Sassy  (Sarah Vaughan)
  
When marooned
in the deep 
slant of evening
there is lush, swirling.
    
Stardust enhances
this gift
the sound low and sustained.
  
Sassy 
I worked to maintain propriety
when your voice led
to such places
the road singular and slow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
the murder
  
on t.v.   
a young black man 
a son
said          
his little brother was murdered.
  
mama looking at the camera.
     
broken son  
mother   
and how is it that grief
etched her body with rare and delicate wonder     
sorrow’s pulsing lines?  
  
sunrise in an evil place
is still a resurrection.  
another grim lullaby
      
pink and yellow lies.
what do you tell the children? 
  
don’t be stranded little ones
in the dense light 
of grown-up torment/its     
heat and fury destroy.
  
wandering through the brush     the 2 friends wonder            thick giggles   eyes wide    puppy dog’s tails?    
what if we take devil’s path to school this morning? huh?    ya wanna? 
  
Angel’s wings don’t always fit small children
they can be cumbersome.
some of the tiniest kids
  
  
  
  
  
  
the murder (con)  
  
  
have fallen backwards
through clouds
toward the weather
this irks the older, mentor-angels no end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
Billie Rescues Eve

  
    chant for holiday
 
 
 
 
She did eat
from the tree
  
though it stained
her body primitive
  
and they spoke
of her malaise.
  
Sing 
the song of our people
  
do sing!
Refute the lullaby.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Mr. & Mrs. Johnson 
 
       mr. johnson
  
Charles is a rusty 
bus stop tragedian.
  
Scrupulous in memory
of silk and smoking jacket.
  
His haunting 
operatic voice
  
finely woven through bartered and closed doors
leveled ancient, smooth.
  
His blind knock 
his unlit cigarette
  
misspeak the sonorous chains
I see him! drag to his seat.
  
  
    betty mae johnson
  
Charles brings Betty Mae songs of anger.
Poverty is a house of circles 
  
he croons
a bustling pagoda with a singular shrine.
  
His cardboard soles 
tap, tap, tapping 
  
Miss Betty walks there too
her feet infuriated flares.
  
Insistent the promenade she tramps
Life burns!  Consumes! 
  
If you pass by
you will see Betty’s mouth 
a raw rant.
Mr & Mrs Johnson (con)
 
  
Rage tints her hair, flames 
wild, wooly explosions.
  
Sometimes
you must spit fire.
  
Today she strides along the porch 
her gaze an assimilated shout.
  
Welcome my friends! 
Welcome to Betty Mae Johnson’s house. 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Cafe con Leche in Brooklyn 
  
                  sunday afternoon
                  `
the people fuss at the preacher:
save yr white lies and plump, empty promises.
that is a fable of another, older age!
these are the days of no integrity. you will see
the scorned spirit move across the faces`
of those who yearn, unable to be free.
  
  
...pass the sugar, please!
  
Hot Costa Rican   
with thick, warmed cream
is this soul sister’s holy water.     
I say     
coffee     
is this sister’s
high, holy water 
Its dark liquid           
another dusky promise.
  
Friends come and go.   
Lovers taint 
& stain 
unruly, wild   
with no home training.
  
Cigarettes and witch’s brew I do consume.
  
And when the church fathers murmur    
I raise my hands     
  
shout   
yell praises for  
hot, wet redemption 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
la vieja (the old one)
 
 
senora alonzo 
struggles
to carry the years
  
they are jagged
and crumble together 
without grace.
 
she treads on them,
feet bloody 
with the foolishness
of graying fears.
  
her sharp face
woven of dust, mold, cobwebs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Hymn For Yusef
  
        for the children of the middle east 
  
Some say
God came to this place
a caged bird
without song and sullen
  
and could provide no armament
from hot iron
shrieking
blown into the skin.
  
This yarn
a pigeon might bring
a myth intact
lo, a steady and heart tale
  
but when the people wept
few did hear
while the children
did tumble and fall.
  
       Part 2 
  
Fate/those who trumpet her arrival
seeking an artful cageyness
subvert the small, wide eyes
burned hands and swollen bellies.
  
If each man a King 
unto himself
each woman Queen
who will serve?
  
Said, sing me this tune: 
Find your Golden Book
your Mourning Piece
Pray the Ancestors.
  
  
  Have Some Gravy With Your Mashed Potatoes
  
         in memory of reetika vazirani
  
She traces the line
of culture arriving at
its failure to redeem.
  
They served her black-eyed peas
and hamhocks.
She offered a ravenous grin. 
No, not quite right.
  
The smallish minister 
his silver bible, insistent
asked, What religion?
  
