Portfolio Piece #5

IV.

Skin

Skin is a leather sack for organs.

It sags and cracks the more it holds,

grasping feelings in neurons and

touches, webbing time in pressure

and heat. Skin throbs with movement.

Pulsing over the quivered coughing

of a heart at risk of losing rhythm,

like losing to the morphing planes 

of your white-washed beauty. Beauty,

too, loses itself to the hollowed crow

of time, driving all youth under roots

and petaled shoots until all skin rots.

I stab you.

Playing murder in the kitchen, I lift

that jigsawed steak knife and slice

connections. The tip of its blade

denying veins, rejecting tendons,

forbidding skin. I watch blood

tornado out in protest against

my metallic invasion; its slurs stain

your rounded palm and the blade

becomes my marked poster against

the state of your skin. You are rushed

to the hospital, and I tremble toes

in the moments before your return.

 

I forced my knife on you, but some

women, wrinkled with experience protest

the squeeze of time. Willingly go under

knife to stretch their skin near breaking 

to remove the creaks and ragged moans

of another possibility, a probabilty they

can't avoid. Knowing when the bandages

are off, they will have captured the moment

they let go of too soon. That time will heal

their skin into another flawless effort

with another flawless smile.

 

And when you've come back to me, 

dazed and airborne 

like the swaying tops of Evergreens, 

I stare bewildered at the black 

stitches that weave in and out 

of your flushed skin. 

Dancing worms, their thin bodies

moving in tight formation. They pierce

your hand's heat with their dark heads

before looping their tails inward.

Little serpents doing harm and good.

And when the strings are gone, I marvel

at the fleshy crescent left behind, a scar--

the off-white smile still on your palm,

a mark, a crooked monument erected

against the healing hexes of time.

III.

Skin

Skin is a leather sack for organs

that sags and  cracks the more it holds.

It holds feelings in neurons and

touches, webbing time in pressure

and heat. Skin throbs with movement.

Pulsing over the quivered coughs 

of a heart at risk, it loses rhythm

to the morphing planes of your

white-washed beauty. Beauty

that loses to the hollowed crow

of time, driving youth under roots

and petaled shoots.

I stab you.

Playing murder in the kitchen, I lift

that jigsawed steak knife and slice

connections. The tip of its blade

denying veins, rejecting tendons,

forbidding skin. I watch blood

tornado out in protest against

my metallic invasion; its slurs stain

your rounded palm and the blade

becomes my marked poster against

the state of your skin. You are rushed

to the hospital, and I tremble toes

in the moments before your return. And when

you've come back to me, dazed and airborne

like the swaying tops of Evergreens,

I stare bewildered at the black stitches

that weave in and out of your flushed skin

like dancing worms, their thin bodies

moving in tight formation. They pierce

your hand's heat with their dark heads

before looping their tails in on themselves.

I watch them, every night, little serpents

caught somewhere between harm and good.

And when the strings are gone, I marvel

at the fleshy crecent left behind, a scar--

the off-white smile still on your palm,

a mark, a crooked monument erected

against the healing hexes of time.

II.

skin in a leather sack for organs

that sags the more it holds. It holds

its feelings in neurons and brief touches.

Skin throbs with movement, pulsing over

the quivered coughs of a heart at risk.

Risking its rhythm to the planes

of your white-washed beauty, beauty

that loses skin to the hollowed crow

of time, driving youth under.

I stab you.

Playing in the kitchen, I lift

that surly steak knife and slice

connections. The tip of its blade

denying veins, rejecting tendons,

forbidding skin, I watch blood

tornado out in a protest

against invasion and taint

your palm and you are rushed

to a doctor. When you return

I stare stony at the black stitches

that weave in and out of your skin

like dancing worms, their bodies

moving in formation, stabbing you hand's

heat with their dark heads before

looping in on itself.

And when the string is gone

I marvel  at the fleshed crescent,

the off-white smile still on your palm

a mark, like a crooked monument

against the healing charms of time.

I.

Skin is just a leather sack for organs, yes,

a sagging sack, that holds

more precious sentiments than feelings.

It throbs with movement, pulsing under

the thumping coughs of the heart, yes,

the heart is always at risk of

sacrificing the mystery of rhythm

to your broken beauty. Beauty

like the gait of aliens, becomes a path to mark the way 

out of this world. And beauty, under 

the hollowed crow of time expels all youth

until it is driven into ground, 

where new beauties rise in petaled shoots.

