villain rotating around the sun

if is the perpetual         confusion over other people’s comforts // if only i could make a dog
march

if only i didn’t have to talk
if only i could truly remember you
would i
find love

???

i am wild         & that is why       i am         alone

mad for the gravity // of god
not church

i should         be grateful         anyone’s kissed me
so i know         what it’s like         to miss it

if it’s such a         good life
why can’t a black girl // cry

???

a shame
all this fruit // spoiling
in a motel bed

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the adjustment

i am birthed
from the split second between
a bad decision & breathing—
a bright child
watering myself down
to an appropriate thickness.

(necessity after necessity is nested from my delicate cunt
like pulling
a gem
from cobwebs)

& when i ask a man
to lull me to sleep
with his tongue,
okay      is the lie i tell myself.

i wade through their darkness
& mine
tasting sediment
blooming hunger…
mama i say, there is blood
on the nape of my neck
where i’ve stitched my mask on

half god / half gxrl

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untitled

inspired by Morgan Parker

am i a coward
a happy ending
something that bears fruit with brown spots

?

after an hour of lush romantics
how dare i think i am a person
not a funeral

?

my eyes watching over
1000 dead things
conspiring to frankenstein a heartbeat
from blood-like liquid       from will       from blackened earth

am i…

am i anxious heat
some fifth season

?

a place to send your men to
a field study for marriage

?

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yet, who would by his evidence send a brother to the gallows?

to enter us is not the only way to
know us;

1. we decolonize solid waste
to feel whole 2. we exist pre-dawn,         black embryo in amnion
3. the sensation of fictional autonomy
or just, 4. some pleasant silence amongst the flowers

perhaps,
5. a memory pawn shop

6. water
7. melanin
8. bones & blood

we have 9. no names
10. full names
11. white names
12. rotting pith

we are not 13. joining wood
14. harvested to whet bowels
15. blood to be lapped & painted with

we want
16. the privilege of anticipation
17. a dark          that is not the blackness
living
in our closed mouths

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saint capriano

i started out thinking: my love is never loud / i’m behind the scenes / loving you / i’m wiping the
sweat / off your brow / & sending you back into the ring / loving you / i’m the photosynthesis
happening / in the grass / beneath your feet / as you walk on me / loving you / i’m the cells /
carrying oxygen to your organs as you sleep / loving you / the force / breaking the seal of the
condom / loving you / i’m the gravity / keeping your jesus poster up / loving you / i’m the idea of the
color you want to paint with / but can’t mix / loving you / the electrical current driving the light / to
your home / so you can reassure your daughter / the daughter that should have been mine / that
there are no monsters / loving you / i’m just gonna rent a stage / because i’m tired / of quiet lust /
fed up / with gesture-filled / devotion / like knees scraped / like thighs burning / like a body / in
need of an ice bath / & betray what i just said / no more love / by candlelight / no shadow-sign
language / i am / the golden child / the bareback bitch / bring your devotions / your em dashes /
your more / & i’ll bring my / salacious / charred / sooty appetite / for you / like something that
scares dogs / that sends rats fleeing / roaches crawling / back into dank holes / the x-ray that finds
the pea-sized cancer / watching you / watching me / watching it / grow / how what’s expelled /
looks like history / disguised as guts / in a bucket / trash day delight / for things that eat flesh / &
come / for bile parties / i’m that kind of loving you / the bury you / & don’t shed a tear / loving you /
until i am / by / myself.

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sage in august

there are too many              black boys settling              into the square of my ceiling
like balloons dangling     black boys without legs           cut off from speeding trains black
boys with dried bullet wounds seeping           through their hoodies     black boys with candies
in their pockets     & jail jumpsuits     on              black boys with graduation caps           fresh
gravel on their faces     black boys with pink bras              & blonde wigs              black boys
castrated        holding their heads in their hands              black boys with smiles        carved
into their cold              dead        faces        black boys              with black boy babies              in
their arms        sockets empty        black boys gutted        with flowers        in their
carcasses        black boys        foaming at the mouth     black boys praying              cheeks
stained        white        with tears        black boys in drag     black boys              dragged
rope burns     tattooed     on their necks     black boys                    whispering “i love you,”        now
& “fuck you”             later when i trade pussy for a dollop of truth     black boys swiping       
nectar from     the fruit of     their wounds     on my forehead     sorry black boys     pretentious black
boys     quarreling black boys     studious black boys     black boys in deep debt      with class codes
instead of      names     black chests     rising & falling with my epithet etched into the skin        i
am tearing the dreamcatcher     that     traps these     black boys like bald     eagles in     an
electrical fence     there are too     many     black boys     wading     in     my blood     sunbathing in
my light     black boys i haven’t yet        figured out     how to     love

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rituals

he thinks     that if he paints     a circle of honey     ties bags of grain     around his neck     sheaths his
cock     in coca leaves     that you will emerge     dripping mucosa     as if born     from his will. your
resolve     in this     power     playground     is a gold ball     he holds     & taunts you with. you are
what is wet     & drinkable     something to turn     around     & be considered     on the tongue. his
instrument is barbarian     because he is taught to wield it     as you would a machete     on
sugarcane. the body     mortar(ed)     & pestle(‘d)     spread     between a roll     of obligation.

