tonight i dance dance of dead
my ancestors enter
my body spins/shock
transmuted
my brown skin
great granddad makes the oklahoma land rush
slave of city
i bow before the ashes
the cold black tar my skin sticks
each move agony
i can’t get out of it
fuck me. make it hurt
8
lost
heart valves the blood flow slows
eyes haunted eyes see beyond the veil
outside the window. let me in. i’m cold
my fists sore my blood cakes
the skin becomes translucent, glows
the heart brittle delicate easily shatters
desperate
it beats against the window. can’t let it in
it eats and leaves no bone
no history/memory of having been
*
white birds do not eat them
9
in my soul winged beings flutter
dead/transformed
my mouth open. moths take flight
The Saturday Afternoon Blues
can kill you
can fade your life away
friends are all out shopping
ain’t nobody home
suicide hotline is busy
and here i am on my own
with a pill and a bottle for company
and heart full of been done wrong
i’m a candidate for the coroner, a lyric for a song
saturday afternoons are killers
when the air is brisk and warm
ol’ sun he steady whispers
soon the life you know will be done
suicide line i can’t get you
best friend out of town
alone with a pill and a bottle
i drink my troubles down
the man i love is a killer
the man i love is a thief
the man i love is a junky
the man i love is grief
some call saturday the sabbath
it’s the bottom of the line some say
whether last or first, my heart’s gonna burst
and there ain’t no help my way
here with a pill and a bottle
and a life full of been done wrong
i’m a candidate for the coroner, a lyric
for a song
I Love the Dark
—for Eloise Klein Healy
it is its own idea
like breath
it knows. does not have to be told
the dark is omni
(his hand on my breast. my skin sees)
a voice calls
my name vacant avenue motel blue a lone walker
the dark cocoon at the beginning of my life
storm in his eyes my lover hurt
rainy winter days. hot chocolate and
devil’s food cake
it’s hide-and-seek i’m safe in its cloak
can’t be found or lay in the bed of it eyes open
hungry for his touch
early eve. i wait. dark arrives/grape crush velvet
curtain falls. an old friend
we smile. reminisce
i sense it warm a throb between my thighs
movement. slow. easy. sensual
smell of fresh wet black earth
out of the dark
a phone rings his erotic need
it fills the space called bedroom
gives birth to obeah/Vudu/jazz
is for escapists to dress in
i move thru dark
waters quell, free my imagination
i hear sunset/a lone sax wail/pulse
compels, tremors
night wakes
i welcome you dark
soft. gentle. my mother’s hands
Male Order Catalog
polished cotton hawaiian green & purple-brown print, scoop-necked
muumuu, size 20 on sale. Jerry. southern fried chicken
Necco wafers. RC cola & bubble gum. blue grass. $20.00. gave my
pregnant-for-the-first-time belly room
gold & rust brown double-breasted floral print broadcloth tailored
jacket with inset pockets, a gangbanged girl drunk off reds left it behind
size 10. Al. steak sandwiches. Silver Satin Bitter Lemon
reds and tuinal. jazz. a gift, classy, me strutting my stuff down
the court walk
fake gold lamé-look knit sleeveless pantsuit, size 14. doubled as
mini-dress with peek-a-boo button down front. Bo. pork chops.
