ANXIOUS LEO
Anxious Leo was born in August:
Peridot.
Paradox.
Paradise.
She held an auspicious
galactic demeanour—
wearing silky egg-shell
white couture.
Eliminating red from her closet,
it served her nothing
but a glass of bold assumptions.
She entertained her audience
with captivated singer lungs,
harps, and chords—
praised with leisure;
freedom of tongue;
stricken down twice,
it burned the throat
like vodka on toast
for brunch.
Cheap applauding hands
reach out to soak her;
white to white;
eyes to eyes;
bite to bite;
breath to breath;
brigade to brawling
machine gun massaging
mechanical brains
on a mission—
No lungs.
No harps.
No chords.
No song.
No Freedom.
alas, laid down—
she is born
a prisoner.
COMATOSE IN DRIED TOMATOES
Sirens came wailing
a rehearsed scream.
If no great endings happen
without an adieu,
release me from Gettysburg’s
land in 1863;
I claim no rights
to knowing blue
from red.
Posture matters as greatly
as masked beaks serving
a can of dried tomatoes
to the lethargic,
without a peck
to be identified.
A Woman Sanitized
Even after death
a woman’s body
torn into indecipherable pieces
of dry clay crystalized
by browned disease;
a cover of white hands
to hold down screams
of cut open stomachs
gutted further down the vaginal
opening– reproductive organs withering.
A woman’s body
even after death
sanitized in Black.
For Richer, For Poorer
For richer or poorer,
for weaker or stronger,
for lies of deceit or Honey’s brutal honesty,
for planning the next 365 days
or eating 12 months of cane sugar,
for whites or blacks,
for abused necks or stretched specks
of dirt on a 1960s red corvette,
for blowing 100s or sneezing 50s
for nothing goes better with iced tea,
than lemonade placed near heaven’s tree,
for love or hate,
for muse or fake,
we’d both burry each other
alive with pleasure’s gate.
MOONLIGHT ON THE BROOK
After Ralph Albert Blakelock
Unearthly still. Trees dig their roots in brown mud
like hands intertwined in bloodlines, dampened
by dew in Night’s sky. The stars don’t blink.
They’re undetectable, but its presence remains traced
up the spine, as warm as fireflies landing on fingertips.
It’s alarming in a calming way. Deep sea viridian green
glazed into blue, blackened by darker hues. Untouched
black paint— amused. Never the color black alone. No.
The painter’s hand never fully used the color black.
Cirrus clouds cover the sky, traveling with an unknown
purpose. The clouds will never depart from this moment
of solitude, just as the yellow moon will always widen
in comparison to moving debris, brushing against a smiling
lake in reverse.
For a moment, sitting on the grass with feet planted—
never moving— I could feel the hands of the land
engulfing me, asking me to dance; I will never again
mistake solitude for loneliness.
Unabatingly quiet. The trees don’t sleep, and I wouldn’t
break the silence to stretch my mouth open wide, a yawn
escaping once pressed lips, leading to the river. I am
drinking nothing except pure existence.
ARS POETICA
A temper
can only be tempted
for so long;
once the temper
tips over, spilling
its vinegar all over
my sweetened
condensed
chocolate
cake,
there’s no fixing it;
it’s ruined.
No. I won’t start
from scratch;
leave it be—
A RESPONSE: AMERICA DURING THE BLACK LIVES MATTER PROTEST (AMERICA BELITTLES ME)
Trust is a hard candle to burn with no lighter in plain sight;
you’re a sight for sore eyes and swollen thumbs pressing
against silky silver vibrating strings; strings slip through my frantic
fingertips and I can’t seem to flee the dismembered cracks; cracks
underneath the door show tempered footsteps that prance
like poetical politicians; politics may compel me to peel
my virtuous brown skin to reveal the red disbelieving blood;
I may bleed, but it’s no longer controversial to mistake red
for blue; blistering blue sapphire slippers shackle down marked
time on an occasional whim; whimsical music may stop playing
and we might hear a chime of protests; protesting my love
for disagreement and hurtful red thorns that taste like vanilla;
vanilla scented candles do not hold a light to my bare skin.
Rebirthed— I am not naked;
I am not naked and dancing in the clear and ignored rain; the rain will
not keep dancing in omission to pain and suffering; I shall no longer
suffer at the hands of your performative love; my love is the human race,
they say; they say that my love is the human race, honey. Honey, did you
hear me? They say that my love is the human race. If love is freeing human
bodies; if love is celebrated in liberated lace, covered in deep scarred
tissue marks—
Then why is my love screaming in silence?
They race for time, play to be nice, and shut their mouths when words
become barred; barred and broken down into crumbled-up tea cakes
with milk to wash it down nicely; I can be nice. I can smile for the non-
existent cameras and bow down to the white lords; white lords who
lead the fine young ladies upstairs to devour their overexposed
tanned skin; skin so tan, it’ll erase my sisters from the block down
below;
below me, they say. They say, beneath me, they say. Did you hear that,
honey? They say beneath me, before me, below me, and I praise my own
distance from reality; reality nestles beneath my rigid arms. Reluctantly,
it laughs. Reality informs me that the hands of the self-righteous
will guide me through racial ideologies. In the face of the self-righteous:
I can save you, they say. They say, I’ll help you because you cannot help yourself.
If only I could blink twice before detaching my head— running away
from all fear; I shall run away from the sympathetic gaze. I shall make
my way to The Capitol and plant my feet on ruined soil. I shall take
my time to waltz with my unearthed sisters;
we will waltz and forget all of the trauma around us; trauma won’t
make us closer. It cannot unite us. Let’s fight it, honey; honey,
did you hear me? Please, let’s fight the trauma and maybe we can go on
another day; another day of servitude wasted. Gone. Unrecognized.
And if I shall go silently, remember this; for this moment
is all that I have to remember my own misguided beauty by;
sing to the ancestors harmonizing in white— a synchronous
vision never bruised. Hold their hands as we make our way
in America;
wash away the dried dirt
beneath our fingertips.