●

you are his     delicate tough     seed collector     for beads     of progeny caviar.     pound for pound
shaved to the stump     & collected     in his hands     salted     & left to cure.     you will call him the
myth of lightning     striking     in the same place     twice     a bruise     above your left breast…
the drunkenness     of new night     new pleasure.

●

he handles you     the way your grandfather     handled     all the women     in his life     the
women     crusted     in his eyelids after good sleep     the women     swept away     like dust with
pointer broom     the women     praying for him     at the foot of his bed     the women     casting
hexes on each other     for his attention     a ghosting devotion.

●

they say     [his mother, mostly]     that he wouldn’t squeeze a live ant     between his thumb &
forefinger     that he is     to be trusted     with all small things     performing grand gestures     & yet
here you are     moating rivers     around you     in bed     nesting     the tangled     wildflower
caught     in your throat.

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a black boy’s currency is his life

you argue against my humanity
so much                 i / dream / i am / a loaded / gun
so much                 i / bear / the dead bodies / of boys / inside me
16       16       16       16

i like when you call me            kid,
not machine

i am                {no myth}{wild blood moon}
r i s i n g
so much                            = rage trapped in ice, my future frost bitten
16       16       16       16

& womxn cry for me & men rape me          & i fight myself

∞

in a hot, grey box

a vine on the race
tree
16       16       16       16

how sad / you been
so much                                           inside / me
& don’t know / me

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i think i want a scratchy beard

eating banana bread     in my underwear     by the window      watching boys ride by     fast on big
bikes wondering     why their bodies     fit into the crevices     of spots behind fences     behind
concrete walls     behind dumpsters     secret clubs with special handshakes      & sometimes
even sub sandwiches     split into fives     breaking bread brothers     blood communions
communication     unheard     unseen     but there     right in the pit of my belly      longing to
belong     to a ‘hood’     but ripe with breasts & slicked edges     warring…wanting to adopt
the customary     the strength     within me     i know     if my uterine lining would     stop
seeping out     & staining every fabric     i wrapped with     & then i got older     & understood
the expectations     give your life & you’ll get god     you’ll draw the sword from stone     with
your bare hands     & your brains     they’ll turn you into     something calloused     & veined
you’ll be the object     of desire     a king to an infinite feeding     of queens     what is owed to
you, yours     what is unearned by you, yours      what is death without a funeral?      what is
this way i grip myself     from the waist down     as if i have something to drive into you?        bomb
off     half this body      & place it in a museum     luck be a lady     & you a horny horse     look
at her…     afraid to suck a thing     until it’s dry        stay thirsty, then        damned if you
don’t           you won’t           & when they ask a     child to recount the days     she’s
spent silent        don’t be surprised     if it’s a yellow legal pad        an electric typewriter a
password protected diary           a closet wall          an old rolling suitcase in the
basement           a steel tub where her mother watches     her bathe           a big, red
pimple              a theory.

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boi falling out of sky over field

i know all about     being a boi     & welcoming the wool to     my rock     i believe that it’s alright for
a queer body to journey     to a place more alive     more faduh than muddah     without begging
to elders for ascension     by making the bed by     holding the flowers wiping black tiles     by
stirring the pot washing drapes     & waiting     in flush     obedience      without     confessing     a thing

●
for many moments      many of which i     know by others telling me     i hid the moans in the soft
skin under my breasts     & called it     king     stance ego squall orthodox     depression      &
simultaneous pride     in the dark my faduh dus giv me lime     wash     spike     wit rum dus play blues
he knows i am the fifth son & the     ‘diamond’ named     hard & brilliant     the only one with
gall fat enough to fill a magnum

●
& muddah     muddah she blind to the     boi birthed     the boi     scraping the medicine cabinet
cradling the blue of half-raw morning(s)     at odds     with the shaven     gleaming meat     of a rare
mare     the bedrock of     our meaning will always be a pink     bathtub     where i showed her that
yes,    yes     i am trapped in an understanding of a      wom(a)-xn but…

●
i am starved for a mouth full     of wet

●
so much armor     to ‘husband’     so much death     in     a delirious     stroking     of my fake,
defining organ

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