They always leave in the morning.

Before busy traffic hover over street lanes and highways.

They are gone like last night.

Like last night was a fantasy

and this mornings empty bed brings me back to reality.

Their memory is faded in to my poetry.

Written off like taxes.

And the only credit I them is

for my midnight happiness.

But my commitments are different at day break.

I never initiated them to stay.

Even the morning quickie is quickly time in their departure.

I never offered a menu for a late lunch.

Maybe it was me, why such mornings were so temporary.

No day light courtesy.

Maybe that was as far as my expectancy went.

Maybe if I went and made space for their shoes in my closet

instead next to the closest exit.

Maybe if I hung their picture on my mantle by my keep sakes. 

Or awake with fresh fruits, whole grain pancakes, and maple.

Maybe they would have been able to stay for a Saturday afternoon stroll.

Or even forever.

I want to fall in love with a… poet.

No… a prophet.

I want to hear love softer

Than a child's laughter.

I want to feel love deeper

Than seas struck by Tsunami's.

This is my spirituality.

This is me before and after Christianity.

This is me believing that churches

Belong on nude beaches,

With us on the bleachers

Consummating our faith.   

Never have I fell in love

With an existence beyond mortality.

I live and die in his presence.

And possibly his essence will be my scent.

I am confident to say that

I have never been in love before

His prophecies spoke to me.  

This is my energy…

Lost in songs and poems with out words.

Just rhythm.

I often wonder if this is my sanity… jaded. 

Or fading from lost emotions.

Rusted,

From corrosions with miscellaneous sex

And compromised kisses.

This time I will lay completely naked within his presence,

In scriptures.

In dreams pictured in marriage.

When I salvage for inspiration

To complete my stanzas.

I will accept his touches.

Answer his questions about the

Other handprints on my bosoms.

I will tell him the truth…

They were lessons to get me to my blessing.

Him.

I explained, "Even though these handprints are like wounds,

How else would I have identified your truth?"

He continued.

Performing our expressions into miracles.

Turing my reality into circular poems

In the middle of my nature.

No one has reached that far before.  

Turning time beyond 24 hours.

I will lay naked every night

To accept more of his wisdom.

Be apart of his kingdom,

Where nothing will come before his God

Or me…

His Queen.

As a child, I seen him in fairytales

And later in life in my intuitions.

I am waiting…

Inpatient.

Still holding the deepest part of my intimacy,

Sacred for my poet.

No… my prophet.

I won't look for you

Pass allergy season.

Or even during winter

Inclement weather conditions.

Because if its one thing

I learned from my father

Is that I deserve more

Than what he offered my mother,

Which was nothing described in Corinthians.

So as the season changes,

So does feelings.

And as the brisk wind

Is broken by humidity

It reminds me that

Nothing is guaranteed

Except for the mercy of the almighty.

And this is all I have left

To rely on,

When you're gone.  

Like category five hurricanes

The pain remains a disaster.

After midnight prayers

And Sunday confessions.

I realize that you are a season.

Temporary comfort

To keep me believing.

And even though you try

To offer me forever.

You can never

Give me salvation.

