my lexicon lacks the language to let you in

i walked a ways tryna find out if you still wanted me around
my feet got sore and weary found me sitting by a sign that said no entry
my eyes blurred from the dark and foggy night
i tried to call but got only a busy signal

where you left me is where i got left
movement took me farther and farther from myself
don't remember much what i wore that day
shoes, a bra, no makeup
caught offguard so i didn't get to put on a belt or even earrings

was just time to move
on and on i danced myself outta the shoes i had bought special for the purpose of being yours
soft soled pretty thangs with tiny little diamonds on the straps
they'd arrived in a leather covered box
inscription read 'for the long road ahead'

i never knew they knew so well what they said

my problem is that i feel
emotion weighs 99 pounds more than i can rationally bear
muscles strain
throat choaks
voice hushes
trembles
fails

thoughts run rampant
and disease takes hold

eyes dart
think think
think

senseless and laying on cold tile
hard and impersonal

"what about it?"

insensitivity drives while i sit in the backseat unbelted in
driving without the wheel is very dangerous indeed

make sense out of half words
l tt s
out of order and missing meaning like the last bus home

and i hold my breath close like the teddy bears i used to buy myself
waiting for an answer that won't come

what is it like being home?

home is the first wind blowing against a tear-streaked face, telling us fall has come and is here
like water dripping lightly from the sky tiptoeing across skin like slippers on a hardwood floor
home is the silence of knowing and not having to say
green leaves turned orange and drifting back whence they came

home is brown bark ripped from old trees still very alive
green-gray water swishing against concrete walls
an orange moon that appears and then disappears through paper thin clouds against a sky whose name resounds more deeply than cerulean

a voice harsh and loving
and a smile filled with the gift of simple presence
bitter crying cold and a zero wind chill when you left your best scarf in a warm place

home is slush and dirt
yellow snow and snowsuits for three year olds
angels that are white but only by association

it is ten minutes added to the ride for the care given to the cold car that will warmly arrive at its proper destination

home is hot tea by a bright fireside
couches twenty years old and still cushy
shoes that will never be worn again but can never be discarded

home is heaven on earth
and in its arms sleep cradles and rocks to the beat of my very heart

It doesn’t make sense for me to ask someone else what you’re thinking.
I want to ask you and be able to get a straightforward answer.
I am not being emotional.
I am asking a question whose answer I deserve to know.
I don’t want or need for this to be complicated, I just want to know why you couldn’t let me come to you when all the stars were in order.
Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.

after all this time
of battling and keeping my mouth and legs closed
i let a man i haven't even known
don't even know his last name
into my house
on top of me
he laid me out
made me feel good

i can't tell if he's pushing me back to where i came from
all this hard work falling down the drain
i don't know of he's around for more than a kiss on the neck
'twas his smile that brought me here and leaves me confused

he ripped me open
and now here i am
with no clue of where to go
or which way to turn

i needed a clean slate
fresh and bright
recycled and lined
and smelling alcohol-pure like kindergarten paper
i haven't written in so long
poured out the thoughts of my soul
why do i hold myself back
keep myself inside of bottles i recycle to save space
only taking up much more
than i have

i am crushed by my own naked and wild ambition
laid out for my death and buried deep in a shallow grave

what i love
is good feeling
soft skin
deep breath
and passion driven recklessly
but with meaning and purpose

(for r.a.r.)
O dear giver of bass
strummer of my notes
know ye not how my chords do resonate in your hands?

At your coming
this orchestra begins
Sound loud the cymbal
for I fear not the crash of chaotic cacophony

come now and take pleasure in the comfort of this bosom
into your next symphony she will send you smiling
for hers--
her highs, her lows, her depths, her bounds and even the fruits she bears
--is the majesty of music

(for r.a.r.)
last night i found myself following the voice of direction onto a personal path of pleasure
his bass culled my inhibitions,
bid them ado and went on
sending blazing yellow signals into the blue-black sky
announcing its time had finally come

my temple has not of recent rested so well
eyes have not so justly shut

in the boughs of pleasure's memory--its branches still nearby
--did i find myself comforted and at home
and i do pray
that such a heaven will again hold me safe while i slumber

How I feel (for j.m.m.)

How I feel about you is variable
How I feel about calling and getting no answer, leaving a message and getting no call back is definite
Definite and inconsequential
Because how I feel about you does not yet matter
Because how I feel is not your concern
Nor is it high on my list thereof

How I feel is a conglomeration of ups and downs, warms and cools that keeps me alive
Whether I always like the way it feels

No matter, for it is simply how I feel

Pouring oneself out is freeing and refreshing. Baring of course, but nudity has never felt better.