Colt 45 and hashish. rock & roll. $22.50. my hips ground into his crotch
love at first bite
royal blue mini-dress with zip-up back and princess sleeves plus
bow-to-back tie, size 11. Chuck. barbeque spareribs. whiskey and
Bel Airs. gut bucket. $25.00. my thighs shaking to the d.j.’s
mother popcorn/him dancing with Sir Lady Java
red-violet green & white synthetic polished cotton-look, angel sleeved
maternity-topped pantsuit, size 12. Ray. munchies. cognac and
purple haze. psychedelic soul. $15.00. stoned at the laundromat
he came over to tell me how good i washed/his eyes
sky-blue crepe skin-tight floor length evening gown with vee neckline
and angel sleeves trimmed in navy blue ribbon, size 11. Harold
butter broiled steak. chocolate milk, Kool filter longs and heroin
street corner harmony. $50.00. me smuggling dope in cakes
past prison guards
white linen & navy blue trim safari pantsuit with bell-bottom
cuffed slacks, size 11. Mister C. lobster. red diamond, cocaine & power
classical jazz. $25.00. wild-eyed tears & running snot
i drove to San Diego and asked for his tutelage
denim coordinates, cadet blue tailored jacket, studded in brass
and steel and rose plus one gold heart with an arrow thru and steel
studded tijuana-slim navy blue bell-bottoms, size 10 & 12. Tauru
gumbo. beer & ganja. rhythm & blues. $5.00 & $10.00
concerts at the Civic. he told me not to cling
The Mountains/
Entrails Curling Down and Out the Hole in the Side
body in six acts
1
they never have anything bad to say about you. nothing but
praise and keep away. eyes languorous and coke-fat
2
we smelled something burning. the stove was off. smoke everywhere
a fire. we couldn’t breathe. until he threw water on me
3
red white and blue, it hung from the rope
someone had lynched it. i couldn’t believe it. it still had an erection
4
madness was bleeding out my fingers. i kept wiping
my hands on the back of his shirt. he complained that they were
laughing at him down at the laundry
5
i put the disk on his stereo and spun pain
so he went and got his whips and various paraphernalia
a great beginning, but i was tired of being finger-fucked
6
the oil was sweet and brown. we toked it black. and at that
moment i knew i was the reincarnation of nat turner
Essay on Language
who stole the cookie from the
cookie jar?
this began somewhere
suggest middle passage. consider the dutch ship
consider adam and eve and pinchmenot
blacks think in circles she said. no they don’t
i said it too readily, too much on the defense. of course
blacks think in circles. i think in circles
why did i feel it necessary to jump on the defensive. defensiveness
is sure sign of being gored by unpleasant truth
equation: black skin + new money = counterfeit
i keep going back over the same thoughts all the time (the
maze
poverty poverty poverty
syndrome oft times accompanies social stigmata)
sex sex sex
desperately seeking absolute understanding (the way out) –
black black black
the impossible (my love relationship wears me thin) i know
number one stole the cookie
but knowing doesn’t
stop me from thinking about it—trying to be the
best i can spurred by blackness but they keep telling me the
best fashion in which to escape linguistic ghettoization
is to
ignore the actuality of blackness blah blah blah and it will
cease to
have factual power over my life. which doesn’t
make sense to me—especially when the nature of mirrors
is to reflect
when a mirror does not reflect what it is? not necessarily a
window,
merely glass? can it be something other than a glass? and once
it becomes glass can it ever be a mirror again?
violent animal can’t take it no more can’t
take it anymore from anyone tired of being
one in a world of everybodies and someones
violent animal you throw chalk against the
blackboard rocks at reluctant lovers assault
money-grubbing landladies with cold dishwater
they’re all against you in that paranoiac $$$
prism keep trying to see yourself/reflection
oooh black as swamp bottom mired in muck you
violent animal struggle struggle struggle to
get to solid ground get free get solidified/
grounded
substitute writer for mirror, visionary for window, hack for glass
who me? couldn’t be
(smashing is addictive and leads to greater acts of violence/
throwing things, i.e. the first sign of danger)
equation: colorlessness + glibness = success
i am occasionally capable of linear thought, stream of consciousness
and hallucinate after a three day fast (have eyes will see)
i’m much too much into my head. stressed. i can’t feel
anything
below the neck
number two stole the cookie
he says he hates me
and i’m wondering what in
hell on earth did i do except
be who he says he loves to hate
equation: circle + spear = spiral
going down and in at the same time going outward and up
absolutely
this ends and begins here
Woman on Sand
my eye the coastline disappears on
gray horizon he moves a vision a child searches
for seashells amid litter beer cans cig butts
broken glass my heart the pieces bleed
cool water/dead cum
the loving is the needing
he shows me the sculpture
the naked woman of sand a silicone siren
entrenched in the music of her pain
abandoned to inquisitive eyes
her lover gone on to greater adventures
the loving is the healing
yes. i could smother the child/pillow to face
the fears and trusts. what must be done
end suffering/torture/starvation
love does the right thing in his eyes
mercy. free him. anguish. free him
move on. urban pastures, slum sky
the loving is the wanting
we travel. i am aware of his question
it beats against my heart, tries to get in
someday. maybe. i will answer. when time
for now there is the long hard drive
speeding up slowing down taking curves
the loving is
cruising. our arms. clutching
each other. tongues deep into mouth and throat
become one/the other. embrace/the beach the wave.
