There are things in my mind that no one except I can see. Those things, demons, grotesque that taunt me. I hear them coming closer, but I’ll fuck them up. They want to destroy me. I, so ashamed of my age, only a drunk and you there in your profession and you have this tone to your voice. I let you in my home. I am offended. Look at me a Black woman, you must think, reduced to this just a drunk, that’s what I say. I have missed out on so many things. Alcohol is not the problem. I am the problem. I have great grand babies I have not met. And my son who died would have been almost 40, yes. The one who lives doesn’t know how I am here. I had an aunt who raised Pothos plants, and the vines would grow across the top of her windows. Yes, those are it. Look at those leaves, simply beautiful and mottled just like me. I should get one. They are sturdy, they could put up with me. I look down a lot, don’t I? Oh now, I’ve started crying like a fool. I’m old, I weep sporadically. You asked if I had drink today. Can you smell the alcohol? Let me excuse myself, I’ll be right back, have you seen my matches? Why are you here? You’re a lovely little thing and I am little too, but I belong to those who dwell by the back alley. The state grants me this nice room and they’ve not yet plucked the thorns from my soul buried into to me deeply by these streets. Are you the thorn plucker? Be careful how you weed this sickness from me. I might not be able to stop bleeding. I will be fine. Your eyes are a strange color. You wouldn’t be the devil coming to take me? I resent your calm and your character, your understatement, and your concern for me. Do I speak like you thought I would? Are you surprised at my poise? Of course, you’re not. You are one who knows better. Alas, I don’t feel like a statistic with you. Have you guessed that I too have read Baldwin and Joyce? And here we are together with those demons of mine in the corners. I can see through the pieces of my heart at the pit of my belly that your heart is breaking for me. You do not see a Black woman at all do you? You, in your profession and your sterile words and your tone, you see me, don’t you? My daddy used to call me Jasper, his baby girl with ashy feet.
FVR Prompt
slurs of lunatics
at night is when i like to see
all those things that mean to me
the most and yet are so simple
at night is when i like to feel
through those little childish trinkets
the force of the world’s throat
speaking to me
at night is when i like to think
that those ideas imparted through pictures
teach me to be me
at night i sense the echoes
that bounce from my own glass ceilings
suspended by wildflower buttons
and the slurs of lunatics
at night i taste the salt of tears
erupting from the memories
of how i came to be
the keeper of these silly little trappings
and the birds
i built a castle for you
made from fantasy bricks
crystal pink and jubilant
some of the windows
just framed by stories and things
not of any worth
the walls my twiggy arms
at times scuffed and bent
but strong
when the winters came
the foundation
a mere pond thawing
no life just murk
so i gave you pillars
adjusted from my short legs
lifting you from your knees
as you held tight
to the roses and wine glass
in your hands
and the birds
i could never get them to sing
for you Mutter
my throat unable
to find its stolen words
where crows go to bury their dead
a tight jawed loon that’s what i’ll be
silently i will slink
behind the dying ugly trees
they die like a Shakespearean villain
across from the dirty river
their dusty peeling trunks
looking like they wear shoes
but its only beige mushroom caps
growing from an addict’s turd
ant trail metropolis up and down
the droopy branches bound by old cassette tape ribbon
the sugar burdens on their little thorax
weighing just as much
as the burdens on my curved shoulders
obscure illusions and esoteric lies
the native boulders akin to WCF’s face
emblazoned with red stripes and nonsense
the names of petty thief street artists
stretching down from the lived in hill
where crows go to bury their dead
dime sized nettles in my unkempt hair
will tangle with the strands in silence
and with a little time
the thorns of broken thoughts ruptured memories
will burrow even deeper
like wet mud i step into it
but quiet i will be
be silent the people have spoke
a stone chorus in space
i hear them on cold nights
they are getting colder by the way
i’ll glance beyond the conniving lights
alone out of the way and in silence
the birds would sound
Baker Beach fog cold wet knees
sand deep cut wrists
knuckles bleed
cold sea wind seeps
into the cracks of the spirit
was around the time
we broke our peace
seagulls screeched wildly
above our coal black energy
you the pulling south
i the fleeting north
umbilical cord
severed forever
Artemis took this orphan in
taught me how to hunt
other creatures
such as i
for crazy cannibalistic 32182314155 rites
and wandering in every downtown desert
dawns spent in tunnels bent
from the neck down
every now and again
the birds would sound
toasting to paired up
cooing doves
that have flown away from me
cooing sounds of city pigeons
January
cold restless
eyes opened
limbs clasped tight into the womb of the donated forest green love seat
two suns and one absent moon ago
there you were in faded cotton gown
bleach rough by the sanitation bound
gasping and heaving
not too different
to the cooing sounds
of city pigeons
i never thought that you would go
as i expected that you were fighting
now
so much time has rushed on
and late tonight
while i write this for you
i wonder
were you crossing the Styx
neck deep
tell me
does that river ebb and flow
like your spirit and your soul
is the current soft
do the little waves embrace your ankles
like precious jewels
time split the light in two
we both took in your make up bag
i the incorrigible one
mumbled unsanctified Kaddish
not finding the words
no matter
YHWH had cupped
broken and trite utterances
from my mouth
words less spoken 