Until then, make the most of Saturday nights

so that the hangover may pay proper testament 

to the drunk shriveled up in church on Sunday.

His hips, once lifelike, breathe and moan like homemade saviors,

under the shade of richer fabrics than what he wore last night.

His eyes dart inward and watch the splay of his insides

intertwined like the root of all possible notion, leaving nothing settled

until the soul floods into his throat and the holy ghost spills out.

Portfolio Piece #4

IV.
Simply

We forget, they say, that
the simple things are all we need.
But they don't know simplicity
is all I've ever expected.
I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted, moving in
and out of mental walls and chambers.

I want to live like Death is my neighbor--
somber, dutiful, a good man who always
puts others before himself, but
like me, doesn't take a day off
for a good time--I want to live
 just enough to show him how I'd
complicate the ecstatic. I'd like
to live enough just to show him
how to not be what I used to be.
The simple I still am.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My family. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV, I forgot
what pampering means. I envy
the jersey clubs, the drunken fun,
long strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps like badges, their talk--
the jargon of a new personality,
but my lips fall slack, the strength
of contractions defies me, and it
redfines awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas. Just listen--

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to all the time I wasted taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since I could walk, the only
things you and every one else
has ever given. I spent more time
caressing your ego and filling
your belly more than I ever
received a moment of yours,
all this time, a bust
long before I ever sell a ticket.
I don't want to be a rockstar--

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
jellied guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.
I want to puke my insides
on the hotel floor the next day
because you won't take me to one.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to help myself, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots like some TiVo'd movie
of that time I got the DUI
or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, though none of it ever
happened it would be better
than the time I sat in the corner
 of your friend's party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
 or the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms, mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. I would not show you
how I spend every night tangled
in the hot and anxious mess
of some celebrity behind my
TV screen--doing things
I'd never dream of anyway.

If time allowed it, there would be
someone else I'd rather be
but instead trapped in some scrap
of too surreal hocus pocus,
I am stuck with who I am.
Who that is, I'm not really sure
but I hope that you and I can wait
for the the party to finally start with me,
the one they'd talk about--that me, inside it.

 III.
We forget, they say, that
the simple things are all we need.
But simplicity is all I've ever
expected. I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted out of realms,
moving in and out of mental walls
I've built up around myself.

I want to live like Death is my
next door neighbor--somber,
dutiful, always puts others before
he puts himself--I want to live
enough just to show him how I'd
complicate a good time, fun
with all the consequences, living
just to show him how to not be
what I used to be.
The simple I still am.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My sister. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV. I envy
their clubs, their fun, their long
strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps and talk their slang,
but my lips fall slack with the strength
of contractions, and it ain't nothing
but hillbilly awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to all the time I wasted taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since I could walk, the only
things you and every one else
has ever given me since before
we ever said I do, all of it
long before I ever sell a ticket.
I don't want to be a rockstar--

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
jellied guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.
I want to puke my insides
on the hotel floor the next day.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to help myself, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots like some TiVo'd movie
of that time I got the DUI
or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, not the time I sat
in the corner at the party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
not the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms with mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. Not how I spend every
night, tangled up in the hot mess
of some celebrity behind my
TV screen--for doing things
I'd never dream of anyway, for being

the someone I want to be but left trapped
in some scrap of surreal hocus pocus,
wondering who I really am or when
the party can finally start.


II.
They say we forget the simple
things. They say its all we need.
But simplicity is all I've ever
expected. I want the paranormal.
I want to feel lifted out of realms,
moving in and out of mental walls
I've built up around myself.

I want to live like death is my
next door neighbor--somber,
dutiful, always puts others before
he puts himself--I want to live
enough just to show him
how to complicate a good time,
just to show him how to not be
the old me.

I have a hard job supporting
myself. My sister. My habits.
My ass on couch cushions between
new episodes of reality TV. I envy
their clubs, their fun, their long
strands of fake, glitzed hair.
I try to be them. I try to wear
their pumps and talk their slang,
but my lips fall slack with the strength
of contractions, and it ain't nothing
but hillbilly awkward when I try
to do the damn thang. I'm dove fresh
out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that I could wake up a rockstar
tomorrow, but it would amount
to how much time I spent taking
care of you in between the sheets
of bills and responsibility,
the only things I've known
since diapers were the must-have
item for my age group, all of it
long before I ever sell a ticket.

