white is an odd color for a tree to bark itself in
to cry out "look at me"
like a banner, like a signpost
during the long winters of NY, the only tree in this yard
had an envy so strong for the snow it scared itself into a white gift wrap
that it wore for the next twenty years

during the spring and summer months
the tree grew jealous of the hedges and other trees,
their reds and yellows, sunsets and brimstones
decided to sprout blossoms of pink and purple and green
paraded the flowers like fans for attention
unable to go get it due to its rooting
the tree was just a few years above sapling
an adolescent amount of rings centered its trunk
too young even for a sweethearts carving
immortalizing sentiment of young love
wanting to be more than fling, more than hormone
the tree had dreams of oak and redwood, maple and seeing the roof of the house from a different perspective.

when the attention of a 13 year old boy came calling
the tree tried not to shake and cause any of its blossoms to fall
tried to be staunch, oak, redwood, deep roots
but it swayed in the breeze instead
if it could have hugged itself, it would have
if it could cross twig fingers to prevent flying loose from the ground it would have
this anticipation was enough to dry up all the water running through its system
the tree had no sense of weight, of resistance
limitations of green
the tree knew bend. sway.
knew flowers and color and sleep and awaken
but when the boy jumped up to take hold of the tree's thickest knotted heartiest branch
the tree knew gravity knew roots knew stay
Solid root stay
knew nothing of going
but when the boy went up like the leaves when the wind gets hungry for change
and the soil began to miss the boy's presence
the tree swore it could see the earth's roots beckon for the boy to come down
but the boy did not let go
the tree knew wait and bend
the tree knew gravity and fall
the tree tried to be redwood, oak, maple
the tree tried to sway
tried to be ancient rings heavy
but the ground wanted the boy more
the boy wanted the branch more than the tree wanted anything

the fibrous cacophony of a green limb snapping from an unexpectant tree
is not unlike the scream that cannot find its 2nd breath,
that clamors from the throat and crawls loose from the tongue
but lacks resolve enough to pass the lips
a tree cannot scream for its losses
so we soak in the silent echo of our missing roots
hold the agony in bones til we can sigh heavy
stay still
be maple, be redwood, be wind
and sway.

<input ... > the first slice into the 5:30am blue green perfection is not seamless
we aimfor it each time, perfection
a zen-like entry where we do not disturb the water
we become the water
but this is not wishing well
not the metaphors of time and space
the water does not want us
at any time of day
and at 5:30am at the Hempstead high school pool
six lanes of chlorinated still blue
are invaded by brown lycra wrapped nappy headed bodies trying to be razor
trying to be fluid, be dolphin, killer whale, sea lion, eel
trying not to be what we are on land
but the water does not want us
we are always going against the tide
the moon doesnt call to us
we are not tidal here
we are trying not to be what we are on land
bestial
hands and legs
bicep and latissimus and back and pull and push
we are muscle and perform and win and push and bet and run
we were running and there was nowhere left to run
we were at the edge of the world
we looked out into the emptiness of where we have never been
and we were pushed
and we dove
can we be fluid
can we be new beasts
can we be shark and manta ray
fin and gills and teeth
can i be sharp and scale in this
it does not want me
it tells me so when i climb out, towel off and the moisture is sucked from my skin
I am ashy
a walking ghost skin each after
each aftermath
i am leaving behind parts
why would any black child do this?

sinking hourglass levels marked by meaningless meetings
been sitting conglomerate all sundial
high noon sees you exit bound

see you crowd streetwalk
seek anti-avalanche hush
sift through the bystander heartbeats
let their pumpy pump songs high hat your distraction
breathe in the jackhammer's cavalcade
locate your own bass bone thrum
crumble your brick wall hunger
knuckle dream this seconds aftermath
be this seconds aftermath
let the distant thunderclouds scissor your eyes
be 3pm saturday playground open eyes
cut yourself playground
big bang merry go round
be merry go round
scrawl that wrecking ball sized on sidewalk
synchronize that
symphony that

wait for the cymbal crash

be the secondary aftermath

let the high hats settle in

let them see your back

1pm sees you entrance bound

you once did not need instructions for this

welcome the rain
the soft push down from what we
upon our top palettes pretend we don't wish to be heaven

