting in this car at one in the morning
straddling Shakespeare and Einstein
I'm still not sure how to proceed
but I think you can help me

you see, whereas I have only Dorothy Parker
I feel like you have Slyvia Plath and Marie Curie
You understand both sides of this anomaly
So, I'm asking you now, without language or science
could you please just kiss me?

toward being an open book

I am that girl that you talk to
on a bus for an hour
who tells you her whole life story
I don’t know if it’s because I’m a writer
or because I’m a narcissist
but I will tell anyone pretty much anything
because I am always writing
and I’m proud of my work

I am a storyteller
and I can remember the most
mundane details about conversations
I overheard at a bar four years ago
and given the right mood I will tell you
all of them

My internal censorship board is very
lenient and
sometimes I say things that make other people
uncomfortable

I don’t blush easily
so most of the time I am simply
testing my limits
by testing yours
seeing what makes you squirm
and taking notes in my head
for my next story.

There are some things I’m not
comfortable
talking about.
things I don’t even like
answering clinical questions
about.

These are the patches that I
don’t wear on my sleeve—
the ones I keep tucked away
like a girl scout badge
that is only cool in certain circles…
well, never cool. but there are places
where it helps you
fit in.

Probably more places than
I expect
because one in every
six women
has the same badge
tucked away
but there are so few
sewing circles
where we feel
comfortable
bringing them out.

And sometimes
even there
I’m not sure if it’s okay—
my excuses ranging from
“It wasn’t as bad for me as it has
been for other girls” to
“It was a long time ago
and I’ve gotten over it”

The one I selected when
waiting four years
to tell my mother
that the monster under my bed
never hurt me
it was the monster next door…
and he didn’t really hurt me
exactly.

But I know now that he did
because I can’t even look people
in the eye
when I talk about it,
and never in specifics
because they make me shudder.

I don’t know if I’m protecting myself
or the six year old version of me
that I think should have known
better
even all these years later
partly blaming myself.

Girls like us
aren’t afraid of the monsters in
the closet
or under our bed,
even though we know that if you
leap on to your bed from far enough
away
he can’t get you.

Most of us don’t know that what
we’re really afraid of
is that no matter how hard
we try,
how many other misplaced
affections
we try to build upon
the one that
tried to break us,
how many times we tell ourselves
that crying won’t help,
how many time we tell ourselves
it’s best to pack it up
and pack it away…
we can’t.

But I think the only way
to make the monsters go away
is to wear those patches
on our sleeves
to cry in the arms of someone
who wants to help
and to forgive yourself
for letting down that
little girl
who thought the scariest thing
was the monster under the bed.

tomorrow sometimes (title by dina :) )

On a clear day you
can see the place where the
ocean and the sky meet, seamless
and blend into one another
barely discernible in shades of
cobalt and gunmetal
and I guess that kind of looks like
tomorrow sometimes

But for me,
tomorrow just looks like
the same laundry list
as the day before:
4 papers
2 grants
1 empty checkbook
3 missed calls
5 unreturned messages
1 getting to Field’s Corner
right as the train crosses
the bridge toward Savin Hill
and 2 cigarettes
while I wait for the
next one.

Tomorrow is crumpled
in the wastebasket

All i want to see is
right now
this bed
and what we can do with it
I want to see my eyes reflected
in yours looking into mine
I want to see our fingers
intertwined
like an elaborate basket

I want to see the
back of my eyelids as I
drift
off
into that
sweet space
between your shoulder
and your collarbone
and today and tomorrow
where lifetimes can be lived
in eight hours
and nobody waits for the T

single serving boyfriend

I don't have one night stands
I have single serving
boyfriends

Like Ed Norton and Brad Pitt
except none of them have
been quite that
fetching

don't get me wrong
I don't lower my
standards
just because I know
they won't call
tomorrow

and this isn't
an
assumption
on my part
I am not making
an ass out of u
it's just me
because I let it
happen
again
and
again
and again

this one just
like
the
one
before....
out the door
as soon as they've
come to the
revelation
that they somehow
needed me
to get to

i don't know how
i became
"that girl"
but I'm sick of
being called
fantastic or
cultured or
different
or whatever the fuck
you think the prescription
is for your ailment
I am not penicillin
and I'm not a fucking
novelty
I'm sick of your soul
searching
and I ain't got shit
to show for it

this isn't your movie
stop playing
zach braff
he's not even that good at it
i am not natalie portman
or kirsten dunst
and I sure as hell
won't cry
if you get on that plane
we don't know each
other that well

if you're thinking
that we might have a
fun weekend
think about what happens
to me
on
monday.

