I heard the story of a man
born with chord
cutting in to flesh
couldn’t cry
his first breath: a miscarriage
his first memory: fight
How can you trust a world that
strangles you
when being
when just
born?
He didn’t.
He built a comfortable life
played only with toys
that moved at his will.
I emerged with my arms spread.
I’ve lived long enough to learn
trauma isn’t always blunt
nor bad.
Born in open beauty,
I began
in love.
Do we blame the bud for blooming?
No, so bring me close
to bask in your body
and blossom in our breath.
Color me warm,
like autumn leaves.
Fall with me,
courageously,
unquestioning,
with gravity
to growth or graves,
along the grooves of space,
at the pace
of peace
and passion.
Sway with me,
in time to
Nature’s alchemy.
Crack!
Oh snap!
What’s that?
Oh! It’s. The. Daily. Grind.
Remember?
When you dealt with the devil?
Your heart for more mind,
more reason less rhyme,
your eyes for more time?
Now you a brain left blind!
You suck in only in x-rays.
You stuck in a skeletal daze,
so confused.
Bones fused,
so you stay creakin’
on LinkedIn
or Insta
or freakin’
out about your future
or what to do this weekend.
Coffees and cocktails when you should be drinking
The Flesh
The Drip Drip, the Juice
The Flesh
that drips when I let loose.
The Flesh
The Juice Juice, the Drip
Life
like with fine wine, I sip.
Starved, frail, skin and bones, pale—
Nowhere to go, no room for your inhale.
Bones bruise; bones break
and act as casts of your past mistakes.
This spiritual osteoporosis
manifests as a neurosis.
Scientists don’t know how to fix this
(the easiest way is a cup of hugs and kisses.)
They don’t know that so
they make you take calcium
for bones stronger.
Meanwhile, forever young’s
feelin’ wronger and wronger
Ooooo, you can’t take it much longer!
Your life is bare bones—
of course you hunger
The Flesh
The Drip Drip, the Juice
The Flesh
that drips when you let loose.
The Flesh
The Juice Juice, the Drip
Life
like with fine wine, you sip.
Skeletons feed off fear.
Skulls stay stockpiling like the end is always near.
They banish the beautiful over there
and declare, “we’re only being practical here.”
(Shh... the flesh rests everywhere.)
Selfish genes may protect them
so no one threaten them,
but no one connects with them.
In our smart hearts we know:
What’s wealth,
what’s health,
what’s self
if you're alone?
Cold?
Lookin’ at laughs
through a telescope?
Standin’ on a skeletal scaffold
that don't even hold life whole?
Starvin for soul, stuck searchin’ for
The Flesh
The Drip Drip, the Juice
The Flesh
that drips when they let loose.
The Flesh
The Juice Juice, the Drip
Life
like with fine wine, they sip.
You know the Flesh,
life’s connective tissue,
The hot pulse when someone kiss you,
The muscular love that makes someone miss you.
The flesh, it’s not bionic;
it’s ionic.
Electric
love
pass quickem’s
(between you and me, I like my life thickems.)
You know the fleshy Flesh,
The drippy drip,
The juicy juice,
we sippy sip.
You know the Flesh,
the god gravy,
the Flesh,
so flavory:
salty, sweet, and savory!
Umami!
Peace out Ramsey, Flay, Fieri!
The Flesh-- it’s got its own gravity,
Beauty beyond vanity,
Crystal clear sanity,
And raw rationality.
Oh, you asking me can I prove it’s real?
Truth is, I can’t—
It proves itself when you feel.
Proves were more than hard stops and harsh starts,
more than looks, checkbooks, and smarts,
greater than the sum of our parts.
We’re flesh and blood and beating hearts.
We’re Flesh
The Drip Drip, the Juice
The Flesh
that drips when we let loose.
The Flesh
The Juice Juice, the Drip
Life
like with fine wine, we sip.
A performance of this piece can be found here, starting at 51:24 : https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=AUWFmot3xKI.
Our hearts pounded
as we sprinted from our childhood home,
collapsing and burning.
It was no longer safe; that much was clear.
At some point,
a part of me,
confused and afraid,
looked back.
I watched her--
my angels standing on either side of me--
as she transformed
into a pillar of salt.
Crystals blew off her and danced in the wind.
My face grew hot.
I was angry, I was sad, I was starved of justice.
It wasn’t fair.
She didn’t deserve this fate.
She was afraid. She was a child. She never learned how to trust.
She never learned faith.
She couldn’t just run blindly
away from the only home we’ve ever known
without wondering if
maybe
it was stronger than you said,
maybe
we didn’t have to leave it behind.
With time, I started to wonder if this is what she saw.
I still wonder.
I wonder
if she turned to salt
not because she looked back
like you told me,
but because
she saw
you were wrong.
