Holy Motha Freakin Gosh

For the longest time, we called you the moon Because from where we could see You looked abandoned And blue Like nighttime We thought we understood how you felt Another room In a home That was a notch on our belt So we burned up the oceans And drowned out our skies Until even the islands began to Become dry And suddenly soon We'll stand crying over valleys abandoned and blue With a far, new born, planet Calling us moon. 

  A Filipino crispy pork belly egg breakfast taco In Greenwich Village on a perfectly warm summer Friday night A table for two Next to tables for more Filled with straights Medical students Drunk girls  Cow towing to the men they sit with Tight shorts from online shopping And New Year's plans And weekend houses  The drunk girl makes animal bird like noises Calls everyone "Baby" And shhhshes everyone  Even though she is the loudest person in this restaurant A gay ghost walks by Wandering to a table for two In the back corner of a patio  On a perfectly warm summer night A pair of finance bros sits at the high top They speak directly to each other A couple, on a date, sit comfortably close to each other on the other end of the high top table Gay ghosts are harder to find Because that what happens to us On perfectly warm summer nights In a city like this But I do see them Walking by Looking in on patios Lit by strung lights and Pride flags Because why the fuck not?...

  I’ve stopped writing poetry  Because  Maybe the sound  Of another dead body Hitting the ground Is the only thing  That we can hear To cause us to move To make us to cheer I’ve stopped seeing broadway Because, the tickets  (I can’t afford) I’d have to whore my body  To make it to just one more And i’ve done that before And i need the money to eat I need the energy to walk I need the time to sleep I’ve stopped engaging, really Because what’s the point I’d rather be off fucking  'n' rolling a legal joint Let the chemical romance of clean eating fill the air As they shoot shoot shoot  And we stare stare stare.

  S C A T T E R ° Back to the earth Taken by the air Let into the water Back to the earth Your body goes The wild water seemed so cold Dark and quiet below I wanted to plunge in after you Swim in that yellow billowing cloud But by the time I looked back It too,  Was gone Should I be worried Or have you already flown Leaving your body For us to deliver A bag full of dust Brought back to the earth

Here on the last day of my thirties I think of you I hid myself My birth day Always haunted me All my life From you Because I didn't know how to be who I was Who I am Who I will be I ran I'm sorry if I hurt you And know very little Still What to do What I do know Is that time, is not only precious It's going Right now Even as I still am guessing at how to be And I don't want to run anymore Because what I am running from Is ultimately what I am running to So I will stand here Perfectly created And struggling  Everyday To be Just a little more free And a lot more of me Than I was yesterday Thank you for loving me I have felt it  Letting go  Into you #bewhoyouare

Sunny runs Lenox Fast Food breakfast spot in Central Harlem. He and his beautiful wife, And Fernando, Run the spot on Lenox Ave, Just below 143rd St. Next to a bar called 'A Touch of Dee'.  They serve plates, Fried fish, Coffee with milk or half 'n' half only... And cheese grits.  Everyone orders the cheese grits. I've never had them, But secretly, always want to try them.  The waffles are toaster waffles, And come in 2 sizes:  Regular and silver dollar.  There are tins ready with butter, Prepped bacon, And these little metal bowls, That Fernando has on hand to mix your eggs.  Which he folds with precision and skill. In the back of this narrow, Black-painted-walled hole in the wall (the kinda spot my Dad would love), On this block of Lenox Ave., There is a picture of Obama- maybe from 2008. On the wall next to the "If someone is choking" sign. Today a man, Much taller than me, With a smile and energy that could light up NY, A man who Sunny knew by name, Wa...

Anyone that would still vote for Trump should be thrown in an unmarked van, put in a small cage, infected with an airborne disease, have their rights stripped of them, have their safety and freedom repeatedly threatened, be called a rapist and a thief, while simultaneously being sexually assaulted and made fun of, be separated from their family for months, be put in an overcrowded classroom, shot with a semi automatic weapon, be put in a church, shot with a semi automatic weapon, be put at a concert, shot with a semi automatic weapon, be put in a Walmart, shot with a semi automatic weapon... Then have their lifeless body propped up for a photo with a can of Goya beans. Then, maybe, just maybe they'll get a sense of this man's real values, or at least the ones he'll continue to instate in this country. It is time for radical change. Fists up. Sitting naked in the streets. Singing to Marsha P. Walking back over the bridges built by John Lewis. Because BLACK. LIVES. MATTER. U...