His love was like nine months,
Evolving but full term.
Each trimester seemed more like a disaster
But he was still growing up.
Boys dream of becoming men,
But what do men dream of?
This was my question to him.
He wanted a Nickelodeon fantasy.
Something like a Wally Cleaver daddy.
A mother from the Old Testament.
The white picket fence because
Of its association to security and stability.
But instead he fell victim to society…
Or maybe legacy.
You see he was reminded daily
That fantasy is only on TV.
By police and ambulance sirens like alarm clocks.
Lil Ray-Ray on the block selling off
Mrs. Wallaces household items.
Apartments like dormitories,
Housing generations.
And incarceration…
Incarceration was no different
than doing life in the projects.
All he knew that he'll be the next statistic,
Like his father.
Or the other men that thought that ovulation
Just meant keeping life in the ghetto.
Another cycle of statistics for the
Media on the 6 o'clock news.
He was tired of seeing the separation
Of old school and new school.
Abused and thrown in group homes like his siblings.
No one reporting the difference between rap and hip hop.
And the fact that it had no relation to last nights homicide.
Besides, the genre is listened to by 75% of white people.
Tell the DA to recalculate his motives.
This was thin line between life and death… judgments.
But he had love like a mother kissing
her newborn for the first time.
And meeting her was the first time
That he thought Nickelodeon could be just
As realistic like these projects.
Each moment with her meant another chance.
And now that thin line is like a thick border
Separating prosperity from failure.
Being a hustler now only meant
That he had to be on the grind
To love her more than the day before.
And in return she promised him more than that day before.
No more worries about planting seeds in the ghetto.
Adding to the population in that small apartment.
And maybe the next generation
Can choose education on over incarceration.
And even though his past was only 15 minutes away,
They'll ride past it and use better judgments for their life.
The other night he answered my question.
He said, Men, they dream of three things.
Growing older, becoming fathers, and… you.
Now I knew he had reached full term.
Ready for his baptism because
God has heard his testimony.
He is no longer destined
For obituaries and police reports.
And instead of sorting drugs on basketballs courts
He can be a lesson for his community.
He is able to tell under aged girls,
Looking more like over aged whores.
To get up and pull up their panties.
Because one day some one will bypass their past
And see their inner beauty.
He is able to tell boys to grow up and be their King
Because Madeline may define their eyes.
But not what's inside.
Besides, Cover Girls are designed in Photoshop.
He able to tell adult me to stop.
Stop repeating history.
Nothing is no worst than African men
Witnessing the separation of their family to slavery.
Listening to the tearing of their daughters hymen
When slave owners are dissatisfied with their wives.
Grown men stop carrying on the traditions of broken homes.
Take the spirit of Nelson Mandela.
Once a prisoner that did not let oppression suppress his victories.
Take a hold of your community and lead it like a nation.

Often I get content in life.

Caught up in yesterdays promises,

That today, I can start over.

Bring closure to a forgotten past.

Allow myself to get a head start.

On forgiving myself for tomorrows sins.

Even in these prayerful dispositions

When pro-life decisions are suddenly

Pro-choice situations.

Compromising yesterday's certainties

For tomorrow worries.

And today,

Today is like the Middle Passage.

Like Africans suffering.

Living in the darkness.

Dreaming of breeding free children.

But the watermark is on their heritage.

Washing away their religion and language.

Souls desperate to up rise.

Like the penis that compromised my yesterday.

Erect and tempting.

But today,

My middle passage aint no history lesson.

This is a matter of life and death decisions.

Becoming complacent with lust

Because I am tired of loving my self

Month, after month, after month.

Tomorrow, I can start over.

Looking forward to yesterdays prayers

Answered at day break.

Today's mistakes erased.

Like the African below sea level.

Mentally, I am no different than yesterdays slave masters,

Just extremely darker.

Supporting today's middle passage through abortion.

Escorting young Africans to meet their ancestors.

And now their future, erased.

Like the lost scriptures of

Mary Magellan and Jesus relations… erased.

But like I said before,

This aint no history lesson.

This is life and death decisions.

Front line missions

Against my mistakes.   

And I wish that tomorrow they can be erased.

Like the Middle Passage in history books.

Yesterday's hypocrisy easily justified hundreds of years later.

And I look at today.

My heart the same as slave masters.

Easily justified years later to my son

When he ask about his absent brothers and sisters.

His family… erased.

Placed in heaven with his ancestors.

So it's true when they say that history repeats it self.

My tomorrows are now forever.

Remembered when the Griots preach

About the slave trade and genocide.

When they hold vigils for the ones

That died in the Middle Passage.

For my own suffrage,

Rituals are performed for my forgiveness.

Jesus put himself on the cross for this very moment.

For when my covenant is breeched.

And my middle passage reaps what is sowed.

For when today's passion turns into tomorrows lesson.

If only I stuck to yesterdays decisions

So that today's young Africans can continue the village.

That tomorrow's culture can be bridged across nations.

And no longer can we blame "The Depression" and wars

For the creations of the ghettos.

So that we can teach those that "Urban" is not just African culture.

And we can start curing the ignorance

By changing its meaning to

"Universal Religion Between All Nations"…. URBAN

But let me remind you again,

This aint no history lesson.

