Esme and Zami

Esme and Zami are siamese twins
Esme, the temperament of water, fell in love with whirlwinds:

The secrecy held in the world beneath the ocean.
After admiring the girl in the reflection she dove in

Living far beneath the surface, returning for fireflies in summer
Sometimes just to listen to the city’s rooftop raindrop drummers.

Zami, the temperament of fire, her blood runs close to her skin
At the bald of her hands and feet feel the rush of cold sin.

One night she awoke breathless, off her body cold sweat dripping
She ran out of space and slowly the walls crept in.

Anxious for air and with fervor in her muscles
Leaping for the night, scaling over walls and fences, Esme became bionical.

Esme and Zami are siamese twins
No overnight miracle of a mischievous nymph.

There was time for a breath between days for a hush
And defeat to soak itself at the root of a purpose.

Hear it escape in a wail, a laboring sigh to playful fantasies
Masked in the ringlets of an occasional lover’s kisses.

Zami was leaping over water over two nights
Stopping to rest, finding shade from the moon light

Under the thick yellow of a poui tree in bloom
Catching breath, crouching to her knees, smelling Esme’s perfume.

Blue moss, wild strawberries decorated her
The dancing Esme muses on stories told by her mother.

Tightly closing her eyes, she keeps the music to herself
Repeating the words in a lullaby.

Her mossy blue arms reach for no one
But the gentle caress of the ocean.

Zami bemused, came closer to the moon
Caught by Esme’s mystery about her lips, about her blue nakedness.

She found pleasures so much so she had forgotten
About walls and fences to scale, but found comfort in this harbinger.

Finally she held her breath and dipped her head in.
Surprised Esme, but not afraid she smiled and began to sing

Tal vez amor
Tal vez tu debes mi amor

Saber como nadar
Saber como nadar

Antes de hundir
Tu cabeza en mi agua.

Esme and Zami, they are siamese twins
Joined to the heart and mind ever since

Zami found shade from the moonlight
Under the blooming poui tree one night.

Letting go of the tree branches
Letting go of her fences

She relaxed and extended her arms
Looking up to face the moon shining

She pushed her chest out to embrace
The currents.  To kiss the waves.

Rejection Letter #1

I received it in the mail today
my very thin self-addressed envelope
not today I said out loud, not today
for you see, I’ve already felt the day to day
crippling blow, as I made my trek through
the drudges, through the thick mundane
automatic motions.  I have failed as a robot.
Regardless, I thought and grinned for chance
there’s still the possibility…  Aah yes the optimist
with her tireless audacity, with her juvenile beliefs
full of maybes, could be dreams floating like clouds
waiting to be caught, oblivious to the message in the
note starkly staring back: thank you, but no thanks.

Broken

So quickly the erasure has begun
as pieces of me are being removed.
From that heart, I’ve been gutted out
from that mind, my reflection turned into shards.

I was suppose to know it was happening
that the coils my hair makes no longer brought joy
and understand that a betrayal was for me to take notice.

But it doesn’t matter now, as all the tenderness
as all the dreams, like abandoned leaves, dwindle away 
trapped in a dusty old box filled with memories, well forgotten
displaced by some new desire to excite the tête-à-tête.

So quickly the erasure has begun, in one day
what once was comforting as a simple embrace, a brush of the hands
is being replaced with talk of sleeping arrangements.

NIGGER U*S*A

Can’t take dat sting away
de sting from nigger
ah poor ass nigger
cause nigger is poor
and poor is ah nigger.

Embrace nigger
with all de ills of livin-ah
nigger life
liquor cures all curse den
hunger of havin nothin
but de smell of stale
piss and shit.

Hunger of havin nothin
but ah bitch for the dogs
tight leopard spots
running ruin to her hips
yellin everyday–“But ain’t he
ah black ass nigger
ah dirt poor nigger.”

Hunger of havin nothin
but ah mammy swearin
“In Jesus name I’ll kill dis nigger.”
A bastard only screams
what his mama been taught
“You fuckin Nigger.”

Can’t take dat smell away
neda-nev-ah
of skin burnin
of flesh on fire
ah bloodthirsty explosion.

Can’t embrace nigger
without de ills of being
the only Negro in Holland Michigan
even if the University invited you
the white faculty–with their cherry smiles–
says, “It’s because we needed a show and dance nigger.”

Even if your walls are covered with awards
fooled into what you can afford
to sit in Holland’s Gourmet café
two white construction workers
can still say, “Niggers are everywhere now.”

Can’t embrace nigger
without embracing Negro Joe
who dreams of jumping higher
running faster-climbing-swimming
bursting out his exile of skin.
With something to lose
never quite sure of what:
his legacy of having
dirt poor nigger skin?
his potential to all his possibilities
for true love?
Sticking his big black dick into
some white chick–any white chick?

Welcome to Nigger U*S*A
the forever new cerebral
recurring phenomenon
forever framed into
black and white motions
de sting still lives
cause nigger is dirt poor
and poor is ah nigger.