She picked at the thread 
though it was heavy and smelled strange.
A lineage through land and family
may not protect.
  
The lens of stereotype
dull and disgraced
is a mirror of startling proportion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Songs of 1865 #2,  A Maniacal Holding
   
     Slavery’s third lesson: Hold fast to the word.
  
Words might fall from you
below your fingers
leaving you 
feeling light,
a sure, steady stream
irresistible to behold.
  
But, you must wake 
yourselves.
For this is a dream 
of fools.
 
Dead language is hard 
is stiff.
  
If the light 
catches it
it will shine. 
  
It will glisten 
anyway
  
as if it were alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
color, texture, memory
  
baby, i know you too
own many squat memories
some are thinly sliced constructions
others, fleshy and embellished.
  
in my own musings
red & orange reign
though sometimes
i am immersed in a flatter gray.
  
i heard you say 
grace is a twisted braid
on top of a nappy head
looking suprisingly like your mama.
  
while i remember
blue sky 
dripping
greasy and warm.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
granny
  
  
she saves copper pennies in mason jars
and works the bills into her mattress.
works the madness!
you know
you just can’t trust the banks.
  
  
her padlocked shed 
bulges; boy-ar-dee ravioli
tuna, spam, beans.
you must admit
  
the closer she gets
to tin & glass 
filled promise
the quieter she is
  
You’ve seen her
face fluttering sideways
spin the cans ‘round
fumbling 
  
with the sterling shine.
stow, not weep!
her pure omissions
signify.
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
a surrealist poem
 
    oakland california: 103 murders
  
an old man knelt at the gate
his body folded
in prayer
the blistering sun raged against the wind
bodies torn asunder
moved before our eyes
  
mi amor, la vida es sueno
  
hands taut, embedded
swaying wings & 
soft lips 
against a charred sky
  
    word to the children
  
coveting thy neighbor is dangerous
that which allures
can tempt a spirit bruised
  
examine yourselves
with significant color
and hot, indignant light
not this wide, gray indifference
this falling into blackened leaves
generations of them at my feet
  
    prologue
  
i have told many stories 
of a good ever after
  
my face tinged 
cloudy and blue
what matter truth 
in a song of sorrows 
in a lowdown, baleful tune?
  
  
  
  
  Protest Song, 1-3
  
    in celebration of rap music
  
I saw her there, perpetual curves
Boisterous, truculent sensuality.
  
The people called her name: Enchanted.
Her movements, shuffled, shattering light.
  
They perceived her song
an agile, less vehement anthem.
  
Two thinly misshaped notions lured them there.
No surfacing sorrow to mark the place of entrance.
  
An integrationist’s nightmare
thirty years a canard.
  
No placards.
Who would testify?
  
Oh! But you are the scorned blacks.
Those haughty and revealed.
  
Your ancestral home
Gospel, Blues, will sanctify
  
anointing you! Yet others will decry,
another pied piper’s mistress in Hip Hop costume.
  
    mr. record company
  
He slogs through the grey, urban landcape
one derelict eye flashing!
  
The children holler in delight
jump off their stoops.
  
The names of the children are construed.
He’s found their dwellings and holds them
  
ears splayed to the root, while he riffs on
a dark, cloudless melisma.
  
Protest Song I-3 (con)
 
 
Children, your mouths are chattel.
The giant is heavy with your wealth
  
wearing your teeth
like gold chains around his neck.
  
    the rusty-butt rap
  
Two rusty-butt boys 
play outside my wall
  
trading jabs, keeping tabs. 
Both observe the call
  
of rogue thoroughfare
a patois that dares
  
sinewy domination
creative captivation.
  
They do a scalawag shuffle
do puff
  
and yell. Hip-Hop’s emissaries
Ah yes! Do tell!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Confessions
  
Contessa Muse hides her face
fearing I will swoon.
A lush rendition of an old tune.
  
I immerse deeply
legs plowing
searching
  
emerge smoldering.
Her primeval smell taunting me
rushing at my back.
  
Did I tell you
of that night?
Velvet Charcoal and
  
her eloquent shape
her soulful tones
the length between toe & shoulder?
  
Sometimes I am as a blind woman
stumbling along barren walls
that bear no distinction
  
she
refusing to proclaim.
Oh, but when she is here...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Songs of 1865 #3, 
                freedom pleading
                 
Would I this oblation
red, black, green 
rising,
this bone white?
  
They say it is mine
to give away.
A moment I have stumbled upon
and hope I do not waste.
  
Always the chance
it will turn to dust in my hands. 
Nubia? 
Numidia?
 
My people are webbed figures
and occupy the space between Temple and Eye
sometimes hovering way below. 
My lip quivering, quivering.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

 

 

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