This is life and death decisions.

That today little Africans are still dying in the middle passage.

Reciprocal to yesterday's pages,

Erased in history.

Civil rights blurry because leaders

Sell out to fear and controversy.

And the responsibility of the revolution

Submit to the scribes of Jim Crow.

We are still drowning below sea level.

And today, I am still a rebel to my ancestor's struggles.

With the mind of a slave master,

Supporting the middle passage.

* This will be the day that I die.
* This will be the day that I die.

Like 4am break ups.
Before the sun rises
and shed light on your decision.
Driving everything out your life
because you can't decide which is right.
Tonight, death gives you the easy way out.
Distant, too disconnected from yourself to breath.
You only know that the enemy is camouflaged.
Maybe sharing your mirror.
Reflecting your inner.
And you can't stand it any longer.
Your rejection grows stronger.
The truth gets mixed up in your anger.
You become a stranger to your own being.
Now, breathing in the poison.
Of course, this will be the day that you day.
From 4am anxiety attacks.
The autopsy report might classify this as an act of suicide.
Before you and the morning collide,
you decide that this might just be the end.
No other decision has ever been so passionate.
This is like Shakespeare sonnets.
Mid-evil tragedies.
A glory to civil rights
because you tonight this brings you liberation.
No more expectations,
No more compromising relationships.
You have accomplished the American dream...
death and taxes.
The military will hang a flag over your casket
and honor your fury.
They trained you like a Marine,
no feelings... no mercy.
This is the freedom the recruiter promised you.

Mental agony for base housing.

And this will be the day that you die

Because only the few survive.

And the last time you had a chance was birth.

While other young souls search for heaven you're given

the opportunity to live…to love,

and to choose your own death.

All you need is space

and no regrets to clear your conscious.

This will be the end.

The pain is so persistent

that it'll have atheist believing in divine intervention.

When this 4 am dimension

Have you facing questions

your too afraid to answer.

Your too ashamed to realize

that you can't be truthful to anyone else,

if you keep lying to yourself.

Sweet Jesus, Mother Mary, Allah, Buddhist Priest.

Your looking for biblical prophecies

but the Gods are not there to help

your 4 am redemptions.

Maybe poetry could be your replacement.

But tonight your journal looks like recycled metaphors.

Similes unfold similar situations.

So just go ahead take God's decision

And just… die.

Cause everyone takes the before after picture

But never capture today. 

Never treasure the moment.

To be happy sometimes you got to live in the present.

The past brings back bad memories

And thinking about the future brings worry and fear.

So if tonight you think about the blessings you had today,

you'll decide that…

this wont be the day that you die.

That, this wont be the day that you die.

So just try. 

Try to live for today, for your God.

For your family.

For the fact that you raised above poverty…

mentally and spiritually.

Even if it's for the prosperity

Spoken Word or Hip-Hop brings to your soul

and to this stage.

So just stay… stay with meanother day.

These last few hours are forgivable.

 No one is capable of judging you

except for your god.

That you thought that may have forgotten about you.

But he wouldn't.

if you just decide to….

live.

Just love yourself this time and

live for today. 

Naked against the air that covets my side.
My glutious maximouse is not big enough to fit your absence.
Uncomfortably pressed between the Sealy Posturpedic
And your memory.
Yearning to have my areolas
Suffocating from the pillow top.
Positioned to your imagination.
Dusk is exiting and the morning is calling
But who cares about time restraints.
Today I am naked like the other mornings
Since October. 
Gravitating to new found pleasures.
Climaxing.
The alarm is ringing.
Our time will not escape our morning moans.
Our nine to five is compromised.
Wishing that just for this moment
There was an afternoon shift.
These thoughts lingered
From the past few morning escapades.
These thoughts are now delayed for your return.
I can't wait for my extremities to touch
The next amber sky.
For my nightly fears to be positioned.
You and your penis
Insisting that be being naked requires patients.
Awaiting for you to take your stance
Above my head board.
Your finger is persistent with my vulva.
Our flow is consistent
For your ejaculation to feel like forever.
This morning seem never ending.
Looking over your shoulders at the alarm clock,
There might be five minutes left
To beat the highway rush and
Swipe our ID badge. 
Or we can just stay here…
Cocked in our romance.
The Department of Defense can have you later.
Or better yet, tell them this is the answer for peace.
And protest by calling in this morning.
Our Am is reserved for what cumming promised us.
To be stuck in my cavities.
It's half past nine and your erection is still eager to satisfy.
Each extremity to the east and west of my Sealy Posturpedic.
My moans echoes from the north
And you in the south.
Tasting the A.M.
I'm climaxing.
Just thinking about the
May morning mist.
For my femininity to filled
With your seven month long secretions.
For your scrotum to elevate a few more degrees.
Embracing your entry through all openings.
The alarm is still buzzing.
And my hand is still looking for your penis.
But all I am getting is the air, next to my glutious maximous.
Caressing your absence.