welcome the before
if we do not have the before
we lack appreciation for the now
let us welcome the dirt and grime
the sooted guilt of curses and the satisfaction
found lying between the sting of the impact and the reverberating SMACK
and the tingles running tip of finger to shoulderblade
savor the blood rising from gums and teeth
the copper and salt stinging the tongue and warming it
revel as it stains,
mixes with the same saliva you spat out in pitchforked aggression 7, no 8 breaths ago
never worn skin this heavy before
but the rise of goosepimple, the attention stand of each follicle
is a shot  to the solar plexus
never knew power felt like this
would have stolen it from her sooner

welcome the rain
the river each drop down her face travels
taking with it a little bit of your storm's wreckage
past bruises, past scars, past trembling lips
picks up blood and drops to the floor
she has never believed in heaven

read it in his chin
he is a sandpaper skin revolt
and the sideline bleachers in his head are full of stomp and happenstance
he is the aluminum echo pounding cross the greenery
he wants you to want to say yes as u hear it
he wants you to be waiting for the next beat to drop
to make your head move yes yes yes

instead we scream at him because he is just the scarecrow
the hornets nest juggled between windmill wipers
he is a gasoline matchstick
a zipper lock
he has been locked up,
we have locked him up
keyed his water lily insides with epithets
he is our pause for breath between "I" and "hate you"
god goes there,
he is not god, just holds her place
while she is busy attending to the fire in our bellies
burning all the "sure things" and dove tails we've swallowed
trying to convince him he is just the bench warmer taking up our entitlement

we stomp and scream at him on one side of the field
and he will just be the echo no one has care to hear.

she is an eyebrow curling over into doubt,
is smirking her territory
call her claim jumper
a minute mans forgotten daughter
she walks the alleyways in search of dumpster dive dreamers
she has never known front of the house
never been the lettermans jacket,
even when she spent a summer beneath the quarterback
french kissing his ego after the cheerleader could smell his side of the tracks
all burnout, burners, walking needle children, standing water

she is the torn plastic bag right before submerging
she is no longer beneath him but he has submerged her
shaken her from his sights to keep his horizons tracks free
and she can smell the cheerleader's shadow shame on him when they pass in the halls

she has read the stories,
she is a mirror's broken promise
she knows how this is supposed to end
she is not the coccoon, not the butterfly
she is moth
all segmented legs, leathery wings and hard hearted absence
she is collision course with the flame
she is the smell of burning flesh
she is crooked smile and jumping claim
she is friendly with the pain
she is a spirit splinted and ready for a fresh breaking.

we spoke bmx, digging in the dirt, climbing trees
abandoned fields and the years between the 3 o'clock bell
and the "dinner" call from mother lips
patrick and reggie, 1 year apart
light skinned buck toothed boys
carried fun in their front pockets
always willing to share it for a price
they never received a dinner call
lived round the corner on Hook Creek Boulevard
dividing line between queens and nassau county
the have's and the rest of us
Mr. Vialla, their father stood somewhere between 6ft and the sky
his haitian french patois would bounce off the houses thru the neighborhood
radaring each of the dirt and pre-adolescent swet encrusted t-shirts and holy jean
til it found the targets
their heels would either rock off their standing point in glee
or liquefy into the ground with fear
never any argument with the voice
only the reply of forward movement
on bike or foot sprinting toward its origin
reggie and patrick spoke little french but were fluent in the excitement that requires risk as its bedfellow
like the time we were tag team wrestling on the gym mat i owned but was never sure where it came from, striped yellow and blue and doubled as our crew's breakdancing performance space, reggie and i were pitted agianst one another
he 1 year my senior manuevered himself at my back
his arm round my neck in a chokehold
we all had never dared attempt previously
body panicked
oxygen became a pen pal i had not heard from in years
flailing like i had been tossed from a window
gasping
crying like there was no such thing as a reputation
still, reggie held on
challenging me to whodini my way out
he owned me
a scream with no voice escaped my lips
and found its volume knob exit point from my sister's throat.
i remember black being my eyes' new mirror.

wallflower support beam
late night diner dress code enforcer
you are a reason to turn the lights on
top shelf chimney sweep
the echo in my ear drum
a history book page turner
backyard swingset seesaw marathoner
friendship's first mate
monday morning dandelion blower
a dew drop off shoulder hand me down
you are the birds dawn serenade
lovesick lullaby

call my hand a home
my chest your backrest
my mouth a vessel for your yes

say you will let me read the rings of your miracle memory forest
we will throw them to the fire
read the smoke signals to each other
and fall asleep inhaling the once upon a times
that wallpapered your dreams.

