not flowers with their imagined hearts
not tending to exploding boobs on a brutish hand
not fabricating in my favorite telenovela
all made-up like an ironic trophy wife
does nothing but make me
miss all the sex…

I want you in the morning
while you’re all dirty
before you claim your discovery
covering your stems, trampling your pieces
filling them with the sum of this sickle tree.

I want you in the morning
while you’re all dirty
so I can feel by some miracle
I can feel like I can touch you

before we’re both filled with this fruitless mirage
this purposeful pursuit for the world’s perfection
where everything seen is judged whole.


Image by kiwinky via Flickr

As you turn away skipping
away with my sensibilities

my potential, I’m left with nothing
but a long for a time when I didn’t desire

to feel a breath as much as yours
your laughter haunting the corridors  

the ghost mirrors the absence, I ware it like naked jewelry
naked jewelry of bones on display of my limbed soul.

I needed that what I gave to you
I struggle without it, my diadem

you accepted without knowing
how precious a self is to give away

not keeping something for me…
You didn’t want me anyway…

Fever To Touch

Listen HERE to a song I wrote on the steelpan for a very special woman I met recently. The song is called FEVER TO TOUCH and there’s a poem that goes with it as well that I wrote awhile back called Everyone Should Know This. I’m hoping to turn the poem into lyrics for the song.

As you can tell, this woman had a huge impact on my senses, enough so that I’m still grieving over the loss of not getting to know her in the way I envisioned. 

I’m still thankful to have shared those moments that were gifts of kindness, an awakening… I felt like I could love, and be loved again. Maybe that was the point of our encounter, who knows. But I’ll keep the joy I felt close at hand as I walk these streets of uncertainty.

Who Dat?

Wha yuh tinkin bout?
Who yuh tinkin ah-bout?
Who yuh muse lovin
on a cream tea beach?
Whose taste yuh tongue savors
yuh hands softly soothes?
Whose body is warm enough
for de cold days and nights?
Whose openin yuh caged lonely love?

Wha yuh tinkin bout?
Who yuh tinkin ah-bout?
Who dat yuh lovin
someplace wey de sky is real
blue paint, a dab of real white
and real hot yellow?
Who dat yuh lovin
someplace wey de night
is ah black board for diamonds
and an old round rock
yuh hope to walk on? 

Wha yuh tinkin bout?
Who yuh tinkin ah-bout?
Who yuh muse lovin?
Who dat yuh lovin?
Who dat yuh needin?
Who dat?

Possessing the Secret of Joy

Is in those moments when you’re most blinded, you’ll find it possessed, bazodeed, when you’re least aware of what you have. That moment of joy, seeing her standing there waiting, pieces of her blowing in the wind. She smokes another cigarette, checking her cell phone because she’s lonely without you. And when she catches a glimpse of you, all you see is her dimples. And your smile is broad enough that you silently cry a secret joy, because even though you can’t really see, your eyes find each other. You embrace.

Is there such a thing?
Are there moments so sure
that you’re so unaware of?

Find it possessed, bazodeed
with your cataract eyes
incapable of recognizing joy

as she waits there for you
dimpled and broad smiled
lonely for your sauntering suspension?

We embrace, because it’s been that long
since we’ve caught a sighting that spectacular
shooting ephemeral phenomenologies
burning a thousand years away.