a man barges through the screen
to hook his fingers in my mouth.
i’m a fish market. i’m flattening into the bed.
rolled out. cooking off the rotten bits.
his boot heel’s a fork in my tongue.
i’m dimpled. gilled. asking for a god
who wears bones slick with pity.
asking to be bent, taken by firelight.
smelt from iron. pierced through with spokes.
a wheel for a head. a garage for a mother.
i want to ask the ones who crave a soft thing to tie up
if they think of ham, wake up covered in glaze
and lick their own shoulders,
scald their tongues on their cunts.
i’m a skillet overflowing sticky
til the bourbon burns off.
i’m the menace. i’m the menace.
i’m the mother of stink.
question: how does a ruined girl yield
the way a knight yields? whose pipeline am i blowing
up, exactly? if you ask a man to drink
from your faucet, do you become him?
i pull my man atop me and ask to be buried in brick
but beggars can’t be shepherds. he’s a reverse cowboy.
a slinging zookeeper. i’m the beast
rattling the cage, asking for slaughter.
When the man on the subway refers to me as It
It becomes a tunnel
without sound, a dark pit.
I fall in
rein back my pride,
chew a bridle of spit--
teeth bite hard to spurn my wild tongue’s fits.
I must be doing something right
if no tits,
a buzzcut and no prick
bring me hate speech in transit.
I have a seat, I sit.
& dream up a palace where I’m King I fit.
I’ve been craving
wanting love, wholeness, but then, I feel it--
a wild orchard of peaches
blooming from one pit.
But you can’t have my money.
–Stephen Colbert on The Late Show, in conversation with a Black Lives Matter leader
& you can’t have my phone. slide & divide my nothing no more. play my beats or eat my cake in the bathroom stall while your wife pour it up & oh she can’t have that no more neither. can’t have my rows in your head wired down with my cousin acrylics & DAX. can’t have my sidewalks littered with my dead once called your kill that’s my head. can’t have my beats & I can’t emphasize that enuf my mix tapes my CDs my Motown recording studios my Bird my Prince my Prince my Prince or my Pryor or my long ass dick or my sweet pussy poppin’ quit daydreaming you fuck about all the shit you can’t have which continues to include my arms, Bernie Mac, Frida Kahlo, a fat ass, James Baldwin & the word “twerk.” sheeyt. imma be here until a good age to die talkin bout all the shit of mine ain’t yours. but fuck it. im brown & distinct. laid out in the sun. only getting more black. with your green in my bag. & your blood in my blood.
you look good in green
Dream about you throwing
me out of the window.
There are flowers,
we are twin brothers.
looking for the moon
In the same place it was when I fell asleep.
We forget to keep the windows open
and I hear you in the kitchen,
asking nothing of me.
Informal existential crisis,
deer on my front lawn.
Hand slapped to floorboard,
big soft red flowers falling.
Clothes to wash,
knives on dinner plates.
Mutts asleep in driveways.
The vines growing into my skin
will leave green scars,
you’ll rip them from my back
and plant them in our yard.
Head down in the shower,
window falling out.