I want to be drunk.
I want to do gin tricks on
my 21st, master sucking
wriggling guts of shots
in one vacuum pumping try.

I want to hang on mid-argument

so that when you tell me to
loosen up, to flex it out, and live
a little, then I could bring up
still shots of that time I got the
DUI, or the time I punched
that old woman at blockbuster
for gripping my purse to break
her fall, not the time I sat
in the corner at the party, passing
shots to more worthy mouths,
not the time I sat hovering in
dressing rooms with mucus trailing
down my face because I was too
fat for a dress I'd never wear
anyway. Not how I spend every
night, tangled up in the hot mess
of some celebrity behind my
computer screen--for doing things
I'd never dream of anyway, for being

the someone I want to be but is trapped
in some scrap of surreal hocus pocus,
wondering who I am really or when
the party can finally start.

I.
Why I Cheated On You


Nothing is more delicious than simplicity
in the realm of the paranormal.
A hard job supporting new episodes
of adoration on a couch cushion.

I'm out of ideas.

This is me, telling you
that sweet potatoes could multiply
in Buffalo in a few days,
but it'll amount to what you blame
me for when the tickets sell out.
I want a clean dog like that.
I want a pure trick on my 21st.

I want to hang-on mid-argument.

Discovering laziness beneath the drama
of a girl I know. Removed myself
that moment when I realized
I was stronger than a Spanish hen.

And I built my secret empire
on a scrap of corporal hocus pocus.

Portfolio Piece #3

 IV.
Wedding Invitations

Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there but I liked the way
your sister looks in white, and you
dressed up in red beside her, faces
forging like posing figures against
the snowy drifts. Your half-smile
mocking faces off set, something
your eyes see, past the boundaries
stretched out, lined in white, settled
by the edges of a 4x6 wedding photo.

I recall your uncle, an anthropologist
in Africa. The one that likes his men
tall, slim, and dark-skinned, the one
I've never seen but you told me all
about one day, not with shame or
disgust, but as if he were a joke, as
if he were the punchline of some long
and tedious ramble, beginning with
your mother. He was just the man
your family mentions in brevity
at the dinner table, eyes rolling and
lips pressing into matching smirks. I
wonder if your uncle ever got his
invite to the wedding. The letter
you did not send to him. Your face,
never wondering without words how
this man could ever branch so far
from the roots of your family's tree--
your folks remind me of small-time
slave holders.

I say this, not because they're cruel
but because whites who could only

afford a few slaves knew what they had
was special property. They clothed them,
fed them, and allowed them the warmth
of their homes as if their slaves were part
of the family. Your mother could cradle
me for hours, tell me how much she loved
me. Your father saw me, his little project,
now bold and grown and black and slowly
becoming yours--

Your mother told me how, in high school,
her older brother picketed blacks from
entering their school. How her parents saw
this as acceptable. She knew it was wrong
but these things were so natural, so every
day and somehow she knew, seeing me,
kissing you, that maybe she wanted that
strangeness to be blocked out too. Your
dad, his entire family open racists skewing,
and though his feelings changed and grew
in biblical understanding, there are times
when things slip his lips that raise eyebrows.
Their bluntness harsh and sharpened
forms of misguided slander. They could
not help their fear, no matter how many
times they wanted me over for dinner, the
time spent teaching me to cross-stitch or
plant seedlings, nothing when they thought
their precious, blue-eyed, pale skin son
would date a little black girl.

They say the small slave holders
loved the individual, but it was the race,
the black masses, they feared and loathed,
something strange and below them--
an oddity, a stirring conversation
piece. Not a human being. Not any more
acceptable than uncles out in Africa
pursuing black men in the Serengeti.

Though I know I was not there, in that
photograph or at your sister's wedding, I
know you saw me, eyes glazed with some
prophetic power, eyeing me
 with that half-smirk, knowing that
I'd never get an invite even if you had
known me then. That I am another joke,
the kind that starts with something about
your mother, and how we'd never be
standing there together in the pulpit. All
the same, your uncle and I would sit
hovered up in the back corner, watching,
silently accepting you, loving you,
without ever needing your permission
or your invitation.