Today, just now, I wrote the absolute love of my life an email that pretty openly and explicitly declared him to be my one. In it I shared that I believe the vision I was given, with him in the loved position in my life forever, was true and accurate. And for one of the very first times I didn’t feel fear in saying what I would to him—via email, of course, but saying it nevertheless. Unlike some email systems, I do not have a retract key that I can press and undo what I’ve done.

What has been expressed in the words I just sent are now out and available to him.

This society in which I live: United States, New York, we live in constant fear. Fear of loss, fear of love. It’s all very puzzling and indeed quite annoying as well. Mostly because growing up conscious doesn’t stop the chance of falling prey to the oppressing systems, most of which rely on their ability to instill and sustain an attitude of fear in its inhabitants. Yet as I speak against fear, so am I a constant slave to her.

As I try to pry myself from her grip she tightens her fingers around my arm and neck and wills me to stay. And out of fear for, now for my very life, I remain both a victim and a slave and a rent-paying resident.

But just now…for just a brief moment—and these moments do sometimes come—I experienced the freedom of expression, via email to the man I love, my one. I didn’t try to open or shut or even to create any doors. I just laid down what treasures I had at his shore and perhaps my release from fear will do the same for him. I pray him well.

letter from a young poet (for dlm1)

i know you said you always read my emails.
and that even though you may not respond (which you never do) that you'll read it no matter what.

last week, i had a dream mid-week about you. that night i was depressed--mostly too many thoughts of self-pity resulting from having allowed myself to mouth the words that i haven't been on one date this year and my having convinced myself that i'm not desirable on a level other than sexual.
The dream I'd had with you in it left me with one resounding thought that stayed with me even in the few hours i was feeling less than myself.
The thought was one I had hoped to tell you, but because you have mastered the art of disappearance and being accessible only when you want to be and only to whom you desire, I decided that it was more important that I get it out than to wait to reach you. It's clear to me that I also will never know if and when you will have received this message, but I'm not concerned with that.

You are my one.

This is what the night gods brought me last week. "You," references you, with no confusion or chance to disregard the directness of this mention. I believe that you ARE my one--that if time and situation and circumstance and God, minus fear, stubbornness or human interference are the ruling powers, you will be the one to "make me whole," excepting God that is.

I accept this fact with all the peace I had in sleep, and even more, with the peace I was finally able to garner that night during troubled mind state.
I'm communicating it to you because it feels right.

Now, I believe the last time we spoke, I told you I was reading the Autobiography of Angela Davis. If I had an address for you, I would send you a copy, because I have an extra. Alas, I cannot send to an unknown address, but you should pick it up. It's definitely a powerful read--I have yet to reach the halfway mark, but with the work I know you have to do and the goals you have in mind for yourself and future, I definitely think you'll be changed and moved by what's in this book.

Among my next reads, I plan to include: Soledad Brothers, The Tipping Point, Black Power, The Time Traveler's Wife...
The list will never end :)

Maybe you'll join me on this reading rainbow.

It was absolutely wonderful to talk to you for the time we shared (and sang) the other night. Thank you for sticking by such a difficult friend throughout all this time.

You are loved,

As always...

(for cms3)

I think of you when I hear good music
Right now it’s Kenny Garrett
Getting it in my ears

I sit at work and nod my head in beat with the beat
Remember when we sat closed eyed at a small table
Not even concentrating, just vibin
Just feelin and knowin


This is that feeling they always talk about
The one they say is gone
It was there that night
Now it’s here with me in my head

I have to admit
My heart still beats faster
Slows down sometimes
And even stops when there’s the chance of you coming near

What I’m saying is nothing new
It’s come before and will come after me
Cause what I’m hearing and feeling and knowing and going through
Ain’t nothin but the blues

(for g.g.)

It is nice
To have somebody to talk to
Who knows when to speak
And when to silence

Nice to hear music and know there doesn’t have to be a voice in every bar

It’s nice talking to you
It seems you want to know me because we go back
And forth ward I would like to be quite honest
By saying that conversation beats out all the rest of the qualifiers
With me

Nice

Without being too forward I would also like to say
I don’t often come in touch with those who can compete in the word game with me
And I was done with competition a long time ago

But still sometimes it comes down to that
Can you compare to me?
And can you grasp my simplicity?

It really isn’t so hard
Rather soft I’d say

It is a joy, however
And I’d like to make this everclear to you now before I forget and then let it be not said
To communicate
And know it’s effective and functionable
And laughable at
And talkable to

That’s what you are
Talkable to

And I enjoy the niceness of you