Tuesday

Sorry for the Broken Mirror


With something lit there in my threshold,
(LIGHT)
In the hands of the Man-
In the doorway.
This erratic block of business-
I implore you to file by the brick, mortar, and stone.
Brought about by the beat Afro-SUN.

Sweet SON,
Dear prophetic construction in the bowels of my womb-
REMAIN THERE-
In some passage,
Wholly inaccessible to Man,
and the fruited brim of His gracious wine.

Let me teach you-
Guide that sight-worthy palm,
From skin- HEAT
(SWEAT)
For- brought by the breeze,
The final motion-
Called upon by the humble weight of THAT hand,
THIS mallet-
and tender aggression.

And, if by the window you are using in the barren light,
clouded by His punctuation-
From lips,
Brought to the lips- milky digestion.
(INTENTION)

Sweet SON,
Bright deified daylight-
“BE CAREFUL”
As these eyes mock the paid preacher who prayed for MY deceased SUN.
In malicious irony,
From the bed where you lay-
“BE CAREFUL”

By that doorway,
begot a Man.
A nimble soapbox,
To preach a new science-
A base methodology by which you examine my wonton breast.
He-
     Merely takes, by the negated game of give and-

From the depths of my breached movement,
I do not ask, of you SON-
Simply because this is not about being Woman,
And you- My delicate man on the edge,
Being this desolate body of some charming, curdled body of WAR.

We Didn't Mean to Spray the Car


Orion rested where my eyes stopped,
By the street-
Waiting for the words,
“This is mine.”
Saying the words,
“This is mine.”
This is mine
This is mine-
Looking for the words,
This is mine.
Printed on the side of the street,
This is mine,
and in stenciled charming purgatory-
In stink-
We smell the evidence of obvious wasted time-
We-
Who drink to the mantra:
This is mine.
This is mine.

This is mine.
This is mine.

Bienvenue


Cheers from the avenue,
“BIENVENUE”
There are stop like that we run through,
Reciting the mantra, “BE HERE.”
BE HERE NOW
With vigor-
And rigid lines set in sort soap stone,
Carved by the phallic old man with his pompous hat askew.
Ne’er prepared.

The allegory of Man, Wife, Child. Child, and War.

This two-a-day dose of invention-
Where my simple shoulders make you my pimp,
and this face-
Pockmarked and beautiful becomes Woman,
Taken atop the trapeze stand.

And residing holy, here-
In this haus of tool,
Rotting wood and broken lipstick stains,
This agent of agency,
In Black tie, corduroy and lace.
Masturbating in the mirror with his eyes closed,
And a pencil.

BIENVENUE.