Poetry

It’s what it is: my life is a raccoon wedding officiated by a toaster.
It’s what it is: my life is a dream inside a burrito inside a courtroom.
It’s what it is: my life is a therapy in meme format.
It’s what it is: my life is a series of messenger pigeons suiciding elsewhere.

we wear Black skin in America
we know every moment spent outside
we are endangered
we are exposed
we carry the tension of looming threat tight in our chests

no wind / the thought of death
            and wild senna
the sun opens the blue mouth of a
           dayflower / being
collects into landscape / a mind

And didn't you make all these promises
That you wouldn't be quiet
That you're biding your time
That your cunning and willingness beg
           a time and a place

Your daughterland, my motherland, stands aglow,
A beacon of a people stripped of vitality.
It’s as plain as red in snow.

When some local jester lights it on fire 
God owes us nothing, for we are 
watching the innards of the universe 
streak past our feet; so, rejoice!

And there is a fear in me
That to write this is to ask for my murder
–a plea
for my grief to be met with a bullet–

One day, while I was
     retracing my own footprints
along the hybrid,
     winding path of being and
non-being (being 

your hands become
coarse and thick,
hardened to feelings
from digging, picking
crops for your Lords
dining inside towers.