2:32 pm and we are on the floor,
grown men
on the floor
20 minutes north of lansing michigan lies a building called rivendell
nothing reminiscent of elves, trolls or magic
it was once a mental hospital.

physically, we are both grown men - he 3 inches my superior,
he is 17, hair chopped to a crew cut
determined to be steel. to be iron.

i sit in a restraint hold
attempting to hang on to steel going magma
bones throbbing, muscles burning as he tests for fault lines in my grip
he wishes to break the damn
to drown and kill a boy half his size

my chest pressed to his back
arms barely encircling his chest, fingers clasped at solar plexus
i have his whole world in my hands
one he is eager to douse
i hold him closer than his father ever has,
than his father ever wanted to

he sends every nigger combination the internet ever taught him
back over his shoulder at me,
he taps at my foundation with every weapon in his belt
after 45 minutes of seething, blistering anger racing through him
"I'll fucking kill you..."
he surrenders
and i feel iron soften into man
almost into boy

this is what we men must do to hold each other
to be held.

<input ... >green construction paper sign
contains bold block lettering
what would daemond do?
my teen volunteers have sermonized me a crusader
deemed me infallible
determined that i can key my way out of any locked question
on a quiet friday evening they immortalized me in colored paper, markers and elmer's glue.

color me flattered
color me incendiary
paper mache me an end of quarter class field trip
paper clip me blushing to the sign in triplicate
they have arts and crafted my fragile clay ego whole

<input ... >

5 foot 5 inches of a transplanted whirlwind
she stands in her kitchen, silent
bare feet on shaded mexican tile,
she is brushstroking the sky outside her window

left hand signaling the temperament of her speech, the right dictating the target
you can read the treble clef in her emotional symphony without ever hearing a word
fingers splayed, palms out and up for a graduation,
a grandbaby's first steps, 3:30 pm saturday phone call from a distant son
knuckles clench air in tactile swivels for a speeding ticket,
palms grow heavy, hide shamelike when disappointment comes knocking

a 3cm scar marks the left thumb,
a wart she had removed thru cosmetic surgery
she rubs it counterclockwise like a phantom child when she fears disappointment's visit

the nevada desert is the community p-patch god was gifted aeons ago, but has forgotten to water

I want to ask if she glimpses rain on the horizon,
if she has planted herself here hoping to oasis herself,
praying that all her hope bubbles will rise heavenward,
that god will take notice and be unable to resist popping them
finally granting rain and a new eden that disappointment and her wringing hands cannot find her in

she looks up at me, gathers her thoughts like moss, glances out the window again and whispers, not a cloud in the sky.

the hummingbird heart rate can reach 1,260 beats per minute
they have short life-spans and many die during their first year
Deshaun is the littlest bird in his 6th grade flock

he scribbles index finger thick pencil marks
then retraces letters heartbeat swift
guards his last meal nectar etchings with forearm
read him like a scripture penned in a dead language

he grips his pencil like a dagger
deshaun is deathrow at his desk
as if each mark could unlock the contents of his corsetted heart
he is a shawshank reach for release on the other side

cuticle deep into the desk and still he draws no sugary water
i am welling up looking at him
wishing to share from my water table
but deshaun plays cactus flower
and my salted tears will erode the
11 year old innocence he's shipwrecked into his glass bottle eyes

tender hand extended, a soft voice offered,
a compliment on the plumage he sometimes forgets to hide
but i forget that male hummingbirds do not take part in nesting
so my efforts do fly fancy enough to catch his attention

hummingbirds consume more than their own weight in nectar each day,
At any given moment, they are only hours away from starving.
Deshaun sits side-saddle in his desk always, stands 4 times in a 5 minute time frame
visiting the flower desks of his classmates
The hummingbird can barely walk at all,
it is much more comfortable in flight.

