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Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Smooth Groove

[a "midnight thought" poem]


I want to slow dance
toe wrap in beat snaps
that cadence down my spine
dipping me until I can no longer keep time
where tango and meringue salsa
samba the ballroom
foxtrot atop backbone beats
grooving delicately to arm freestyle
I need to slow dance
embrace
point and flex where I've never bent before
waltz swooning to rhythms unprecedented
I crave to slow dance
ballet balance to the cleft lullaby in my heart
each half note tatted with your name
veins pulse for only you
the promenade I always yearned for

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Home

[a writing prompt assignment for the phrase "Soon As I Get Home"]


soon as I get home
once a nameless space
shall now have purpose
four walls, carpet lining insecurities
never had a place in my heart
the closest thing to home I ever knew
rests in the luxuries of others metaphors...

Friday, March 18, 2011

Erotic...NOT!

[an honesty poem]


I don't write erotic poetry...
where pussies resemble Georgia O'Keefe
over acrylic-ed via open mic nights
and ugly lesbian wet dreams
attempting to sound deep on similes they could never spell
where penises become poles more scaled than strippers
and Santa's elves


I don't write erotic poetry...
where chandeliers are on their last nerve
dry dangled tricks to compensate for an underrated dick switch
where neighbors know my name and not my humanity
Tom, Dick and Harry become my offspring's surname
failing to keep the fuck tally in order


I don't write erotic poetry...
so the woman, 5th seat from the back
gains the courage to ask me out
because my words are better than my looks
I'm not a lingual crook
using synonyms for the antonyms of reality


I don't write erotic poetry...
doing time for rhythm and rhyme
when it could stand still in an embrace
coil
infinity loop around the synapses that make parchment
pen memories it regales alone
because some things aren't meant to be shared
prophylactic-less microphone exchanging spit that no one has gotten tested
will not highlight an evening of my musing


I don't write erotic poetry...


...and neither should you...

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Watering Our Roots

[a "the radio did me wrong" poem]


life without music
is like a heart that stutters to the tone of silence
mute
deaf to rhythmic pleasures
nothing to yin yang the balance
treble to notes yet unfounded
product of auto-tune
we dance to the splintered mundane
toast to the ill-advised
coon for watermelon rines of treasures labeled epic pastimes
remixed the wade in the water
to shallow hums of a spat on future
tepid saliva
be-boxing
turning culture to a hip-hopped whitewashed drum cadence
whipping hair back and forth
at the expense of Kunta's spine
blood drops compose the song of failure
where all of our children's children will know the lyrics and never the meaning
because we stopped watering our roots
tar baby molasses
the image glued to our retinas as ramification
for the three count
two-stepped
shucked jive used to survive
thanks to a forgotten 40-acre and a mule compromise
naming offspring synonyms of reparations unseen
"Lexus Freedom Jackson"
shall continue to be a dream deferred
because we have stopped watering our roots
wombs looming lies
bench warrant pride
maelstrom cacophony
conducted by our hands
blaming a master plan for the outcome of settled mediocrity
as new age entrepreneurs
we've taken to lynching ourselves
goals dangle on looped dry branches
once they've snapped
fall short
back to the block where it all began
auctioneer to oral tradition
no longer resembles the white stranger
that pan-handled our sanctity between great grands legs
why would she always cum?
secretions of her golden valor atop his dick
now adorned in rappers delight
the residue worn around one's neck
chains
locked gold
attained via the bend and fold of greenbacks
flatbacked for less than we're worth
all because we stopped watering our roots
where the ting-ting of cash registers
ring-ring our compasses to the bling-bling
equated with success at the expense of the soul
there's no check large enough to clear on its behalf
but with bass beats and syncopated quarter notes
history is buried
without proper funeral
procession music decrescendos
its true voice
now a half composition-ed overture
pauper graved
could have been avoided
if we hadn't stopped watering our roots