Tag: Writing

The Death

It emaciated me, the lost resonating its empty space
I feel it everytime as I sit still, letting the silence come over me
in the shower, walking to and from work, during sleep… The silence
that kills the most, when you’re left alone with longing thoughts 
untagged and saved for those special moments when the nights are longer. 
I feel it everytime I try and satisfy that part of me with old and new faces, awkwardly
attempting to connect on any thread.  You have a relationship with things the most
I fill my empty space with cigarettes, spirits, pills, tears…  And it grows obtuse now
since there’s nothing enough to feed its insatiable vacancy.
So I put red roses, white lilies, and yellow daffodils upon the places invaded the most
I close my eyes in farewell, and beg for comfort.

You Look Good… As You Suffer

I wonder at the many compliments I’ve received because I’ve lost weight. This morning, the receptionist at my dentist’s office wanted to know what diet I was on. Oh, if she only knew it wasn’t an intent, but suffering.

If only I could patent suffering, mine, my longing as a diet plan, I would be a very wealthy, unhealthy person. For all to admire at how much I’ve lost in such a significantly accelerated motion.  You’d know the day it began. If you we were paying attention.

I marvel at my own response to the sudden regard. I feel like at least something “good” came out of suffering, even if I was to be turned inside out, and any person, reasonable or not, would be repulsed by what I looked like on the inside: a soul that no longer soars, but who’s wings have been clipped; a mind that is stroked with obsessive thoughts of yesterday’s singular mistake; a diseased liver; blacken suffocated lungs; and a broken heart that can’t even catch every other beat.

Oh yes, I’m very happy to be thin!

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?

Luddite

Know what it means before presenting yourself as one.

No! Luddite isn’t some fancy glasses with awkwardness.
Luddite means you shouldn’t even be reading this right now.

More than a trendy term to drop into circles
oh I’m a Luddite writer
well, we’re all writers
all of us
Luddite or not!

Yeah I know what a type is, so what
I saw what a typewriter looks like
and I saw its alphabets
and I used many of its letters.

Do you really romanticize over the lost of letters
like real letters that you get from a pigeon
because really the pigeons are out of work
and no one demands a strong letter anymore.

I was brought up on T.V.
Does that scare you?  It should if you’re a Luddite
I write on a computer, so I can easily escape
and start over
If you’re a pure Luddite it’s either telling of where you’ve grown up or your age

which one would you like to be the predicate of?

Words fight as they come and go
but this one bothers me the most

Luddite:

19C protester against technology: a worker who was involved in protests in the United Kingdom in the 1810s against new factory methods of production and who favored traditional methods of work.

A Jesus Birthday

At the closing of tonight
I’ll sit painstakingly reminiscing.
Reminisce over saying goodbye
then dance alone again.

My home with those many walls
keeping me still, smelling the strong aroma
my favorite dish, beef stew marinating
as the lady laboring over the stovetop cares for
making it all the better, this has been removed for
just a room filled with bitter cold things.

Reminiscing over the place that once was
still measuring the range of her laughter, and the saddness
that is like milestones, as they carted me away to the institution.
Reminisce over the fear and devastation, I found staring back at me
in those brown pools of continuous wonderings, should I even be taking this on?

Reminisce over the appearance of truth
and the presence, oh but a stagnation,  a straggling grip of desperation
where there aren’t any days drenched with tortured love songs.
But I was getting better at seeing the light.  Too late… 

Shouldn’t I’ve known this storm was coming?
Since, they say 33 is the year of the crisis, where the unexpected occurs
except no one told me, as I walked into the eye of a  hurricane.

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.

Looks inside a Skeleton

Save Yourself                                                             Life Jacket

How can I feel thank-ful-ness                    self preservation, something I should have
while I’ve arrived at survival and you didn’t?  learned, been aware of by the time I was teething

How can I move pass the memory                  especially while I’ve absorbed the ugliness
when we both were gasping for air?                  breathing out its dead, its shivering debris.

They never say to give up your oxygen mask                 As a child, you’re never allowed a say
in fact they strongly advise you against it.           unless you have a good law guardian:

Before attempting anything                                I must understand directions
you must first be breathing.                                and consider how cruel self preservation
                                                                        can be.

But then, once I’ve put my oxygen mask on                   It is like while one is drowning and
and you’re left stranded for air, I watch you try to speak without a thought, you reach for

I watch you escape into the open, into oblivion              slapping  for anything afloat, and      
I fight and scream for you to stay with me.                       then grab on,
                                                                                               push, push, push down for air,

                                                                                            for life.

                                                                                   

Ode to the Infinite Burn

To forget, oh to forget, have to, have to
have never touched your open hearth
where luminosity soaks and then soars.

Watch the fire, watch, watch the fire ignite
watch it ablaze and crack, cheat, cheat
cheating my umbra with orange cinders
blue sparks full of auspicious heights

then dies, dies, dies, it does
in languorous pace, unmindful 
of the fingertips it singed, hurts me so

to forget, oh to forget.

