baby when ever you play your love music, baby your notes lick along the lies others have told, and it’s rough like the tongue of an old black cat girl, but i know you mean to heal me, baby and you do, it’s just i wish you were a little more pussy and maybe a…
2011 1982 teardrops from a blind eye winter awoke to the sounds of shrill crying and decided not to leave a child with familiar hunger mouth searching for a withered breast spouting mother’s milk long-since soured and turned to powder teardrops that stream from a blind eye form miniature waterfalls roar over brown cheeks dash…
5/21/2010 I was never an artist. Not I, no sir. I was too busy being an obedient sycophant in pursuit of the American dream that my handlers convinced me was my own. When my childish heart beat a syncopated timpani to the strokes of my pen, I did not sing its foolish rhythm. While wanton…
I wonder if they know. I wonder if their words were intended to hurt, or whether they are simply cavalier with their remarks. I allow myself private debates on whether they stamp on me as a means to put me in place, or if I’m a stone to be submerged as they continue on their…
I am a child of the 1960s. I was nearly born colored, as my mother had been but slipped between the cracks of definition. She, born in a more tranquil time the color of separate but equal. We learned, though, it was equal only in the way same-color paint bought in two batches is equal.…
though long is the way she never forget, never forget, never forget she never forget stories of ancestors heat of her tears, unrequited anger appears impenitent ruin negligence sears grandmother cries, but never you fear, (along the way, the longa the way, you stronger today) i once heard her say (she never forget, never forget,…
I became a poet in 1969, shortly after my 11th birthday. I didn’t bother to write any poems, see, because that’s not what poets do. Writing poems down is what published poets do. I was a poet, though unwritten. It was on a warm autumn’s day that I stumbled across the 64 pages of Don…
I lift my camera unto thee for thou to bless that I might see I take the shot; I shall not dread but shoot o’er Bill’s giant head I look to thee, as he records the majesty my kit affords And by your light I get the shot Hot damn! This gear is really hot!…
“Naw, I don’t get into jazz,” she said, finger popping, club hopping all the while. “I’m sure it’s fine but not my style. ‘Sides, can’t you see I’m dancing now? An’ what’s a coal train anyhow?” Club hopping, finger popping, all the while. Danced so fine, that gal of mine. Fake hair fling, brown flesh…
Heat is the remnant of what has been A response of chemical signals It is merely radiant noise the mind tells when it hates silence. Light is the bringer of illusion, reflecting of what might be when what is has no gloss of its own. We’re given passionate songs and finger-spoken promises that light and…
Raw, Naked Art 