Brooklyn Bridge

Maybe it’s time I delete you from my text messages;

Maybe it’s time I scrub you from my skin,

the kisses you would have planted down my neck.

 

I can close my eyes and see you in your black tank top,

the sun warming our backs,

a dozen freckles sprinkled on your shoulder.

 

The things I would do to that constellation…

the stories it could tell if I connected each star

with my finger, or kiss by patient kiss.

 

The sparks that fly between us are almost as bright,

lighting up my hope against my better judgement.

 

And since I cannot erase the stars from the sky,

I will take a snapshot of that moment in my mind,

maybe save it with my screenshots.

 

I’ll hope that this time next year,

I’ll meet Earth’s orbit where I saw you last:

on a beautiful bridge, with a beautiful boy

 

Remembering what it was like

the first time I read a poem that breathed your breath,

traced the marks that line your skin,

 

Felt the smoothness of your lips against mine—

while specks of light danced on your Brooklyn face,

the way the sun welcomes the stars home.

 

September 26, 2019

Watching strangers on the subway

I find a spot to stand on the train

and it feels like a paradise,

spaces between strangers sock and shoes

and sweat and stories—

let me keep my distance.

Although there is a tiredness to it.

I was taught I could do any damn thing,

and I believe it: I feel my uniqueness

lifting me up as a I walk,

swarming around in my veins

a home for the hive, bees going extinct

but I know where the honey is:

it’s right here, honey.

 

Touch the water.

Tell me about it in 10 years when your city has none

a reality not yet created yet so tangible I want to reach out

and touch it, drag it back to now so I connect my future son-

in-law to my sink, so he can grab a bucket and fill it,

empty it, fill it, empty it into Chennai, into Cape Town.

 

I know New York will follow one day

does my specialness stand a chance? Does our ability

to find our race and run it define our character,

our identity,

our existence

the years that have been dripping by,

like water from a faucet,

like honey from a hive.

I know that I cannot solve any problem alone but where do I

start? Tell me where to put this water and these bones and I’ll do it.

Just promise me someone will be here when the flowers bloom.

 

June 28, 2019

Should

Maybe

I should

write more;

maybe

I should

change

the story;

maybe

I should

wear a shirt

when it rains

and nothing else;

maybe

I should

pretend

I don’t feel

other people’s pain;

maybe

I should

go over there

and explain;

maybe

I should

keeping looking

for love

in all the wrong places;

maybe

I should

look at a poem

and not a mirror

to fix all the broken pieces;

maybe

I should

see my throat

as a moat

and not a trap;

maybe I should

gain some flexibility

in my lines

and my words–

cut myself some slack;

maybe

I should

be aware

of the fear

in my viens

and nothing more;

maybe that voice

in your head

is nothing more

than an eyesore;

maybe

this pen

never actually

runs out of ink;

maybe

I am a person

that can help the ship sail,

not sink;

maybe

I should look for God

a little harder;

maybe

I should

keep the drain

clear of any shit

expect clean water;

maybe

I can be

the person

that person

wanted me to be;

maybe

we can see ourselves

out of this misery,

penitentiary

of American “should’s”

and personal “would’s”

and keep going,

going.

 

October 22, 2017

Truth in You

We are the evolving
generation.

Our mind,
our sole flaw–

we must pour consciousness over it
like rain on arid land

we are meant to grow flowers,
not darkness.

Follow me into the light,
my shadowed friends,
and you will see that the truth,
the hope,
the love,

it has been you, all along.

 

July 26, 2015

Washing Off Fear

Things that scare me:

too much movement,

not enough time,

students failing classes,

children falling in line

to a code of conduct

the state tends to copy

from one generation to the next–

why can’t they provide

bandaids instead

for the multitude of broken hearts

and wings clipped off

before they got to fly,

my skin burning and telling me

that inside isn’t safe

and yet the outside won’t stop spinning

I need to jump off,

but where?

I,

we

 must sink in, ankle deep

into a beautiful, mud lined shore

reminding us that a sticky situation

is never incurable–

all we must do

is wash our hands in the tide,

watch water flow

and wait for our souls to follow.

May 2, 2015

Happy (early) Birthday to my little brother, who is going to be a teenager tomorrow! 😮 

Here

This year, I have a goal to use one of my poems to transition (at least for one night) into spoken word poetry. Here is one piece I am considering.  It is one section of a much longer work on loss, uneasiness, and hope:

Yet, the thing is.

I’ve learned that we can learn

all we want,

 

Yet still become

what we want to become.

A being; what we are.

 

Yes, I have convinced

my mind of sinless tragedies.

 

In my chest resides

a suddle tension

that comes with a good cry,

a nervous yelp the dog

pleades to his neighbor

and I know.

 

I know that it can feel

like pain

When you feel nothing at all.

 

Nothing, in the sense that it is

less

(we think)

than what we used to know.

 

You do feel one thing, though.

Fast-moving, rushed.

Isolated in feeling,

incomplete in understanding.

 

Your veins burn, sometimes.

 

At others they stand still.

Breath can come in,

but skatters on ridges of the throat

mountains of doubt

on it’s way out,

waiting

 

For what seems to be an epiphany,

or at least empathy.

 

We knew all along, didn’t we?

That every problem came with an answer

Every breath a song.

 

We’re still here.

The song is playing–

Listen.

 

I am layered.

What is old, is still surrounding me.

What is older, is building within me.

It is in my soul, eternal.

 

I accept the challenges of today,

the newness of tomorrow,

and the fact that shit can come my way

And has. 

 

That I hold it in my body

and in my head

and in my heart

That, too, has remained safe.

 

It is my red-blood-filled-memory-keeper

It is my life-still-renews-daily-seeker

It is the fact

that I know there exists

a spirt in knowing we exist.

 

We have value

even if it is an uncertain paradigm.

I make it a certain fact,

even when it makes me nervous.

 

Anxiety pulling itself out

needing more

to know

if I’m

doing this right at all.

 

June, 2014