Chorus Read online

  we want poems that tie Billy Collins to a chair

  and beat him. we’ll see how pretty, witty and meaningless

  it all is: a million stanza march ready to flood his organs

  alternate multi-cult cannons shoved in his paternalism

  backfire prosody until his blank eyes’ black

  we want poems to stop lying

  in showers of middle-age heartbreak &

  cancer. fucking grad students ain’t noble.

  poems that grab New Yorker subscribers

  by their neckties, hang them in Morning-

  side Heights, Harlem, West Wicker Park

  River North, University Village like piñatas

  summertime shooting galleries, gentrified

  chicken shit wax-that-ass museum displays

  of quaint colonialists discovering a cafe.

  white poems about whiteness devils & white

  powder medicine men. poems that stole everything

  we own & won’t surrender. 40-line reparation pathologies

  to jazz writers who beat-bopped a century of plagiarism

  who beat-box between line breaks, who cop language

  break /ups and think they in OH! /vating

  white poems / little dick slavery poems

  blueprints rolled on the table in daylight

  poems that cut school funds / a(f)firm

  white woman ass/imilationists, dic-

  tion bigots, cracker gun barrels, white poems

  w/ mathematic inconsistencies, voter fraud

  interest-rate hikes, red lines & red-stamped

  bank loans. poems that smother children

  in knock-off handbags & Nike shoes

  poems starved for attention. a white poem

  that destroys a white world that eats itself

  rather than consumes the Other finally

  a poem that will grab the king’s keys & stab

  fair maidens and game wardens repeatedly

  the royal court bloody, shocked & clawed.

  9

  I’ll kill your baby.

  Then, I’ll come for you.

  Wenches awake jaw-drooped,

  weltering from my machete-clipped wings.

  Submerged in vinegar sweat,

  clenching Christ crosses, they moon-chant:

  Night Owl, Night Hag: You Can’t Scare Me.

  Night Owl, Night Hag: You’re The Enemy!

  I’m their martyr

  peroxided in scripture,

  now the heresy who rejected Adam’s body

  atop. He cleaved onto Eve

  who still left him foolish. I leave men wet

  with dreams of women with bird-taloned feet

  taking flight greeting angels at the Sea.

  Docile Marys fetter selves to rock,

  dirt gardens, preferring the sting of stones

  inscribing maid on their backs.

  Their daughters invent Bloody Lillith

  with lights out, terrified

  my likeness will burst through their mirrors:

  Who second-sexed these servants?

  Dared they lie beneath men

  & raise boys?

  Who exiled me from their tongues?

  I cut throats & uteruses

  If I, who denied beneathness,

  am now beneath,

  why not slice open their bellies

  & score their wings?

  10

  This a bus with wings

  Flying me high above the earth

  I need red clay forgiveness

  I need a nina simone gun

  With no bullets

  Just fire

  Just freedom

  I bite down hard at my bottom lip

  To remind myself of the pain

  To feel something soft on my

  Body filled with concrete, metal

  And somebody else’s needles.

  I am a shadow of myself.

  I am the after-hour party

  The next stop is my stop

  Any stop. Just don’t stop

  Keep driving bus driver

  Till we touch the first

  Cloud in the entrance to

  Heaven.

  There has to be a safe place

  For women who had a yesterday

  And a series of uncertain

  Tomorrows.

  This window is the entire

  World. Maybe the earth is

  Flat and square after all.

  Maybe I would stop running

  In circles if I just went to

  The edge of this mutha fucka

  And jumped.

  This is better than jumping.

  This is a church revival. Ooh. Baby.

  They could never save me in those

  Pretty places. Too much stained

  Glass. I need to be able to see

  Inside.

  I wanna hear my God in a simple place.

  The loud speaker at a drive-

  through menu.

  There u are. I can hear you talking to me.

  I love French fries. Always have. I can

  Fix a lot of things about myself. That one

  I ain’t changing.

  Changing. What the hell is that anyway.

  We all the same from the moment we are born.

  Aren’t we?

  I’m moving, but I’m still me. I don’t have a

  Costume. Not for this life. I will ask God

  For a new one next time around, maybe.

  Change is good. Things we can’t control we

  Name good. Getting high is good, when u can

  Control it. Check that out.

  I just want to eat and sleep for a few months. Wake up

  As a movie star in a different movie. And maybe more meat to cover these bones.