Spirit (c) 2006

Missing him,
And this is what it feels like to love again.
To breath.
To flat line and to be resuscitated
Because the light at the end of the tunnel signaled to go back
He is my defibulater.
My feelings raw and left open
Like my flesh on the autopsy table.
I have walk amongst the scorn for too long.
So he was sent for me.
Like the three that was sent for Job.
In my silence.
When there was nothing that could be said
Except… Thank you, Lord.
Through my gaze
When I looked at him and saw my reflection.
Through actions that could be classified as miracles.
He was in my plan from before
I was a tickle in my mother's womb.
So this is what it feels like
to love again.
Like this was the first time.
To be nineteen and focused on this future.
To laugh.
To love myself
Because he reassured me
That beauty did not mean
Hi heels, short skirts, and a perm.
To further respect my womanhood
And my vagina.
When the sun revealed to me
The shadows of my skeletons.
They walked close behind.
I was a used virgin
And he made it seem… practical
For learning about life.
Too humble to judge me for
My parties and Tequila.
Still he felt me like I was brand new.
Uninhibited by the scorn
I walked in for too long.
And this is what it feels like.
When our pulse beats simultaneously.
To live and to fellowship.
To kiss with passion.
To be optimistic.
To have answered prayers.
When your tears meant letting go,
But not running away.
Staying connected through
Emails and voicemails and spirituality.
He is content with his category.
After my borderline Christianity, my son, and my poetry.
To know that God would be jealous of him,
And so I am careful with the bibles warnings
And this is how it feels…
To feel loved…
Again.

Spirit

Picture these words as gentle,

Low whispers.

Kissing your fantasies.

Erecting something

That only passion could explain.

This is not physical.

This is chemistry.

That only lonely hearts could explain.

Because their yearn for affection

Creates the perfect emotion.

Not erotic but sensual.

Feeling these words

May seem unusual

But this makes distance expendable.

Sampling divine energy.

Every one has a story

About true love

But we have faith.

Griots to romantic blessings.

These words,

Whispering Corinthians.

Kissing your spirituality.

Resurrecting something

That only God could explain.

This is not physical

This is divine.

Your touch is blind

But I can still feel your caress.

Suppress in between

My orgasms and my imagination.

Muscles contracting to grasp the moment.

Masturbating me with your prose.

Bypassing those who told us

That making love required

Us laying on top to each other.

Groping our loins.

Suckling areas only revealed at birth.

Exercising our joints to positions unknown.

Gasping for more stamina

To pull back and fight the rush.

Trusting that the pain is sensational.

Occasionally looking

In each other eyes for reinforcement.

Shouting vain gestures.

Sometimes faking your pleasures for reassurance

I'd

Rather

Stay

Abstinent.

Loosing the elements of our bond

In premature gratifications,

Is not worth it.

Nothing is more sacred

Than your written whispers.

Because thinking of you

May make my lips flutter

But your words

Will comfort other areas… forever.