Bringing you de tunes: Broad Strokes Wednesday, May 25th @ 8:00pm

On Wednesday, May 25th at 8:00pm, I’ll be on Washington Heights Free Radio (WHFR) as Calypso Sally doing my radio show, Broad Strokes. It’s going to be such a blast, since I invited the band Quilty to come perform an acoustic set.

In the meantime, you can listen to my previous show HERE.

 

 

Last month’s Playlist:

The Next Movement by The Roots
Airbag by Radiohead
The Garden by PJ Harvey
Politics as Usual by Jay Z
Now Ya Know by The Netherlands
The New Pollution by Beck
Midnight in a Perfect World by DJ Shadow
Puerto Rican Cousins by Das Racist
The Dirty Dirty by Tapes ‘N Tapes
Success by Mr. Lif
I Bleed by Pixies
Excursions by A Tribe Called Quest
Supernova by Quilty
Over by Portishead

Bringing you stories, live events, and much more, WHFR tries and remains independent of any corporate sponsorship.  So, if you like what WHFR is doing, you can donate by contacting us at info@whfr.org.  DIY forever baby!

Also, if you’re in a band or know someone who is, and would like to be on the show, please email me at roarplanet@gmail.com.

Blue Pencil:Just go ahead and stick the knife deeper

Sparks are for adolescence
lurking in idealistic thought
fruitful with romantic wine

who doesn’t understand
that it is a false feeling
since a deeper connection
can only be built in time.

Good Morning to You! REVISED

Sunglasses
Image via Wikipedia

Half awake, look sideways
time ticking away its loss
breakfast snacks hides
buries last cocktail I will
sleep 5 minutes more.

Wake up!
Drooling lateness’s regret
rush the turn of the covers
feel the static of the T.V.’s weather
feel the jilt on the news it brings when it’s summer.

Lukewarm swarms the faucet’s trickle as it drips
decide what is safe to wear, press pour into a Thermos
stare at the clocks that you frantically embrace

not even your pink, yellow and white pills can save you now
you scratch your head aganist whether or not you need a cure
calmly pushing them down in my pouch anyway
As your necessities sigh right back at you:

phone, ipod close by
keys, breakfast, lunch
coffee in tow, mints
cigarettes in pockets.

With sunglasses on, yeah
you’re ready to go, then race.
Yeah with sunglasses on
yeah I’m ready to race, with cigarette lit
pods in place, check for messages.

Catch the steeplechase on the 9:15 R
it will take you to 57th and 7th Ave.
55th is my destination.

Wrestle in between the inhospitable hot seat
a man, smaller than you, with his legs spread apart
displaying what he got, and a woman in petite position
when design decided she is taking on a half more of her seat
when design decided to exclude a space for her

you sit anyway, you squeeze your eyes close, you fit.
At every abrupt stop you hold your breath
as to not lean aganist your neighbor’s edge
but sail you will along in this alone silence
your mind full with thoughts on her
your ex lover, the last time… when was it?
Oh good, I’m forgetting markers.

With sunglasses on
yeah you’re ready to go, then race.
Yeah with sunglasses on
yeah I’m ready to race, with cigarette lit
pods in place, check for mistakes.

Then walk three long blocks
delight up like the horde in front of you
followed by a spit and a mint…

The Path

I don’t expect directions
they’re useless anyway

as my reference

I’ll have to depend upon
my own voice

tending to my own discrete guilt
swearing back as I hope

nobody’s notice in the clouds
nobody’s thoughts in the darkness

to make it seem better
I’ll imagine a Hero

just so not to remember how much
measured haunts my own stairs

listening too long
becoming so too commonplace

dying while my own shadow is so sucked in
moaning a web of a useful-less view

pigeonholes
to cover my own liars

Maybe She Just Didn’t Wanna Dance With You Dude

discoball in Japan
Image via Wikipedia

Well thank goodness for dat, cause I woulda been confused
being as it’s a queer disco ball spinning its bacchanal lights tonight
shiny confetti glimpses of why you’re here, staring right back at me
from across the room.

Did you find my gaze entertaining?
One to test out but never wake up to, cause you’re so sure
you don’t want what society prescribes, and yet you’re here
with us, where poverty procures a so call lesser being.
You wait for him.

I’ve become your novelty of sorts, I’ve become your snicker
with your friends in a corner, watching me to see me
build up the gumption, waiting for the right song to cheer me on.

Did it make you feel wanted?
Most beautiful of all?  When I didn’t ask for your name
your number, who you’d like to fuck on a regular
I didn’t ask for your life, I asked you to dance.

Back at It Again

Catch me on the air next Wednesday, April 27 at 8:00 p.m. as dj Calypso Sally for my one hour show, Broad Strokes, of soulful tunes on Washington Heights Free Radio (WHFR). I’ll be doing my thang, digging deep from my mixed bag of music, playing new discoveries and perhaps some well known artists. Learn how to listen HERE.