  This is not my movie. I had to convince myself.

  So here I am, a jar full of empty promises

  and letters never sent.

  I couldn’t hold him. I didn’t know how to hold him.

  Who was gonna hold me? Huh?

  Why we only born with these two hands anyway. Explain that

  Shit to me. Women need more than two. What if

  Someone cut these off. It happens.

  Or arms. They can just fall off from exhaustion.

  What’s up modern medicine. Help me grow some new arms!

  Why can’t we just grow new ones? Humans ain’t so special.

  Can’t just heal our wounds by a touch or a kiss. That’s never enough. We gotta take pills

  to fix Our brains. We so smart, we don’t know how

  to think.

  Without some help.

  That’s all I need. A little help.

  A cross to bare. A bridge to cross.

  I am not broken. Just tired.

  Damaged slightly.

  Nothing good lasts forever.

  And sometimes nothing bad does either.

  This is my stop. Can we land now

  Bus driver?

  That old bridge exists in the reflection

  Of the new. Simply beautiful. I need

  To sleep somewhere like that.

  I need to wake up in the care of the sun.

  I need to feel safe with my eyes closed.

  I need to land. Like an alley cat.

  I paid my fare a million times.

  I am not a secret!!

  I am screaming

  Inside this shell.

  Time can’t find me here. No more

  Watches. Everybody watches.

  Watch me get off.

  Watch me get off.

  Watch me land.

  I got wings

  This bus got wings.

  Just put this baby in drive.

  And let’s fly

  Let’s exist together

  For the very first

  time.

  11

  who told you

  you

  could

  exposer />
  your

  wings

  black girl

  don’t you know there is no room to evolve here

  no room to resolve fears

  dissolve tears

  back into the earth from which you came

  your name(?)

  lucy(,)

  loosely

  considered hominoid

  human

  beautiful

  woman

  marvel at your buttocks

  and legs

  slim waist

  and breasts

  yet make child suckling illegal in public

  we need no remembrance

  of what we taught you to forget

  of heru and

  auset

  jesus and

  mary

  forbid to teach the babies

  that the messiah had a messiah

  and her name was

  Mama

  12

  Despite your small victories

  you were built for digestion.

  There is a fire in your chest

  that will burn you in the right

  direction: follow it.

  Blind yourself

  with anything.

  It is the only way

  to walk properly;

  sightless stumbling over

  cobblestones, molars

  under your feet.

  Tonight, you are

  the offering.

  Every step taken

  is a minor rapture

  for your tongue,

  your nose, ears,

  and hands heightened

  by the surrendering

  of your pupils. Walk

  your heels skinless,

  until your blisters

  are just pads

  of pulp. And then, when you collapse,

  sprawled out like a starfish, you will love

  with your whole body.

  You will bleed the earth

  a sky.

  13

  no one tells you

  if anyone does you do not listen anyway

  if you do still you do not understand

  no one tells you how to be free

  there is fire in your neck

  ocean in your ear

  there is always your fear

  the words you cannot even

  no one is here

  when the world opens upside

  down you reach toward dawn

  your weight on the earth changes

  some of us plant deeper

  others ache to fly

  14

  Hot wind sprays sand in our eyes, and I know you’re still angry with me.

  To the west, Eden’s trees sway and the cool water washes sinner skin clean.

  Don’t worry love, you’ll be free of me soon.

  Babies’ blood upon my chin, sweet as pomegranate syrup. Oh, how many fetters

  wrought in love and unmade by lust, were soggy-skinned and tender.

  Fear not my love, you’ll be clean this afternoon.

  How you loved to weave the bonds and strap them to my belly. Now

  the heat of your anger scorches the plain, lamenting both hunger

  and its satiation. Don’t worry love, you’ll be free of me soon.

  When our sons have a taste for their young, you’ll remember me.

  Attributing a lineage of sin to your sister, though I only meant to

  bring you unburdened to your fate. Oh my dear one, remember this tune.

  Eve waits in the shadow of a fig tree, the virgin daughter.

  Her juices will still feel unclean on your fingers,

  Tasting not quite right. You’re impossible to please, just like your Father.

  Dearly beloved, this demon’s love for you was true;

  Here you stand at Earth’s gate, I’ve carried you through!

  Lust and fire defeated, remand me to the dunes;

  For all that I bore you, I’ll be free of you soon.

