My rocking horse, grounded
by thick springs on metal frame,
rubbed smooth by others before me,
was where I could sit for hours,
wondering where the clouds went
for Sunday School or with a mind
as clear as the sky after they
had found their way there.
i am lightning
From the outside that trailer doesn’t look too well-taken care of
grass needs mowing
no flowers, only a lonely yellow rosebush.
I’m killing flies left and right
I said once, when I’d come to visit
That’s the price you pay for fresh air around here
the kids smile.
Inside it’s cozier
in the girls’ bedroom
pictures of friends hang on the walls
stuffed animals nestle on beds
books pack the shelves
make up and jewelry cover the dresser.
Their brother shares a bedroom with their dad
a boy’s room it is with football trophies
ribbons hang on the wall
a cassette player and tapes are all over the floor
a man’s room it is
Playboy magazines hidden under the nightstand
Field and Stream next to ashtrays with cigarette butts
and a poster girl’s taped behind the door.
There’s olive wall-to-wall carpeting
one and a half baths
and a dishwasher
that doesn’t work
a black-and-white TV sits on top a turntable
that doesn’t work
that sits on top of a large console TV
that doesn’t work.
The picture’s not too good on that old black and white
it would be better if they had cable
but that would take a whole lot more money
than their dad ever had.
Helping A Friend Process Chickens
Like an ancient pagan priest I stand,
My hands gaumed with blood and gore,
With deft flicks of the razor edged knife,
I perform my loathsome chore.
Taking living creatures,
Converting them to meat,
In hopes that others give their thanks,
Before they begin to eat.
The work isn’t done with malice,
Far from it in fact,
With the greatest respect and appreciation,
I perform this solemn act.
It’s the circle of life I tell myself,
We’re omnivores; designed and made,
Though some would say we first learned the art,
When Cain, a stone to his brother laid.
Their sacrifice will feed us,
They will feed us and the land,
Good food just like good soil is made,
By the work of the eye and hand.
I keep them calm and restful,
I try to give little pain,
I try to make this go quick,
As I turn to do it again.
They didn’t tell us
Didn’t want us to know
that we were free
we already knew
had been creating liberation for ourselves
for a while
What does it mean for a system
to change branding but never the product
my ancestors free from slavery the way it was
but we aren’t free from the prison systems
from a little Black child being murdered by the very same slave patrol today.
His feral brain breeds assault
His cocked fist is domestic violence
His beer bottle lies
fantasize
an
R C
A H
to mark his victory
&
a reflecting pool for his penis
Not
metaphor hyperbole
it’s literally happening right
in front of our eyeballs
Touch it if you want or hide
in dreams you’ll be alright
if Wall Stret is
grilled white corn on the cob lulls me back to childhood summers where Dad soaked them several hours, husk and all, in a barrel of water, grilled them over charcoals 15-20 minutes, turning them to char the crips husks all around. When they came off the grill, he wrapped them in newspapers, slid them into a tall paper grocery bag until everything else was ready to eat. We’d peel off the husks, slick off the silk with a paper towel, roll the cob lengthwise on a stick of butter before salting. Mom always peppered as well. I only peppered.
So tender and sweet
those smaller white corn kernels
one cob never enough.