If someone who dresses themselves in your skin tone is ever elected president,
take 1 step forward and cross over into the promised land
savor the unbuckling tear of jim crow off your melanin tempered backs
imagine the uncurling of fingers from midnight steering wheels during routine traffic stops where the word "boy" will be more than a drive by
the reluctant rigor mortis unclenching of jaws dug molar deep into the puckered skin of word nigger,

relish the release from the "not in my back yards",
from the public housing imprisoning our dark angels and the prison industrial complex committed to unleashing our devils

because this is a reparational trade-in
cant you hear the yokes fresh off our necks thudding to the floor
forget the color scheme,
the glass ceiling is being melted down
ignore the mirror, turn your head the world is changing

but if the memory of your reflection becoming a bullseye's spouse creeps back
if your brain red lights at the memory of people who look like you auctioned off for hip size, muscle tone, strength, breeding
and are now auctioned off for hip size, strength
just blackboard yourself a clean slate...

washing dishes
index finger sliced by can's razor edge
pain chooses a bumblebee's touch
slight pressure on finger pad
i can see into myself
the line separating the world and me is blurred

count the scuff marks on the floor outside your door
the fist dents in the plaster
welcome to the nightmare chop shop
quit pussyfooting round the dark tunnel faces
their light was blown out in the 80's
when reagan economized hope with a just say no slogan
made poverty a trivial pursuit
race relations a bed-time story

crack became battleship
torpedoed housing projects
you sunk my neighborhood
made me an afterschool slave
begging to be a workerbee
the queen has forgotten me

i dreamed candy land and commencement speeches
but i am no longer fingertips and steering wheel
been demoted to lawnmower keychain
a keyboard template typer
blank screen dodger
empty scan tron sheet
bubble in my sanctity
i have no answer to fill in your blanks
fire me straightlaced
fire me crooked letter
fire history's dinner plate memoirs
fire me a coffeetable book end
book end the corners
corner the philosphers' misfires
treasure hunt a backroad bonfire i can see myself in
let me be a nostalgic breadwinner
let me crawl back innocent
let me etch--a-sketch re-do this last lifetime
bring me a doorstep i can fling myself at
mercy must live somewhere
and i am no longer above asking for donations.

the rumbling in my stomach is an earthquake's sigh
a crow's semi conscious cackle
my mind jumpstarts to a hairpin standstill
my mind is an 18 ring circus with no master
the lions drive cars the aerialists juggle monkeys
the clowns walk tightropes
and elephants sell popcorn balls in the stands

i am not crazy but i chase shadows in the dark
talk to my finger puppet tears and string them together
when they stop disclosing the truth to me
i am 5 breaths away from madness
i could hang myself with it but its more fun to jump rope and sing songs
play leapfrog into oncoming traffic
ive been pumping reality thru my veins to prevent invisibility
shooting it back out my aftermath

survivor's guilt

why not hate the gift of survival
why not burden the neck, hips, knees with it
beat the bystanders to the punch
they will be thinking it already
they race you to the belief
that it should have been you

hand travels up to forehead open palmed
this signifies shame
regrets understudy
become a hunched shoulder slave tenant
wither in your ashen skin
become a door slammed in the face
fear the door jam
ignore the nighttime tire screeches
the dark side of the moon turned its back after seeing that look in your eyes
that look in your eyes softly whispering
your vowels excavating lungs for a bundle of truth hidden
between bruised ribs for safe keeping
bury the 4th grade stereotypes
bury the wishbone decrees
let the shame roots bolden
to a dull bladed agony
nails chewed down past cuticle
shame does not know its public face
it is the uneven palette of gravel
a backseat nightmare

he was given his fathers name as his middle.
felix is his father's middle name
remove the "el" - spanish for the masculine definitive "the" - you are left with fix.
the fix

fix:To kill and preserve (a specimen) intact for microscopic study.

the clip clop of your solid black work shoes you spit shined every day
reminded him of a herd on verge of stampede
the creaking of the floorboards always gave you away

he wondered while you stood in the doorway
blocking the light from playing a role
if you thought of smothering him in his sleep
considered how easily your weight focused
solely into your right hand placed over his mouth

at what point would you have begun the study
analyzed where your creation had gone awry
when he took center stage in your wife's eye and you
became only an understudy

fix: to make nonvolatile or solid
when did you decide that the presence of both your chemical makeups
in this equation was too combustible
who was solidified
who became vapor
Why fuel this?
Why not face the burning?
did you consider smothering it?
what was the breakdown worth?
did you plan on sucking the air out of the room with you?
is your middle name departure?
is your last name a formula?
did you double check your figures
or just take a guess on the odds?