Category Archives: Poetry

sister of 9

14 Tuesday Oct 2014

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Chaos at the three cemetery gates,
movement all along the Niger River

in the underworld the shadow that waits
shadow in the marketplace the Sister

of 9 her whirling skirts Black Madonna
jabbing the spur of arousal into

the side of the cock’s offense grave lingua
that drew me near the grave I’m with Wilde’s crew

boys of black and blue their DJ’s love lost
for my Oya, goddess and tribe, my Miss

Candelaria; Miss Thang at three gates. Let rocks
sleep, they make you star-crossed; all you lost

in the blue Sister-Brother, please dismiss
this child, this sad post-colonial fox.

grave miscreant

11 Saturday Oct 2014

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Shiny grass. Smell the
noun’s shadow. Write

down: “I’m the grave
miscreant,” “Water that

cleans/, flowers that clean
as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.

Mother, each waiting,
for the other queen’s

brilliance, and I love
such queenly

brilliance. Drag, “St.
Michael slay that

old demon,” yet all
my brothers walk through

you, monstrous and
gay. Let us speak,

guest front and fast,
sweat out words,

untruthful land like day
like dew. There is no

beginning. Just this: cloth
burns, oil burns, kisses

burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs.

My lover, Zulu and
ghost. Braided and …

her coffin: irons
coppers and

“flowers that
clean as I go.”

][][

Shiny grass. Smell the noun’s shadow. Write down:
“I’m the grave miscreant,” “Water that cleans/,

flowers that clean as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.
Mother, each waiting, for the other queen’s

brilliance, and I love such queenly brilliance.
Drag, “St. Michael slay that old demon,” yet

all my brothers walk through you, monstrous
and gay. Let us speak, guest front and fast, sweat

out words, untruthful land like day like dew.
There is no beginning. Just this: cloth burns,

oil burns, kisses burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs. My lover, Zulu

and ghost. Braided and … her coffin: irons
coppers and “flowers that clean as I go.”

prayer bed

09 Thursday Oct 2014

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“honey, I know something about
talking with ghosts.”
– Yusef Komunyakaa

My bed can always
accommodate one

more; this ain’t a threat
or bet, it’s a damn

promise. Like all
the stone-cold dead

fortune smiles on
a phantasmic orgy.

A gram of sin that
you can snort

down; even ghosts
can have sticky

fingers. Slack-jaw
we blame love

each time things go
wrong. I have

the host’s job of
not placing blame.

Those who slut-
shame have their

own private hell
waiting. My prayer

bed is vast, even
you’re welcome.

You’ve come from
such a far distance,

lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe

your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life.

I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash

away the dried
cum and snot.

][][

My bed can always accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat or bet, it’s a damn

promise. Like all the stone-cold dead fortune
smiles on a phantasmic orgy. A gram

of sin that you can snort down; even ghosts
can have sticky fingers. Slack-jaw we blame

love each time things go wrong. I have the host’s
job of not placing blame. Those who slut-shame

have their own private hell waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even you’re welcome. You’ve come

from such a far distance, lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe your feet with my hair.

I’ll lick you back to life. I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash away the dried cum and snot.

one lame whinny

09 Thursday Oct 2014

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Hannibal

[H]oney carnage Carthage
Hannibal deep in mud,

his horse, one lame whinny,
hobbled, watching her rider,

a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out.

The Delphi oracles sang
a capella; for the gods

had grown deaf, could
only question the melody

of the worshiper, not
the words or tone.

But there were no
gods here, just

the bloody swarm of
bees in Hannibal’s ears,

splish-splash of his limbs
quivering with boggy

earth, wax comb carrion,
raked horse-hide,

braying. Carnage
and honey. What

else is there? Clash
of arms and then

peace. Death and
then a birth. Deaf

gods and that terrible
whinnying.

][][

[H]oney carnage Carthage Hannibal deep
in mud, his horse, one lame whinny, hobbled,

watching her rider, a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out. The Delphic oracles

sang a capella; for the gods had grown
deaf, could only question the melody

of the worshiper, not the words or tone.
But there were no gods here, just the bloody

swarm of bees in Hannibal’s ears, splish-splash
of his limbs quivering with boggy earth,

wax comb carrion, raked horse-hide, braying.
Carnage and honey. What else is there? Clash

of arms and then peace. Death and then a birth.
Deaf gods and that terrible whinnying.

][][

notes:

Hannibal (247-181 BC) was the Carthaginian general who crossed the Alps with war elephants to invade Rome during the Punic Wars. The Oracle of Delphi was the name of the priestesses who served at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, located on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, in ancient Greece.

xenolith

09 Thursday Oct 2014

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Ahora/ en esta hora/ crepita
más la muerte/ que la vida.
–Claribel Algeria

Under the patio’s
intricate leaves she

strolls off, clutching
quick Faust, her

pupil, to her breasts.
Finito. The man

deceives himself that
he’s unique, that

his cleaved skull
won’t be used as

a smashing
drinking cup,

and that, “Now/ at
this hour/ death

crackles more/
than life.” If I

were a defrocked
bishop and you

sin, would you
still bite hard?

Folklore says it
just takes a soul,

a mosquito’s song
of pain, and it’s done.

But what does myth
know? eh? myth?

myth! yes? But I
have no faith, no

books, no calling.
Bite me. Hard. Blood

slows. Eyes blank.
Heart – tie me

to the xenolith,
make me strange:

miscreant ghost,
sex-mad wraith.