 

Spirit

I have a boyfriend now.
I am not saying this to brag.
But they say that it takes
3 months to form a habit.
So lets just say for over a year,
I have indulged
Heavily in single hood.
Now, in too deep in lonely rituals,
I wonder which is most comfortable for my life style.
Tamed but wild,
I am insecure of myself.
Maybe afraid of loosing myself
In some one else.
Or having him getting lost in parts of myself.
I think of those lonely nights and my nipples get hard.
And I think of those lonely nights and my clitoris gets moist.
Because I think of those lonely nights,
When I wanted to be touched in parts lost to pain.
Parts lost to men with the same face.
Theyre all too familiar.
Each taking a particular piece of my sanity. 
Each adding to my insecurity
and the need to vent my soul out in this poetry.
I am safe with my lonely nights, my pen, and my wet dreams.
Safe with my silent prayers when it seemed like
God was saving me for this revolution.
That has yet to come.
Like I am yet to cum from parts
afraid to climax past the last promises never kept.
Because his handprints dont fit the imprints on my privates.
He is not familiar not yet maybe never.    
Maybe, I am not wet enough for him to breech my broken hymen.
I am still silent and insecure of my self.
Maybe he deserves more of a woman
less in the evolution of her black pride.
Or maybe that could hide behind her hesitations.
Like how I am hesitant about this commitment.
I have been misled before.
Ive been fed that romantic propaganda.
More often than I feed my sorrows in my poetry.
I am hungry,
Like how my words are empty.
But these are my insecurities
And I am afraid of them.
Anxious that they will one day
corrupt my decisions. 
Like one day, leaving him.
For those lonely nights
Wet and unabsorbed.
So I am forced to face this irony,
that I have a boyfriend.
And in three months maybe he can mold me
Like how God molds the curves on my body.
They are forever.
Like my vague past.
I am still naked and I want him.
Like a feens eyes on a crack vile.
He can be my habit. 
His hands like my blanket.
Absorbing my cumming.
Touching me. 
Touching me.
Touching me.

 

I am just not ready.

There is too much of

this thirst to party

and drink the night away.

And no worries about

how late I came in.

I am lost with in my limits. 

So don't ask me where I've been.

And I know, I know

that his hope drives further

than the 6 cities that separates us.

Believe me, I trust in faith too.

But this life is too new.

Too spontaneous for us

and our vulnerable feelings.

Too fragile for our circumstances

that stands between our options to lust or to love.

Right now, this is my redemption

for my sacrifices that hides

behind my independence.

Yeah, cause I am too much of everything

for you to have any trust in me.

Too much of that woman searching

for her identity through veiled history.

Too hidden behind obligations.

Too much of a child searching for voice

through her self esteem.

Too much of a mothers dream of a family.

Cause I'm too much of the enemies remedy.

Too self destructive.

To the point, I am like to hell with this

And with him and with them

and this drink in my hand.

That makes me too vulnerable to handle

the hands of a man curiosity.

Or too afraid of his generosity.

Too much in denial of this emotional mutiny.

Cause all he wanted is for me to be ready.

Cause he traveled through 6 cities of separation.

Roaming through my 360 degrees of frustration.

Anxiety stained me with premeditated memories.

I am already planning our children's wedding.

I'm conforming my goals to his beliefs.

My experience was destined for him.

My reality, too passionate for him.

And so I stay numb.

Too hard to feel the penetrations.

And he's too hard to accept that there are limitations.

I've restricted the temptations.

But he's too eager and too vicious.

Too much into lusting over this erotic moment.

Exploiting erotic movements.

His promised love,

harder than the gravel pavement

he crossed to reach me

Nomads don't settle, they keep on traveling.

So let's keep it moving

in our revolt against destiny.

Be humble to my distance

because I know what I'm looking for.

Change requires persistence.

Motivated like the spirits

of our great grandmothers.

But his pending love

have made me too resistant.

My virtues too raped of its dignity.

Too afraid to whore my morals

away in uncertainties.

Sleeping with the enemy with in me.

Ejaculating infatuations.

And I can't handle the inches

it took to hit my emotions.

Every hour on repeat

cause he stays deep with in my soul. 

He wants to let go!

He wants to let go!

Cause he knows he is unprepared for my innocence.

There are miles of distance with in himself.

But he keeps thrusting at my disadvantages.

I climax his images of mutual readiness.

Each caress ordained to convince him and me

that the only thing between the 6 cities

that separates us is the air

and our insecurities.

 

Spirit

 

Copy Right 2006