what i cannot be and cannot have

he is neat
and i am all loud
color
mess

he is patient
and i cannot
sit
still

he is wise
and i lust after
every bit
of knowledge

he is calm
and i chain
smoke
camel lights

he is framed
perfectly
in the hallway
with the light burnt out
because I don't bother
to change it
but he is lit
like James Dean
with the light
pouring from my
bedroom

where I lie
waiting
in his shadow

i am not unbeautiful

recently I have found myself
running my hands along the
new smoothness that has begun
to take over my body
and the new curves
that appear daily.

it is like discovering uncharted
land
and yet it is
in words and thoughts
that i have found myself
recently

and i've thought about you
the space between us
and how i feel closer to you
than i did the last time
that you held me close

it becomes more inevitable
everyday
that i will see you again soon
and i go from fear to excitement
and back again
every hour
because i am not the same
woman that you left

i know so much more
about myself
and my place
and my feet fit
naturally in the earth
and the concrete
and my curves settle
against amazing people
who inspire me
and hold me close to them
because i am
beautiful to them as well

and I have become more
beautiful
to your standards
with each calorie burned
and each cookie
abstained
and each hour at the gym
every morning

but it is the beauty
that i feel inside me
beyond the new curves
that my hands can travel
it is the new ideas
that roll in my mind
and the anger that burns my
tongue so that my
mouth stays
open
constantly
flapping to keep some cool
it is this beauty that i hope
you see

so when my friends tell me
how much you
will regret our past
when we meet again
i hope that it will be
for how much more of me
there is to know
and not
for how much less of me
there is to hold

traffic

traffic

Red
Green
Yellow
Stop
Go
Slow Down
Slow Down

Why don't we ever slow down?
Stuck in the constant flux of
Stop and
Go
We forget to take our time
We only know how to
kill it
While we wait in the stand still
both picking up smoking
so that we don't have to think of
the ghost in the passenger seat.


We have stopped so often
That when we
Go
I do... as fast as I can
holding you close
kissing your lips
trying
to get you to take your g-d damn shirt off...
fitting as much as I possibly can in
before we stop again.

I miss yellow lights
the warning...
knowing when to start weaning myself off
of the needing.

But we never did have those
yield signs...
It has always been
hot and cold
night and day
not being able to get enough of each other

and then...
STOP

Never sure what triggered the red light
too much
too close
too fast

But it was you who wouldn't let go

You who kissed first
You who crept to my porch
You who kissed me and told me
how much you would miss me
the night before you left...

And I prayed for a yellow light then
an extension on our parting
But city traffic is unreliable
and I have been stuck smoking
at this stop light for
two fucking years
and I don't think I can listen to
Suzanne Vega sing
"Cracking"
one more time.

I can see the light turning yellow
for the traffic to my right
This is the longest three seconds of my life...
one
did you miss me?
two
who's that other guy?
three
when are you coming back?

the green light is coming
but I'm not sure
if I should keep going
or turn off this road
for good.

whitewashed

I do not have
white pride

because

white
is the absence of color
and although I have sometimes joked
that you can see through the barely there pigment of my skin
I derive my pride from
the colors I have within

red
of sunkissed tomatoes in gardens
from Roxbury to Campobasso

green
like the beans I harvested from my mother's
ghetto garden
stemming them one at a time
in a broken plastic strainer

blue
was the color my baby brother turned
the night he stopped breathing
and the machine that we brought
home with him from the hospital still
sometimes blinks

yellow
in my mind

purple
is the color of the sky against sienna streetlights
on nights when I sat
on a third story porch
letting the summer mist envelop me

black
like the holes
left behind by stray bullets
inches from my brother's
bed pillow
13 and he still sleeps in the livingroom

orange
my gemini power color
sunset
and the crayon i sometimes
used when drawing pictures of myself
as a child

white
is an absence of color

it is a state of mind

it is agreeing to be nothing
in the name of holding others down

it is allowing yourself to forget that
you were once barefoot
stomping on grapes
black hair braided coarse down your back
singing songs while you kneaded dough and
praying for better for your children

it is believing that NOTHING is
better than something that other people
think is dirty

well I will play in the mud
because my sun spots are
sporadic
and you cannot see
the herstory
in my hips
taste the wine on my lips

hear my soul crying out
I AM MORE THAN THIS

hear my soul crying out
i am more than this

so think on it a bit

because if we keep the beourgoise
whitewash our ancestry

it won't be long
until none of us exist

night light

I feel like I learned last night
what it was like to be blind
to have your other senses heightened
by the dark.

The last thing I saw was you
moving toward me
cat like
and when we met in the middle
i closed my eyes
knowing that your night vision
was no match for mine.

