Friday, July 26, 2013

Tangerine

beer stained breath
was all that was left of her innocence
She

a body destroyed by midnight rituals
cigarette burns in inside her thighs
like notches on a man's belt
ticks on solitary walls
This was how she counted the days

Drug induced oblivion
she stopped feeling on her skin
first
A hollow womb and vacant eyes
told the lies momma
fed her as a child
pretty princess

once tender, now distressed skin
tattooed in aging bruises
stretched loosely over frail bones
she was invisible

salvation never came knocking
on motel room doors and
some souls ain't worth saving
she
thought

salt water tears stopped falling
years ago
can't remember the last time
her crooked toothed smile
danced across her face
she lived in nothingness

a faded memory for family
a rare mention among friends
her name, a moment of stillness
a distraction
back to life as usual

she lost her voice amongst
the screams of her youth
doesn't remember what it sounds like
so she doesn't know how to find it
she speaks in monetary transactions now

stopped looking ten feet before her
nothing existed in the horizon
mind deteriorated
A lay, a fix, a place
to rat her misshapen shape
she

amid the chaos and fragments
remembered one thing
her favorite color
tangerine

How She Remembered Him

Her skin had baked
Into a deep bronze
When she felt
A statuesque presence
Blocking her sun

She didn't see
His sea green eyes
Just then
They would would burn
In her memory for decades

Uninvited he sat comfortably down
On her faded flowered bed sheet
Their skin lightly touched
Intentionally she thought

Making his introductions
With charm no man his age
Should possess
She whispered her name
And he'd spend the summer
Rhyming it with his own

His nose and shoulders
Showed traces of red
Where the sun had kissed him
Maybe too much

They played daily games
Of hide and seek
She never laid her blanket
In the same place twice

Some days he found her
Some days she found him
Eyes searching
In anticipation

Hearts beat faster in 90 degree heat
He'd never seen skin quite like hers
Thought he could lose himself
In her curls, forever

Seagulls taking flight
A child's squeals
Waves crashing
Sand encrusted radios blaring
Faded into the distance
They lived for the sound
Of each others voices

She knew he was dangerous
Friendly rumors disguised
As advice against his quick
Movements; when the crew
Came calling
Lips grinning and fingers caressing
Her cheek, signs that he'd return
and he always did

Cradled in his arms
He made her feel safe
She could close her eyes
Nestled against his bare chest
He smelled like the ocean
She wanted to swim inside him

His salty lips stole a kiss from her
She knew then
That she would go anywhere he asked her
But he didn't ask
And she didn't go

The battered boardwalk
Remained the parameter of their love
Bound by the Atlantic
They lay on a bed of sand
Soaking each other in

Summer wasn't the only thing to end
She closed a small part of herself
love
heart
spirit
youth
sensation
It would always belong
to him

Monday, June 3, 2013

The Objectification of the Bodies of Women (draft)

for Mary Wollstonecraft


Sex
sex sells
selling bodies
for varying prices
because pricing
determines self worth


prepubescent virgins
attract the highest bidders
those small and fragile bodies
on display while their role model
prances across the stage
exposed nipples
highlighting how sex
empowers women


the mind’s only purpose
is to determine how to
strategically used the pussy
to get what it wants


sex and liberation
the remnants of the
sexual revolution
has led to the evolution
of woman as plaything
no longer bound
by christian morals
and social values


that spicy salsa mama
with enlarged hips, big tits
and red lips for days
her “aye papi” coos
making men sway
all wanting a piece
of the exotic and erotic  


it is the invocation
of the devil hiding beneath
her skirt
momma’s pleading
with boys about the dangers
lurking there
she’ll use her goods to trap you
momma cried on deaf ears


Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Me Llaman Negra

Me llaman negra
como si fuera un insulto
as I were cowering
from my blackness
hiding from my darkness

They call me negra
In an effort to enclose me
in silence
As if I was walking
in a montage of Jim Crow
regulated streets, afraid to be
exactly who I am

Me llaman negra
como si fuera un insulto
As I bought into the
“white is right” ideology
unaware that I can’t
take off my skin

The call me negra
to shame me
Into playing the shade game
what shade of black are you?

