eyes stop still restrict
movement take midol
the red daze haze of sleep
she wants to fuck and fuck
and fuck and fuck
makes no gentle

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The girl in the picture starts to twitch
There is a movement beneath her left tit
The poster flicks from the wall a bit
Two apprentices notice

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i listen to the impatient dead
who never existed, however much
i wish they had lived their absence

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Ohhhh do it. Worldwide. Uhhuh uhhuh uhhuh. Telecommunications. Uhhuh uhhuh. Telecommunication link link ahh up links ooohhhhh telecommute me it's so. Spectacular cash award for your yesyes unparalleled investment protections. Oh christ yeah. Pure cash. Yeah it's so good to uh uh cash me cash me in.

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I’ll return as Queen of Sheba, or a vampire, or a reiver,
or a saint who cures the nouveaux riches, a wondrous, wealthy soul.
Yes, you see, I’ve found my niche, to preach and prosper, marvelous goal!
(Pills I took just took their toll.)

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Now I’m walking the levee
Amongst meth head zombies

When a raccoon reminds me
​To keep my hand on my knife.

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you cozy up to anyone
stepping off a freight train
with a patch above their hearts

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Repulsed,
I read his essay
about why it’s unnatural
for gays to marry, red pen poised.  I am not
neutral, not objective.  Speech is free, but so is judgment.

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…death’s heads some absence here or of what sensed in outstretched limbs a broken jawline’s exigency/ stone winds resurgence ever where nothing of reeks blind taste some solace no return again begin again/ in wind’s reveal of collapse bitten as if to cherish pummeling absurdly lock associative/ till skull skinned screaming in an abort of flame settling into ash...

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Ghosts come calling. Fill your voice mail,
search you out in want ads, bloat your belly
all night with confusions of 0s and 1s.
​Indecipherable guilt leaking into the lines. 

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assistance     gone     alone with both     lonely     days without     both fluish angry needing   not
their fault     hungry   homework     nights without    can’t sleep, doesn’t      doctor says just one
pill per     small hands stretching, reaching     must watch them closely   always       loads of
laundry   hungry   exhaustion     just one pill     bedwetting wakes older   regression   consoling

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Many of you have already been taken,
some of us anticipate the slack whoosh and hum

that signal alien arrival above just-cut crop circles.
Many of you, back in your cubicles, wear half-smiles,

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Carolyn just loves
da new house in Kahala.

Hard to believe dat she grew up as wun local
cause she look and act like wun Katonk.

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11 major organ systems
Size 12 ft.
22 sq. ft. skin

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Brown girl, brown girl
her guilt is so deep and juicy in her thigh bone

that when her God consumes her, she is sure
He will suck the seasoned marrow

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our nile river sinks into street gutters
summer season is almost here
so dance for rain black baby
dance for rain.

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“We are certain that there is some connection between poltergeists and puberty and that the mysteries of sex enter largely into their doings. And all the available evidence points to the fact that poltergeists prefer girl adolescents to boys - the ratio is about 95% to 5% respectively.”
          —Harry Price, “Can we Explain the Poltergeist?” (1945)

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I’m a dead frog and I don’t say this with any pity or understanding or shame it’s just an observation that people seem to like us, like us a bit too much because they like to push hooks through our jaws and cast us out to sea, as well as amputate us for fine dining and draw us as a cartoon

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the onion you lay line by line,
a hybrid thing both occidental and oriental

is a struggle against the void.
Hybrid like love cold, like love hot, like love open-ended.

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hand last
your skin left
was
the wall not there

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lips bursting more
               men in me
children I uphold the heavens
drunker than country

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I heard 2 shots in my neighborhood today
now none of my friends want to come out and play.
I said I hard 2 shots in my neighborhood today
and now none of my friends want to come out and play.

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Black poets
deserve the luxury of writing about nothing—
sometimes—
to speak for no one,

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            Make me somebody
            nobody wants
            to stand around.
            Make me your social problem.
            Make me feel lost, branded
            and hide whipped.

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“The white cops were right,” they chanted,
more Blacks need beating
and we need more guns.
Too many getting rich off welfare
too lazy to work.”

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I wonder if what I’m seeing is only my silence
my little silent laugh my little look-around
at the forest of faces growing new faces a long line
of faces and now the old white guy is busy
filling out his form hunched over all his words

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I left the south for the west
and browned like a sugar sprinkled pecan.
There’s nothing wrong with brown
The yellow leasing office boy says,
I was talking about the carpet in the model unit,

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I hate people who say something (then repeat it)
I hate people who say something (then repeat it)
I hate people who say something (then repeat it)
I hate bands that play too loud over the poetry
I HATE POETS THAT READ TOO LOUD
I HATE POETS THAT READ TOO LOUD
​I HATE POETS THAT READ TOO LOUD

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Say nothing when people pet your head.  Smile (and don’t be angry, no
not that) when they do it without asking.  Shrug because you have no
explanation why your hair grows that way

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she said with her own eyes she had seen
men with horses
men with rope
tie a loop and wrap a noose
around the neck
around the throat
of a little black boy just like me

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your names were waiting for me
on the kitchen counter,
in a freshly printed newspaper,
and I with my responsible empathy
read your obituaries

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The perception that we are
Permitted to enter into
The populous is paradoxical 
That is to say only possible
So as long as our persons
​Don't come too close

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My fists drum my
chest  an de Village Spirit He leap to
dance in me.  In hymn o plen-tay
my momma voice still weep, she
now comfort me.  An in hymn o

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Cops don't say that they are afraid of blacks,
they just shoot them,
so why are you bringing it up on this fuck app?

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Helicopters thud the sky with air commotion and caution
over brow crop dusting judgment light over fields of cement and barbed wire
Pot holes and cigars rolled.

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Augusta Fells Savage, beaten as a child for sinning.  Her sin?  Sculpting clay animals.  And still she worked.  She worked to share her vision.  Her vision took her to Rome and Paris and back again to teach, to create, to better, to live.

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You look like a thug’s sister.
You look like a thug’s mother.
You look like a thug’s grandson.
You look like a thug’s pal.

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