Note: I posted this a while ago (actually May 30, 2012), but then I unpublished it because it made some people I know in real-life nervous. I’m publishing this again because it’s National Poetry Month, and, frankly, because I can. I’ve spent the last few years making apologies for my DNA-level desire to write. I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t think this is the best poem ever written, but it’s mine. It’s a part of me. And I like it.

 

1. If I had a knife,
I’d slice those words out of your throat.
I’d be careful; the cut would be clean.

2. If fucking up is a privilege,
Then it’s a privilege I’ll take.
I’ll make a giant mess.
I’ll leave footprints in the flour.

3. I’m scrawling this on a wall.
I don’t have time to be civilized.
If I were you, I’d be easy right now.
I grow wilder every day.

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6/33 – Part 1

Help me to forgive myself and move forward.
To engage myself in the work:
To sweat and hurt
To cower in fear
To try.
Because sometimes it feels like I’m dragging my own dead weight.
Sometimes it feels like my deformities have become monstrous.

6/33- Part 2

I can’t see you anymore;
Too much shit is in the way.
We have already done so much damage.
We’re both new people.
New hearts, new skins,
Brains lungs livers.
We’ve both done things.
And we don’t know how
to make our way back home.

I’d like to become more like an animal.

I want to live in scents, in hunches, in pheromones.

In a kind of perma-knowing.  An ingrained understanding.

I want to sniff the breeze.

I want to draw blood.

I want to know, that I know, that I know, that I know.

When a black woman loves you,
You are one lucky sonofabitch.

Because our love is heavy
Like molasses.
It coats you
And girds you up.

When a black woman loves you
She loves your spine,
Your skin.
What you do to her insides.

She could give you life
and rhythm,
If you’d let her.

My Aunt Belinda passed away today. She was a sweet, strong, nurturing woman. She endured for years in a body that made it difficult for her to do the things she wanted to do.  I hope she is flying now.

Time isn’t money for me. Instead, money equals time. Money buys me the time to pursue the things that I’m most passionate about. Money can buy a babysitter for a few hours. Money can pay a house cleaner.

So, my latest money-making ventures have absolutely nothing to do with writing. Because, honestly, there isn’t space in my life or in my mind for the kind of writing I want to do right now.

I’m a perfectionist. And I can’t create the best when I feel like my mind and body are overwhelmed with a million tasks.

But we aren’t done – writing and I. I can’t put it down permanently – it’s in my DNA. It’s just that we can’t really be together right now. We’re on a break.

A sweetness
A pain
A loss of control
An oncoming train
An approaching fire
A seizure
A gasp
A deep, bubbling flood.