i can’t swim it covers me. i drown
the next day they find me on the shore
he’s gone on to other adventures
the loving. the killing
Scratch Me
summer
beached again. i hate being beached. the affirmation of my
poverty, stranded on an inner city cement dune as white as
the center of sun, cold as iceberg. i sulk in the middle of it
burnt toast on a china plate as children laugh and play in sand
and he swims out to ride an endless high. the only thing making
this itchy ordeal tolerable is the joy i watch others having
autumn
my heart is this city when the smog clears. the cool gold red
sun paints the skyscrapers downtown in late day. the children
return to school. my struggle deepens in shoes and school books
my job demands my flesh as the fever goes round. street hawking
nights are refuge. my skin softens. the rash disappears. the
itching and burning goes. my blackness warms to red, becomes cocoa
love on the curb
winter
friends wither and drop away/maple leaves/dead bark. outside the
sun razzles but it snows on the soul. phone calls come
rations doled to the hungry. there is no glad to thaw by
the night’s thinned blankets of romance barely keep the freeze
off. monks and nuns belong to the church. i see more of my
parents than i used to
spring
the phone rings. i’m invited to the party if i want to come
and i can ride with them for as long and as far as i need
his voice is careful, exploring my mood. i sense veiled hope
and smile, “no thank you.” i can’t explain that this is my last
scuffle. i have given up. i am planning a crime to end this
chronic scream. this shroud my skin claims me
Standoff in East Hollywood
mother madness i am hiding in the broom closet
i have unraveled the noose of your giving
and am holding your son captive
i will not come to the door
Wanda Why Aren’t You Dead
wanda when are you gonna wear your hair down
wanda. that’s a whore’s name
wanda why ain’t you rich
wanda you know no man in his right mind want a ready-made family
why don’t you lose weight
wanda why are you so angry
how come your feet are so goddamn big
can’t you afford to move out of this hell hole
if i were you were you were you
wanda what is it like being black
i hear you don’t like black men
tell me you’re ac/dc. tell me you’re a nympho. tell me you’re into chains
wanda i don’t think you really mean that
you’re joking. girl, you crazy
wanda what makes you so angry
wanda i think you need this
wanda you have no humor in you you too serious
wanda i didn’t know i was hurting you
that was an accident
wanda i know what you’re thinking
wanda i don’t think they’ll take that off of you
wanda why are you so angry
i’m sorry i didn’t remember that that that
that that that was so important to you
wanda you’re always on the attack
wanda wanda wanda i wonder
why ain’t you dead
Heavy Daughter Blues
f
or Yusef Komunyakaa
the t.v. is teaching my children hibakusha
i am in love with a dopefiend who sleeps under freeways
my neighbors are refugees from S.A.
and i speak negrese
the source is promising to terminate my train
of thought. the postman has put a hex on my P.O. Box
when my mirror cries do my pupils dilate?
i put my dial on quiet, my ears are gaining too much hate
i went to the clown show
disguised as you
you did not
recognize me
i dream i dream i dream
pass the pipe—please
put the gold in the shredder
Vietnam has taken Hollywood in helicopter blades
& kliegs
(let’s arrest the runts)
i always withstand other people’s hopes & desires
until they doublecross me. then we clash
i have proof that the culture of the biz-zi-ness man
is disappearing due to his inability to produce
one perfect realm of solitude into which
sanity can be delivered
when reading all those thick tomes written on God
it should be noted God is caucasian
Wicked Enchantment Page 4