III.
Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there but I liked the way
your sister looks in white, and you
dressed up in red beside her, faces
forging like posing figures against
the snowy drifts. Your half-smile
mocking faces off-set, something
your eyes see, gazing out past the
boundaries, like dimensions of us
stretched out, lined in white, settled
by the edges of a 4x6 wedding photo.

I recall your uncle, an anthropologist
in Africa. The one that likes his men
tall, slim, and dark-skinned, the one
I've never seen but you told me all
about one day, not with shame or
disgust, but as if he were a joke, as
if he were the punchline of some long
and tedious ramble, beginning with
your mother. He was just another
crazy family member. He was just
the man your family mentions briefly
at the dinner table, eyes rolling and
lips pressing into matching smirks. I
wonder if your crazy uncle ever got
an invite to the wedding. The letter
you did not send to him. Your face,
never wondering without words how
this man could ever branch so far
from the roots of your family's tree--
the same conservative, the same straight,
the same heterosexual, heavy tree
and for a black man no less--your folks
remind me of small-time slave holders.

I say this, not because they're cruel
but because whites who could only
afford a few slaves knew what they had
was special property. They clothed them,
fed them, and allowed them the warmth
of their homes as if their slaves were part
of the family. Your mother could cradle
me for hours, tell me how much she loved
me. Your father saw me, his little project
now bold and grown and black and slowly
becoming yours--and then I scared them.

They say that slaveholders intimate enough
loved the individual, the hard worker and
the family membr, but it was just the race--
the black masses they feared and loathed
altogether something strange and below
them, an oddity, a stirring conversation
piece, not a human being, not any more
acceptable than uncles out in Africa
pursuing black men in the Serengeti.
Though I know I was not there, in that
photograph or at your sister's wedding, I
know you saw me. I know you're watching,
eyes glazed with some prophecy, eyeing
me with that half-smirk and knowing that
I'd never get an invite even if you had
known me then.


II.
The pictures of your sister's wedding
are here, not because I was there
but because I like the way your sister looks
in white and you in red beside her,
posimg like forged figures against
the snowy drifts, half-smiling
whilke you look out at the boundaries
of our future, settled by the edges
of a __________ polaroid.

I remember your uncle doing antrhopology
in Africa, the one that likes his men tall, slim,
and dark-skinned, the one I've never
seen but you told me all about,
not with shame or disgust, but as if
he were a joke, as if he were the punchline
of some long and tedious ramble beginning
with your mother. He was just another
crazy family member and I wonder
if he ever got his invite
to the wedding.
I said nothing as you mentioned him,
watched your face wonderining without words
how he ever branched so far
from the same tree your parents leafed off--
the same conservative, the same
straight-laced, the same ______ tree.

Your parents remind me of slave owners
not for cruelty, not for owning others
but because I was told that whites
who could only afford a couple slaves
treated their property wellm, like family
and had come to see them fondly, and your mother
ccould cradle me and tell me she loved me
and your fathr saw me, the little orphan Annie
bold and grown and black and yours--
they say that slaveholders loved the individual
it was the race they feared, the black
mass they loathed that always left
their black auntie, their bronzed uncle, their me
a little below the bar.
I often wonder if you saw me
outside the edge of that picture frame.
I wonder if your family knew me then
if I would have gotten a wedding invitation too.


I.
Summer with Friends, 2010

I've found a place for last year's scrapbook.
Pressed between the dictionary and the history
book, complete with primary documents. I find
the way the scrapbook pages cry, as cellophane often does,
mocks each strained grin at birthday bonanzas and drunken
barbecues, each wail makes the album hard to open.

How long did the album sit on the coffee table?
Dust films the cover, mucking the black and white
lace pattern meant for wedding albums. I liked
the cover, not for matrimony, but for candid moments
of the time we dueled on the putt-putt course
with our golf clubs brandished like javelins.

Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there, but I liked the way she looked
in white, and you in red. Your faces forge
each other in the snowy drifts. She smiles.
But you look off, not at the camera,
but into the fourth wall, staring down dimensions
into planes we promised we would never cross
or wring a ring, just lines that marked boundaries
implied by the edge of a polaroid.

I drag a finger into a thick line of dust
admiring the dull sheen of ignored plastic
before I slip it into place beside
the novel about our founding fathers.
Beside Merriam-Webster. In front

of a promise of another album that you and I

will not be in together. The perfect spot.

Tangible forget-me-nots, forgotten between
meaning and the pursuit of happiness--
what more can I, a young girl, want?