july 2009

fille druqks

when i close my eyes i dream of ecstasy kisses:
the faintest suggestion of fingertips slow and sensuous
tracing the edges of my pores so that they gape open wide,
hungry to suck,
to become black holes to which pleasure gravitates
(none of those DARE classes mentioned the beauty and quite frankly,
i think they keep secrets so they can keep the drugs.)

i dream of staccato singsong headrushes
brought on by bright blazes of snow on glass tables,
inhaling ice till i’m diamond hard and frozen in the shape of flakes:
shifting, changing, evolving only to melt and
d
r
i
p

down the walls of my nasal cavity.

i am a glass prince in a house of jeweled cards.

when i close my eyes,
i dream thick syrup reveries of sleek-coated ponies:
one white, one black,
glistening in the glow of philosophical idea-bulb lights
strung around the ceiling of the chamber behind my eyes,

snorting so sugar crystal-steam floats glittering from widened nostrils:
waiting.

there are saddles on the wall.

when i close my eyes,

i dream of kisses,
of flying and pony rides
(like any other little girl).

front pages with articles inscribed on fault lines

let’s become journalists with cameras worth more than our entire lives,
documenting human nature through case studies
in which we are the subjects;

turn on the video camera.
switch on the webcam before you fall asleep,
position it carefully so it keeps your heart and head in full view,
because i don’t want to miss a breath you take,
an oath you mutter (though you swear you don’t swear)
or the way your eyelashes flutter just so in morning breezes.

wake up and crawl into my bed.

creep from the foot because you think it’s funny,
pretending to be an odalisque well-versed in the ways of loving.

we’ll write stories on the sheets,
shed articles of clothing splashed and stained with headlines like
“couple stays together for more than a year”,
“is forever possible after all?” or maybe just
“two dorks discover whole new ways to be…dorks”
because that’s what we are, really:
a pair of nerds ,
newsprint and carbon paper dreams.

take a picture of my sunlit drowsiness
and tell me i look like hell as you tangle your fingers in the jungle on my head.

i’ll snatch the camera away, call you an asshole
and press the shutter button on the shape of your smile.

when we become famous photojournalists
and every magazine is struggling to turn our third eyes inward on us,
asking the questions we kept to ourselves like
“what gave you the idea for this spread
this story
this project?”
we’ll laugh cryptically and say in unison
“google ambition,
click on art
and learn about love.”

where home and history

great storyteller,

talk black to me:

comin’ from mother africa,
we was slaves long ago–

da necklaces we wore back den to show our pride, our wealth,
became nooses.

young student, talk white to me.

I am not an African slave.
I was born in Louisiana in 1989 and the hardest work I’ve ever done
was babysitting three small children,
cleaning up after nine relatives with no reprieve
and raising my mother and baby sister
when Mommy was too tired to do it herself.

[statistics:]

there was a Daddy in the picture once or twice,
but he rubbed himself out
and reappeared in someone else’s family portrait.

now talk black to me:

we was slaves long ago–
we was set “free”,
but not befo dem white men taught us our value
(we was only worth the work we could do).

years passed. they found otha ways t’beat us.

talk white to me now:

In high school they found other ways to beat us:
the freaks, the black kids who liked rock and didn’t contract every other word
(“isn’t” scraped the tongue too many times to bother with, and became “ain’t”.)
We weren’t black enough.

talk black to me.

we wasn’t white enough for dem–
dey wanted milk and cream,
and we was cocoa and honey.

talk white to me.

honeys, bitches n’ hos:

we traded gold-plated bracelets and great palaces
for gold teeth and fast rides,
slave songs for sex,
hymns for hoops,
strength for strip clubs and faith for free booze.

talk in multifaceted diamond spectrums (that don’t glisten on your ear):

once we were pride;
once we were bittersweet chocolate monuments
cradling civilization in sun-browned,
work-toned arms against hearts that beat with songs of love.

today we kneel as ghost children on either side of racial divides
that have nothing to do with white men or history.

tell me what it means to be black,
because I don’t know anymore.

texas: einaudi, storms and metallica

sweet rain
storm drains

soaked dress
weightless

my heart?
his hands

cold rain
drift, pain

soaked dress
graceless

cloud sift,
i drift

his hands
my heart?

weightless
white dress

warm skin
violins

sweet rain
soaked dress

your heart
my hands?

rain, rain
come again

our hearts
their hands

sweet rain
white wings

heart sings

joy