And even though my eyes
were looking only at my eyelids
and occasionally in to yours
While the strong muscles of your
back moved
underneath my tiny pale hands
I can still see the smooth caramel
skin
contrasting with my ghostly complexion
pulling out the freckles in my arms
like a blue shirt
brings out the color in my eyes.

the heart is a muscle

I could never love a poet
Now, please don't take that as rejection
It's a challenge

You see
I have
lost my footing from a well
executed
"What did I do to deserve you?"

And I've swooned over
a convincing rendition of
"Baby, you are so beautiful."

I have even
had my heart "skip" a beat
from a simple question like
"Why aren't the other girls more
like you?"

Screw the skip
and the pitter patter
I think that your sentiment
laced with a simile
or a metaphor
might make
the machines
flatline

And I'm sure you could
revive me with your
rhythm and rhyme-
your flow could teach
my blood
And have my heart
dependent on the
breakbeats
that lay the canvas
for your paint

Now that's a serious
responsibility
so if you're not ready
think
before you spit your clever line
and save your poetry
for a girl with a stronger heart

tomorrow

On a clear day you can't see tomorrow
but you can see the place where the
ocean and the sky meet, seamless
and blend into one another
barely discernible in shades of
cobalt and gunmetal
and i guess that kind of looks like
tomorrow sometimes

But when I see tomorrow
all i see is
the 4 assignments i need to
finish
my bank balance
the morning rush at the gym
the smelly guy on the red line

I don't want to see tomorrow
all i want to see is right now
this bed
and what we can do with it
I want to see my eyes reflected
in yours looking into mine
I want to see our fingers
intertwined
like an elaborate basket

I want to see the back of my eyelids
as I drift off into that
sweet space
between your shoulder
and your collarbone
and today and tomorrow
where lifetimes can be lived
in eight hours
and nobody waits for the T

longing

some people say that when
you go a long time without having sex
you don't miss it anymore
i think that they may be right

i don't miss sex

i miss hands tangled in mine

i miss being held too long and too close

i miss forgetting that i have to get up in the morning

i miss fitting into that little space
between a shoulder and a collar bone

i miss stealing the blankets

i miss pushing you out of bed

i miss dvd menus playing on repeat
until i cannot listen to that
stupid song
one more time

i miss the feeling in the pit of
my stomach
when i don't know exactly what to expect
when we get to the door

i miss tiny tender kisses on
every star on my shoulders

i kind of miss being a girl
that didn't miss those kinds of things
and even thought they were dumb

i miss pretending that i am
tougher than i am

i miss you knowing that i am
putting on a front

i miss cooking for 2 people

telling someone about my day

knowing that someone else gets
why the perfect line in a scene of Sports Night
makes me hit the couch
like someone just scored a touchdown

i miss reading things that you
think i'll like

i still buy lingerie i know
you'll like

and i know it sounds silly

but i don't miss sex

My Mother's Hair

my mother's hair
does not curl in an
orthodox way
it does not follow a pattern of
consistent loops or ringlets down her back

much like my own, it zigs and zags
sporadically
and defiant pieces
strike
wildly at the air

its coarseness beckons hands to
understand it in a tactile way
wrapping the natural curve of
the locks around their finger
as my mother often does
before dragging a front
piece through her lips

my own hair has recently
recovered from the strain
i put it through
when i was younger
repressing the curls
like my grandmother did
her accent

sometimes my mother would do my braids
45 minutes on one side
play for a while
then another torturous sitting
then one time she flat ironed it for me
after i begged her
not knowing how else to defy
the other little girls that
called me nappy head
other than to make my hair
shiny and straight
like theirs
as my grandmother had once
tried to flatten her curves
with calorie counting
and diet sodas.

i have been down that road too
pretending that celery and
saltines were a normal
lunch.
trying to make my outside
appearance
fit in as much as i
desperately wanted to
i understand now why my
grandmother lost her accent
and my mother lost her language

i no longer try to smooth
down the unruly curls
as they grow
OUT
and not down
i have learned to embrace
its unwieldliness
as a part of my own
my mother told me
recently
that if i can be patient
long enough
the weight will eventually
pull the curls
down
my sister came into
the livingroom then
her straight hair
filled with gel
and crunched to create
the illusion of curls

i used to think it was
funny
how my sister tries to
create the illusion
of curls
that my grandmother
mother
and myself have all tried
so desperately
to repress

but i understand now
because when my granmother
lost her country and
my mother lost her language
i lost my culture
and that's just her way
of trying to get it
back