Have you ever had the thought, ‘If I were white, how different my experience would be. How much more opportunity I would’ve had. How much less stress and anxiety I might experience. How much more attention and validation I might’ve received. How much more money I might have made. How much more acceptance I might’ve felt. How much more ease with which I might’ve moved through the world without fear?’ Imagine that, an existence not governed by fear. And how not once would I have had to think about any of it. Because it would’ve just been there. Been a part of the truth. The air. There would be no space to move through because of the intrinsic ownership granted in the space in which I was, simply because I am. No guessing. No adjusting. Just fully taking up whole space wherever I went. So maybe this idea of white fragility, white questioning, white discomfort, white supremacy is actually good for all of us to experience and see. To have the switch flipped. For everyone to get even just a...

The sound of an ice-cream truck, Down the hill at St. Nicholas and 135th, Harlem. I sit way up at the top,  Don't worry, Roomie, Far from anyone.  You're the only one I don't talk to,  Nowadays. Little dogs, Cloth masks, Like this is permanent or something. Someone asked me if I'd been writing, I said, I've thought about it. Even that felt like a lie. It's so beautiful and calm in the park, today. It feels untouchable. Sacred. References to the color green. Like that painting. A young man lays on a rock with his shirt off, Several feet away. He looks so peaceful. Quiet. Small. Is it important to mention his race? It's the way we tell stories in America. He looks so peaceful. Like the middle of Spring. Ahmaud was running.  Exercising two days just before his birthday. Just before Mother's Day. I can imagine running down a residential road in Georgia, It just sounds peaceful, Open. Feeling goo...

Fourslashtenslashtwentytwenty I keep reaching out. And, today, feel further away from you than before. I can see you. I can hear you. I can even sorta feel you, Like a memory, Or a dream. You make me laugh, Which makes my upper back feel like a sob. Like wings will burst out of my shoulder blades. And the span and muscle of the feathers will knock over all the shit in my room.  The wind of the flapping will break the windows  And the cold air will swoop in like a song. Unable to not hear it, Not move to it. Music has been hard to listen to. Because, joy? The frequency from the speaker on my phone is becoming my least favorite thing and yet, the thing I am most dependent on, Even more than before. Instant oatmeal, 2 packs at once, A banana. “Because potassium raises your mood.” I am a hunter and a gatherer, Of information, Funny sentences, Mood stabilizers. Graphs and curves. Challenges, We’re all nominated. An...

Cold 3am chicken over stainless steel sink. + Columbus quesadilla. You take the stuffing. I'll mash the potato. You say tomato, Or take one more step and I'll blow your fucking brains out! “And that's where ketchup was started by your old Papy Joe.” He taught the Indians to slave. And the young girls, ta’ hoe. Just seed one more aisle, Just cut Pa one more rail. There's Charlies arriving. It's a labor half sale! We thank all the men who made this country great! They fondle each other and call it debate. With statues erect all the way 'cross the land. There is one thing now, we all understand. That Chris was a do-er. A real boy's man! And she is liar. (Yes, that sounds like a plan!) So wonder bread, mayonnaise with sliced cheese and fold. We stand men before women. And dumb Trumps the bold. Harlem, NYC.

What if. The only 2 shows that you had to audition for and knew you'd seriously be considered for were shows about, A.) The Civil War B.) 9-11 Because all the other shows that were being posted by casting and brokedown by agents were shows about families, families with struggles, families who triumph. Or quirky young adults who find themselves in awkward life situations but through the course of navigating those awkward situations find love with an unexpected person. Or a coming of age story, based on beloved novels that all just happen to be about... Asian People!!! Now what? But every six months another breakdown comes around again for, Civil War: an American Musical. Or, 9-11: an American Tragedy. And you think, 'Oh my God, this is it. There are multiple white people in that show. I have a chance! Maybe a swing spot at least.' And you sign up, You get there on time. You sing your heart out. They ask you to dance. 'Oh my God they ask...

A lot of half written poems. Because even the poetry isn't enough to keep me going.

You smell of plastic And concrete And moisture. My gut tingles and the blood rushes to my head. I know I'm home. Or the furthest from it. And the pool is churning. It literally never stops. And it's intoxicating. I could drink tonight. I could get so fucked up that all of my racing thoughts would finally shut the hell up and make sense. Or just get ounces of peace. There are beautiful men. I see places I've been. I want to run into the night. Like a runaway dog. A dog on the run. All because your windows, on Your small streets. Your fucking smell. Always is. When it's good, It's so good. The ride home may only be a few stops, On the 3. But the personal space I get to witness, As people end their work days, Just wanting a cooler space, A cold drink, A smile, waiting On a friendly, familiar face. Is small, And quiet. Like small children sitting on a bench, After school. It's a beaut...