Me llaman negra
como si fuera un insulto
as if I didn’t know
exactly where my people come from
blood flows through my veins
in pulsating Atlantic ocean waves
direction descendent of the slave trade

They call me negra
As if to frighten me
into avoiding mirrors
and seeing browness
blanketing my body

Me llaman negra
como si fuera un insulto
a dagger meant to carve
my soul right out of my body
remove my essence
disconnect me from a hidden history

They call me negra
to remind me of my lack of beauty
those afraid to be
spending thousands of dollars
on rhinoplasty, skin lightening
blond hair weaves

The call me negra

como si fuera un insulto

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Poet-On-The-Run March 2013 Calendar

Poet-On-The-Run March 2013 Calendar March 2nd 8pm LAVA's Night of Renegades Will be performing excerpts from Vivisection 524 Bergen St. Brooklyn, NY 11217 March 4th 7pm A Women's Worth in Words Wagner College 1 Campus Rd, New York, NY 10301 March 16th 7pm The Vagina Monologues/Los Monologos de la Vagina La Casa Azul Bookstore 143 E. 103rd Street New York, NY 10029 March 17th 4pm The Vagina Monologues/Los Monologos de la Vagina La Casa Azul Bookstore 143 E. 103rd Street New York, NY 10029 March 29th 9pm Vivisection (excerpts) Urban Juke Joint Baha'i Unity Center 53 East 11th Street NY NY March 30th 4-7pm Latino Authors & Writers Society Performance* April 13th 7PM Harmony Project Banquet at Dartmouth College* April 29th-May 4th As You Like It, Oxford Shakespeare Company* *These performances are tentative. The calendar will be updated as soon as the performances are finalized.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Skin, a persona poem

“I don’t see color,” she said. 
As she smiled and turned 
Was it so easy to
Disregard
Denounce
And deny me?
Was she too blind to see
The history that was written
Into my epidermis?
This color don’t come for free
I’ve been charged 
Done paid the price 
For my color
Too many shades
Removed from my 
African ancestry
And she said, “I Don’t see color” 
How could she so 
Conveniently ignore
The weight that I bore? 
The brunt of 
stereotypes 
miseducation 
misunderstandings
people’s prejudices playing favorites
with me
Did she think she could erase my past
With one sweeping stroke
Of a sly tongue 
Trying to avoid the 
Consequence of seeing me? 
Did she think I would
Shrivel up 
Let go 
Accept
Her desire to white me out of
History and a collective memory 
Reminding folks of what 
Browness truly means?
She straight up
Tried to play me
And before my nerve endings 
Received the electrical impulses 
From my brain I screamed
STOP, right there
Did you think it’d be
That easy to escape from me? 
I’m in everything your eyes 
Can see. This skin has
A long legacy 
Belonging to proud people 
My melanin plays griot storyteller
And if you stopped to see
You might just learn 
What it’s like to be me 
Every layer of my skin 
Is embedded in an 
Identity, who’s past
Has made her path quite clear
Don’t let your eyes 
Fail or fool you into 
Believing that I am not me 
This color is your destiny 
Bleaching creams
Need not apply and I
Don’t care to hide
From the sun’s golden touch
And the nourishment
It provides
You may not see color 
But your gonna see me 
Take a good look
I’m the largest organ
On the human body
I deserve some respect 
Preaching color blindness 
As if you could forget
The haunting voices
of my ancestry are speaking
to you through my genetic code
If you listen close
you can hear the cries 
of caciques left to die 
If you listen close
you can hear the prophecies 
of Yoruba healers 
calling out
If you listen close 
You can hear the
Pounding of power filled
Hands on congas
If you listen close
You can hear the bomba
In my skirt
If you listen close
Your eyes would tell you
What a tragic mistake 
It would be 
to try 
And deny me




Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Skin (working title - also work in progress)

You
you’ve been become an expert
telling stories about who I am
reading my skin like tea leaves
you think you know my past
no charge for your services
arguments to no avail
you say
you, you dominican
you guyanese
you indian
you brazilian
Statements
not questions
your conviction
even has me trippin’
believing the fairytales
tales of my skin
see my skin
be telling stories
before my mind begins to think
before my mouth begins to speak
your eyes are sending you messages
too dark to be favorite
too light to know pain
she can’t relate, you say
she speak so well, you say
she got that good hair, you say
forgetting/unknowing
your words like daggers
created gashes in my self-esteem
funny you seem surprised
for someone who’s become an expert
in my skin; a storyteller
telling stories about me and my skin
weaving strongly spun tales
you’ve waged a war on my skin
forcing me to make weapons
out of words
that seem to fall on deaf ears
you think you know me
think you know my history
know who I am
and where I come from
and have the audacity
to not believe me
when I tell you
 who I am