Attachment is Such a Hard Thing to Undo.

No more inquisitive brown eyes
to stare into and lose myself.

No more little ears to measure.
No more love songs to sing, because no one is listening.

No more dimpled smiles.
No more of her laughter, grabbing my attention.

No more flippers for feet
with flipper covers reaching to her knees.

No more secret language to make up
and joke about amongst ourselves.

No more soft kisses to have in the morning
waking me up from my slumber.

No more gentle caress of the middle of my back.
No more love to make during the late hours.

No more dreams to have of little ones playing in our backyard.
No more dreams to have of us growing together.

No more recipies to try.
No more spoons to lick.

No more you to teach me things.
No more coozied drunken debates.

No more you to admire naked in the sunlight.
No more you to watch sleep in the moonlight.

No more you to come home to.
No more home to come to.

No more time.
No more love.

Cuckoo

The catalyst came on his big white horse
and told my lover that I was a fool
a fool for letting you go alone for so long
a fool for letting you dine with such prospects
and then believe of none adventure
the mocking birds sing a loud moan
upon discovery the cuckold will remember
all the things a fool should already know

Dirty Linens

I lay in this mess that is memory
tangled in the mistiness of morning
the comforters from last year
ruined by the color of reminiscing
all the things missed, collecting in a bundle.

With each cycle as yellow sweats
on the submarine eye glass, the t-shirt
with the smell of her arm-pits, spins
360 at the 24-hour all you can clean.
I realize how lonely I’ve become.

And I’m not relieved by possibilities
whispering promises like crickets
while her laughter fades
in this room’s blue-black ear.

A Stranger I Know

As I walk along side her, never do we touch hands
and it is evening now 

never do we sing a love song,

even though I unknowingly want to,
secretly she is in my thoughts.

She wants a home while I want everything
her smile, the sound of her voice…
 
Maybe if we weren’t predisposed as the evening sky
we could find a hymn to hum.

Sweet Maker

First, blame will pursue you for everything you can’t control
and everything you can’t control adds up to a magnified monster
beneath your dreams, magnified as one singular, pet peeve.

But what kind of existence is that? Does it make for adulthood
a well trained dog perhaps? An artisan of a war to come, however
small to come, treading lightly, but eventually exploding as an unforeseen bomb.

Then, this honeymoon of pull and submit, scared by scorn
restrained by the way space makes you regret, when the only
shame is in a smite, so sorry this will be your place. Inside and out.
The world will have its say on our marriage as if we invited them. Like a homemade porno.

After, if we go, so blind and mindless of our thoughts, so reckless
with each others existence, we so go anew, drunkard and stupid
suffering the end of a tale so tall that it allows us not to wonder
drowning our roots, our branches break with such blight
with no remedy to really mend, to mend us for the road that comes
it will be the proof of our submission.

Naked

The first day of Summer, when parks are peopled
we smile at each other for no particular reason
other than the darkness has been lifted
like we were taking off our clothes.
Funny though, since we’re ashamed of the sight
of nakedness.  But here we are when the air is thick
and bodies play in the sun barely clothed.
We are exhibitionists teasing each other
and ourselves with these desires.

And ah 1, 2, 3, 4… Version 2

play that guitar
hit me that drum
forget de cost
for living hike

forget money
tight, grab lover
spin her around
sing she something

nothing too nice
let she feel de
heat, and yelp
holler all night

play that guitar
hit me that drum
forget de cost
for living hike

lets howl and dance
to the moon light
lets howl and dance
til the sunrise

clap those hands, shim
shimmer those hips
clap those hands, shim
shimmer those hips

kick those boots off
let me kiss you
on the lips, pinch
you on the thigh

spin you around
tell you i love
you three times, babe
you are all mine

And ah 1, 2, 3, 4…

play that guitar, hit that drum
grab your partner, pass de rum
forget de cost of living hike
forget how money tight.

grab your partner, spin her around
clap your hands, sing me a song
sing me something not too sweet
sing me something that feels my heat.

play that guitar, hit that drum
grab your partner, but pass me de rum
clap your hands, sing a song
nothing too sweet, but feels de heat.

forget de cost of living hike
forget how money so tight
lets dance to de moon light
lets dance til the morning light.

You as Conductor

I’ve lost this place I’m suppose to have
my place in this thunder, ringing, ringing clear
what I have, and trust in what I haven’t gained
with this losing war, I’ve won something?

I’ve lost my place in this thundering mess
that lightening tragically strikes on paper
clipping my worth together.

I need a bow and my own arrow to make this right
I need an exorcism done to baptize
my worried hands together

and into a pit of strangers I’d dive
un-bruised by bravado’s curses
I’d dive into this tidal wave of circumstance
I the interpellator, lose myself

I hail
i lose
this champion.