Daily,
I watched you dish out helpings
to so many,
their bellies stuffed and
their lips smacking
with your love.
I got the leftovers.
They tasted awful,
not like the love
you always talked about.
At first, I spit them out.
But when I saw how mad that made you,
I forced my mouth closed and my jaw to chew.
Funny;
people compliment my strong jawline,
and the only reason it’s so refined is
I’ve been clenching it my whole life.
It only got bearable
once I started using the salt.
See, salt enhances flavor.
A little sprinkle brought out
the hints of your love.
I learned early on
to take everything you served me with a grain of salt,
a dash of the oldest part of me,
who loved me wholly from the beginning,
to make these new parts palatable.
But now I hunger strike.
All I eat is salt,
and it’s dry,
but I’m too bitter to be polite,
and I won’t take another bite
of your leftover love.
I don’t want your leftover love,
your stressed out, stretched thin leftover love.
You can keep your goddamn leftover love.
I’ve had enough.
It makes me sick.
It makes me sick.
It’s too sweet.
Your sugary sorries
taste like arsenic.
To answer Hughes,
yes, it does candy over like a syrupy sweet,
and underneath it stinks of rotting meat.
I’ve had enough
of your dream deferred
and my voice unheard.
Uncage this bird
so she can sing these words:
I don’t want your leftover love,
your stressed out, stretched thin leftover love.
You can keep your goddamn leftover love.
I’ve had enough.
You’re lucky.
You’re lucky.
You’re lucky
others loved me.
You’re lucky
I had my angels,
who kept my old self
after I left her behind
and gave me salt
to fortify me
this whole time
Until now,
when I can feed myself.
I’m fed up with your leftover love.
Your stressed out, stretched thin leftover love.
You can keep your goddamn leftover love.
I’ve had enough.
A performance of this piece can be found here, starting at 34:45 : https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=AUWFmot3xKI.
WORD LEGOS
We’re in purgatory ‘til we purge our stories, right?
So, here, I’ma try my hand at Shakespeare.
After all, I was born already half way there.
So I begin.
And I began with my eyes open wide,
Stayed open through Yale on my near full ride.
You can call that assisted suicide
Cause in my time at Yale
I took in what I could but I did not inhale.
Yes, they refine your mind at this fine institution
but distract you from the fact they leave you spiritually stupid.
They teach you not just how but what to think,
and that’s that your sh*t don’t stink.
Yes, I’m from Bridgeport, but that Kool-Aid I will NOT drink.
Confusion trickles down from the Ivory Tower of Babel:
“Forget swingsets. Here, instead, we play with p-sets and Scrabble.”
Pedantic playgrounds groom children to believe themselves God
yet doom children to be spiritually robbed of their humanity,
their true divinity.
Intelligent and Eloquent but still Ignorant.
It’s a tragedy.
This was me.
I graduated, my mind blazin’
but my soul
deferred
a raisin
restrained,
But that refrain stayed playin’,
that refrain stayed slayin’
through all that section BS-in’
and second guessing—
that refrain,
that do or die question.
But TENNYSON—
tell me:
Why does this light brigade feel so heavy?
And Lord levy
this charge,
my curse—
my blessing:
My heart sends out strong signals but I get spotty reception.
Twenty-three years of testing
and only at this intersection
can I stand in my truth
and hold it self evident.
Then SLAM!
Take these high hopes
and negative slopes
intercept them.
y=mx+b still doesn’t answer: why?
Who am I next to be?
High, with the sun shining next to me?
Or doomed to die having had nobody
join me in my primal ecstacy?
Stated more explicilty:
I love life’s simplicity,
and like a child I want to play endlessly.
Will you
wander bravely
into the art
that saves me
from life’s hard parts
when the heart’s dark?
Some words from the wise
child:
Travel light for all expeditions,
internal missions,
eternal visions
and nuclear fissions.
Ding
Time to fuse with the muse!
Zoom past the visible spectrum
with its reds and its blues
overused in our flags
and our bruises—
OLD NEWS!
Let’s go!
Newton’s Law of Conservation states a rolling stone gathers no moss
so lets go!
Oprah’s Law of Conversation states the best listener makes the best boss
so let’s go!
I wonder:
Do you think Waldo thought he was lost?
I want to cruise with Emerson!
Blaze through a trail with Emma’s Sun!
(I don’t mean to disrespect the cultured but
I ain’t got time to be a vulture and
pick apart the decomposing corpses of dead composers
my corpus callosum can’t help but connect opposing art forms
I’m guilty
by free association!)
Verse done.
Journey begun.
To infinity!
Between zero
and one.
Listen—
The Brook
does not babble;
She’s on a brigade.
”Listen!”
A fungus wraps
around the spine of my mind.
I know not why.
I know too that
it is not wise
and
it is not mine.