Also, I’ll be reading from my manuscript, Cancelled Without Prejudice, on Saturday, May 7th for Fractious Press‘s May Fair event:

When: Saturday, May 7th
Where: Ding Dong Lounge, 929 Columbus Avenue between 105 & 106 Streets
Time: 1:00 – 7:00 p.m.
Cost: Free

In the meantime, here’s what you missed last month: LISTEN HERE.

Playlist

Life PartnerTeams vs. Star Slinger
The SpaceMagnetic Island
Come My SunshineThe Comas
Don’tShadow 
From the Grass DubSly & Robbie
Holy HolyWye Oak
Tonite is De NiteBrother Resistance
SupernovaQuilty
Strings of LifeThe Dirtbombs
Backyard BettySpank Rock
Whop Cocoyea – Shadow
Back to BackWolfgang
Puzzled by PeopleThe Streets
Love MoreSharon Van Etten

Bringing you stories, live events, and much more, WHFR tries and remains independent of any corporate sponsorship.  So, if you like what WHFR is doing, you can donate by contacting us at info@whfr.org.  DIY forever baby!

Also, if you’re in a band or know someone who is, and would like to be on the show, please email me at roarplanet@gmail.com.

Typhoon

Avalanche on Mt. Timpanogos Utah
Image via Wikipedia

I laughed at him–Dr. Lang–the psychiatrist.
Apparently he’s never been at the edge
of any natural disaster–the debacle turbulence
of almost pissing yourself–how long can you hold it?
Or sensed the secret–why a tamed dog one day
ripped apart the baby he once played with. Can you
foresee a trifling accident turn into a typhoon?
Bloodshot eyes witness the terror in the sun
rising, pouring, without a care of the closed curtains
into my sixth floor windowed room. Ignore the taunts
of the stickman’s shadow leaping into the wind
of a cyclonic train. I laughed at him. Unaware of
Nature’s fickle primordial demons, he demanded
I postpone until next month’s appointment.

We Have Not Seen Ourselves In this Light

Turn off the lights
because it’s ugly
looking at you this way

where anger trumps everything
it is so a situational, life that is
a chemical reaction to a set of dynamics:
where opposites collide and nobody is listening

it is seen through the regretted mess
broken bright bulbs
pieces of the argument that made sense.

Yes we have failed so gloriously
if only we can talk to each other without weaponry
then those words of I love you wouldn’t be so conditional.

It is in those ways we are like our own parents
when it gets heated at least
they say things that we’re not suppose to repeat
the words we overheard them express to each other
in those unkind ways, that they know hurts the most
remaining with us like remnants waiting to be discovered in ourselves
any day now, we unconsciously say them to each other.

Turn off the lights, I say
because it’s ugly
looking at you this way.

Bully

DSCF0339
Image by dentsadventure via Flickr
Bully, I wear my scars well
the scars meant for me to remember
to remember something that did happened
 
the scars are there for me to remember
oh how I remember how you bullied me
into submission, I watch you hate yourself
as you tell me, want me to tell you what to do.
 
Bully, I watched your need to be needed and then
you hated yourself and hated me for it.
You’d prefer control, you’d prefer control
since you’ve never had it. 
 
 

Bowl of Soul

She talks about friendship like the rest of them
and already I know what she means: Never call
Never text, Never reach out with your hellos of
“How are you?”  But yet I hope, she is different
as I build sandcastles for things beyond my reach
as the ocean pulls in and then devours everything.

mute…no?

assassination of heroics

Your point of heroics you so excitingly take as risk
when it just means you’re a jackass, just took six bullets to the heart,
from a gun loaded with somebody’s unmentioned soul.
When your first word, first verb of action, should of penetrated,
cut through, bust somebody’s vessel, it left a flesh wound,
somebody took it and made you a mute,
because you won’t listening to the first verse of Do it Now: 
The first cut should be the deepest, to penetrate
No longer linked to nobody, somebody is the shit now.
Somebody won’t be silhouetted curses of ain’t it a dream
won’t be the first thing tagged as a backlash
ricocheted as pastime masquerades, as a nigger being lynched on a page.
Ain’t it made easy regular, unmade uneasy irregular
in whichever mode of horror, so subtly exhausted, so abruptly gassed-out.


From Mos Def’s Black on Both Sides album

Elegy for Ma

single clawed petal of Dianthus sp.
Image via Wikipedia

There is always the question of destination:
when and where will I go?
A sudden sadness erupts as we become witnesses.
When the flowers–once so voluptuous–turned prints,
dust, patches of petals–we try to reconstruct
only to discover what is lost is gone forever.

There is always the question of destination:
when and where will I go?
But never do we ask how is a flower a flower?
Was it her love petals that gave her beauty?
Her blooms to be gifts?
Did her soft aroma dare us to feel the fabric of her skin?