  15

  It is fine to mourn the dead

  --- but this is not that poem.

  This for those we haven’t lost.

  This for those

  who couch surf until

  waves of hospitality cease cresting.

  Then, they crash

  on floors before

  they find another place,

  paddle over and pray

  the tide rises high

  enough to hang 10

  or however many days they can.

  This is for those

  whose disorganization

  was amusing and endearing

  until it cost them college,

  those for whom

  “damn homie

  in high school you was the man homie

  the fuck happened to you?”

  was written.

  This is for those

  who only call once

  ever 5-7 months and

  have the same conversation

  each time,

  like pop songs

  — the chords might change

  but the progression’s the same.

  It starts with

  a warm greeting

  and details suggesting

  progress paid a visit

  before the cover

  of enthusiasm fades,

  revealing

  the only real change:

  their location.

  Sad nostalgia infects

  their voice, reminding

  of every errand and chore

  and other reason to

  get off the phone

  right now.

  This is for those

  people, we all know

  those people.

  They were our best friends

  growing up, the ones we looked up to.

  Now we can hardly find

  the energy for half a smile

  whenever they cross our paths.

  This is for those

  because after so many

  unsuccessful efforts,

  offering help feels

  like attempting to push

  the boulder of Sisyphus,

  it seems absurd to even try.

  All that remains is hope

  and hope can elect a president

  but it can’t save a person’s life

  so we write and read

  poems like these,

  like lighthouses and maybe

  those people will find their way

  back to shore.

  This is for those we haven’t lost

  because there is a fate worse than death

  and it’s living to hear eulogies

  for the person you could have been

  16

  There was no way

  to say goodbye

  that last day I tried.

  There was thank you.

  There was I love you.

  There was a hand to hold

  and your eyes

  and the great shifting paintings

  of your windows.

  The ocean and the sky

  and you, so tired,

  everything deserting you.

  Years unwinding to this;

  From far away, I call,

  trying to keep your voice in my ears.

  Your warrior girl has pushed

  your bed to the window.

  Your head rests with the rising

  of the sun and of the moon.

  How many hearts broke

  themselves, trying to hold

  and keep, before she

  who could stop a coal truck

  with her will? She makes you soup.

  The waves break over her.

  I knew, this morning,

  before it came.

  You had gone under,

  deep beneath morphine

  and out with the tide.

  I am here, helplessly alive

  trying to find you.

  You, the long, brown,
gypsy boy,

  trailing your ragged beauty.

  You, the man,

  wild-eyed and righteous,

  throwing your shoes at the murderer

  behind the pen. You, your shirt

  splotched with my tears. You

  laughing at my absurdity.

  Your shout of “What are you, drunk?”

  You the maker of hangover

  eggs, the eyes that shared the joke,

  fellow chaser of storms.

  the one who loved my swagger

  and knew everything behind it.

  The huge moving sea

  is between us.

  I no longer can hold

  your disappearing hand.

  Your body is as earth

  and stones and all

  there is to offer

  cannot bring one more day

  of your sweet, sleepy smile.

  I cry out from the sinew,

  out from the agonized clutch

  of my chest. My flesh

  has never seemed so undeserved.

  This grief is a hurricane

  that passes and passes.

  The eye. The storm. The eye.

  I remember you,

  that last afternoon

  in your high, white flat.

  You were unafraid. The sky

  was already taking possession.

  I remember you

  in that seaside room

  where the windows held no shore,

  only the vast horizon.

  17

  Trace the red cord

  from tread to source

  to find threads

  of a crushed case,

  the screeching white

  rib of animal

  framework splintered

  through a pelt still

  fresh with fleas

  fragments of ivory

  archways snapped

  tangled in viscera

  of violets bruised

  rouge and mangled

  tubes pulsate spurts

  in the midmorning

  rays till the last drops

  sheen in every crevice

  of the road we glance

  away to avoid

  the scene

  a deflated carcass

  disappearing

  on the horizon.

  18

  1

  Broken

  Pieces of bone

  Skulls

  And feet

  Eyes and teeth

  Mixed with shattered concrete

  All this rubble

  Cousins

  Bricks

  Steel beams

  Sister

  Glass, mother

  Tears, blood

  Brother

  Babies

  Buried under all that unyielding

  Unforgiving rubble

  When the dump trucks

  Come to scoop up

  Toes and clothes

  Papers and arms

  Who will take the time