][][

Ahora/ en esta hora/ crepita
más la muerte/ que la vida.
–Claribel Algeria

Under the patio’s intricate leaves
she strolls off, clutching quick Faust, her pupil,

to her breasts. Finito. The man deceives
himself that he’s unique, that his cleaved skull

won’t be used as a smashing drinking cup,
and that, “Now/ at this hour/ death crackles more/

than life.” If I were a defrocked bishop
and you sin, would you still bite hard? Folklore

says it just takes a soul, a mosquito’s
song of pain, and it’s done. But what does myth

know? eh? myth? myth! yes? But I have no faith,
no books, no calling. Bite me. Hard. Blood slows.

Eyes blank. Heart – tie me to the xenolith,
make me strange: miscreant ghost, sex-mad wraith.

][][

note:

a xenolith (ancient Greek: “alien rock”) is a rock fragment which becomes trapped and swallowed within a larger rock.

song of claws tapping

07 Tuesday Oct 2014

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when I bend over
tattooed on my lower back
runes: l-o-v-e

][

[S]udden love won’t
dark jazz be heard

deadbeats in my
fingertips white

sun beaten ice
red clouds gold

threads in my sax
I can bleats on

them drums grow
wings let the keyboard

slice you down
the middle sing,

then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-

rap. What you need
right now is more

than just love. What
sort of outlaws did you

expect, child? I raise
one eyebrow, snort

down miasma, polish
my blue horns until

they shine. There is
beauty in jack

hammers, echoes. That’s
me in the spotlight.

That’s me. How high
the moon? My tramp

stamp scorns you
for judging. I want

risk, go bareback,
licking licks all

night and say,
“damn, that’s tight.”

][

[S]udden love won’t dark jazz be heard deadbeats
in my fingertips white sun beaten ice

red clouds gold threads in my sax I can bleats
on them drums grow wings let the keyboard slice

you down the middle sing, then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-rap. What you need right now

is more than just love. What sort of outlaws
did you expect, child? I raise one eyebrow,

snort down miasma, polish my blue horns
until they shine. There is beauty in jack

hammers, echoes. That’s me in the spotlight.
That’s me. How high the moon? My tramp stamp scorns

you for judging. I want risk, go bareback,
licking licks all night and say, “damn, that’s tight.”

[clit] [spark] [return]

03 Friday Oct 2014

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Kissing rust between
thighs to make that dead

clit spark return veiled
in blues gear that

screams circuits twitch,
they all know it: A

to Zed ghosts are not
in machines, they are

machines that must
rot and rust alone

in the dark. Holy Spirit?
La Llorona? Slag Pile

Annie? What shouldn’t
survive is the spark.

Power fades. All suns
die. Yet we defile

the night with electric
lights. We are tools.

Thinking apes are
machines and when

we die who knows
not you. I went down

on a ghost once, it
was like licking raw

wire. Spit-drool sparked.
I held her there; until

her low sigh of bliss
faded … like a machine, almost.

][][

Kissing rust between thighs to make that dead
clit spark return veiled in blues gear that screams

circuits twitch, they all know it: A to Zed
ghosts are not in machines, they are machines

that must rot and rust alone in the dark.
Holy Spirit? La Llorona? Slag Pile

Annie? What shouldn’t survive is the spark.
Power fades. All suns die. Yet we defile

the night with electric lights. We are tools.
Thinking apes are machines and when we die

who knows not you. I went down on a ghost
once, it was like licking raw wire. Spit-drool

sparked. I held her there; until her low sigh
of bliss faded … like a machine, almost.

no defeat hate

29 Monday Sep 2014

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But why would you need to cut off your breast to shoot an arrow? Not one female Olympian in all the archery competitions ever has resorted to self-mutilation to get where she is.

Have you even used a bow and arrow? I pull the bow string back to my ear, not my seventh rib.

][

A gray blade again
and women fighting down

in the upper hall. Sisters
of bronze and horse tail

helmets. After the drumming,
after the fall, defeated

Amazons
were marched

through fields of suet, bloody
rain, slime-dark pools. Now

I care for ancestors – Sal,
Ruth, Menhit, Alala,

the Morrígan sisters – a nurse’s
work. They wait; horrors

and a Journey to the West
and they wait. Each must

go leaving me behind.
Drumbeats I can’t hear.

Rattle of swords. Something
comes, to claim these souls.

There is no defeat. Hate
burns. Love cools. I

care for sisters, athletes,
fighters. Here comes

the taps, here
comes the drums.

][

A gray blade again and women fighting
down in the upper hall. Sisters of bronze

and horse tail helmets. After the drumming,
after the fall, defeated Amazons

were marched through fields of suet, bloody rain,
slime-dark pools. Now I care for ancestors –

Sal, Ruth, Menhit, Alala, the Morrígan
sisters – a nurse’s work. They wait; horrors

and a Journey to the West and they wait.
Each must go leaving me behind. Drumbeats

I can’t hear. Rattle of swords. Something comes,
to claim these souls. There is no defeat. Hate

burns. Love cools. I care for sisters, athletes,
fighters. Here comes the taps, here comes the drums.

static-skull [remix]

25 Thursday Sep 2014

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– scratch, as gasp, as
in a line in the air

like this one beat. Tight-
breath, the sought-for-thing

coming. Splinter-
tip, talking is despair;

tearing of tongues. Child
making “das Crying”

noise. I come, following her
lisp. Brain-cased,

cysts and foggy-
mind. What does a daughter

of Eve do when all lust
crumbles? Plague-faced

with cracks. Vapor-
hour mud. Low water

yet Woolf held
herself down. “I can’t even

write this/ properly.
I can’t read.” I drop

DJ’s needle on scratch-
ruined records

and a drunk’s beat; I write
words that no one

will dance to. One more
dazed static-skull fop,

gag me on Virginia’s
sinews, whipcords –