someday i'll start using titles

this is not a hostage situation
exactly the opposite...
we demand that you release all of the hostages
IMMEDIATELY
from the shackles of media message fueled
by age old beaurocracies designed
to keep the cogs in place

we refuse to be cogs anymore

the machine cannot work once the gears stop
turning
and we are pulling the plug

here is our list of demands

we demand that the media that informs us
INFORM us
ELEVATE us and
EMPOWER us to EMPOWER others

we demand that fat white american men
in suits stop telling us how COOL it is
to be skinny and glowing tan while
eating McDonalds
smoking Newports
and wearing Tommy Hilfiger jeans

we demand that the corporately owned government
stop using mind control to
make us believe that we are safe by
scaring us into letting THEM
protect us

we demand that the same government stop using
the media and the illusion of democracy to
facilitate genocide of our youth

we demand real education for all people
regardless of origin, race, creed, or wealth

we demand an information audit of Washington DC
so that we can become informed consumers of
political bullshit

we know how to play the game
but hopscotch is for kids
and we've grown up

my ghetto

my ghetto is not brand name
i am not from the bronx, south central, the southside,
or even roxbury like my mom
the gunmen behind the bullets in my baby brother's bedroom wall
or baby keila's two-year old back have never been played by
francis capra or fredro starr

the two burning cars outside my bedroom window
were not part of a protest or riot,
and the rash of arsons that claimed families all over
the neighborhood
only made the local section of the paper

the weapons that we found playing in the vacant lot
did not belong to bloods or crypts
though the latin kings had a strong hold on the block
we used to watch the local news,
to see if we saw our street on tonight, or anyone we knew
the fires were on sometimes, or hit and runs, or drive bys

we were invisible, however, when zero tolerance
swept young people off the street and into
DSS custody or juvie for wearing baggy clothing
or walking home late at night through their own street

invisible still when giant potholes killed the shocks
on the old beat up cars we tried to keep nice
and the sidewalks made rollerblading or even
walking under the dim broken streetlights dangerous
but that didnt really matter, cuz when the streetlights came on
you better have been inside anyway
or your mom would come drag you in

we were invisible when we held meetings in our
backyards
with lemonade and the couple of beat cops who cared
enough to listen
speaking in a communal voice that losing our kids
to guns or jails was not a good enough choice

there was no tape rolling when grandmothers yelled from their
porch to "SLOW DOWN, can't you see there are kids trying
to play?"
and the basketball game would halt momentarily as we
all scattered to grab a nearby piece of sidewalk as the
offending car bounced up and down on the rocky road

there was no photo op as we all worked together to clean
up the empty lot,
using earth day as an excuse to have the city come pick
up the broken couches, tvs, and car parts
and then planting a patch of vegetables so all of us kids
could see how things grow
still no copy when the police chased a robbery suspect
out of his bedroom window
and tackled him on top of a patch of carrots and lettuce
still too young to harvest

still we watched together as house after house on the
block was boarded up and burned into the night
and once, i remember, before school
and the firefighters rolled in,
but not as quickly as they did each fourth of july
when we'd block off the intersection and heap
mattreses, broken chairs, and tables onto the road
filling the sky with our own version of fireworks

secretly i was grateful for the firefighters on those nights
i could feel the heat from the fire in my bedroom, always
terrified that mine would be one of those houses
even kept the things i wanted to keep in a bag next
to my bed, in case the beeping woke me in the night
and i had to get out right quick
before the smoke filled my lungs like it had monique's and
her dad's.

this is just the way i remember it though
and the fuzzy lines of 15 year old memories can be unreliable
but there is not documentation to disprove it
the meetings, the cleanups, the lack of police consistency
the fact that they never found the man that put those
our bullets in baby keila's back while she slept

this is our history and there is no book
there is no movie, no tv show, no newspaper articles
and almost none of it can be found on the world wide web
it sounds trivial, but without being able to see our
history, how can we learn from it?

this is our history
it is a story with many chapters and mine is only one
it is not the first, and it will not be the last
but it is mine
the way i remember it
it may not be entirely accurate
but it's what i've got.

i wrote this when i was 18

i wanted to kiss you

last night

at the park near your house with
too many people in the car.

And I wanted to hold your hand and
feel your lips on my forehead...
so i hit you and laughed and
we played tag like that for a while
18 year old kindergartners.

And I caught you looking at me
and the dissapointment masked
by annoyance when
i mentioned another man.
and do I do that when you mention
another girl?
maybe you saw me wince when you
stung me with that one.

And you said that you liked it
when I bit you
and I bet it will leave a scar

and no matter what happens
all your girlfriends will ask what
that mark on your shoulder is.