A Headstone Without a Brain

stock-photo-career-burden-and-business-stress-concept-as-a-businessman-or-worker-pulling-a-giant-heavy-metal-354040844

I bought it first.

I carved my initials

Into my headstone

Spray painted phalluses

Pulped coconut pussy

Cracked against the corners

Of my tomb

my body will be inscribed

With a religious text of hate speech

A swastika crudely carved into

My brown skin

My corpse curled around

A cat of nine tails

 the lies of ape skulls

And science

The smell of decay in botanical gardens

Marching up white house stairs

Shaving my cheeks without a head

Black Survival: The Toupet’s Adversary

stock-photo-hand-with-marker-writing-reject-bigotry-321129950

Poor whiteys and their

Broken hearted mistresses

Their crowns chafe on their

Expanding skulls

Like a balloon

That we all pray will pop

Like a wall, racial profiling

like the terrorists lie within our walls

like we’re pointing the finger

at the wrong immigrant.

How to Rebel From those Convulsions

stock-photo-male-hands-and-smartphone-addiction-to-internet-and-social-networks-328684343

I walk into class
Reeking of cigarettes
The cheap ones
I so poorly roll myself

I turn my back to the green world
Pleading for a spoon feeding
To see how much
Rat poison I can endure

They say it doesn’t kill you
It just makes you weak
Blunt

You can feel it hit
Like an I.V.
Electrical charges
Plugged into the outlet

They so easily find
Where the neck tapers
At the blind spot
On the back of my head

Initially it shocks
Tazes
Convulsions
Strapped to their hospital bed
Scalded, 3rd degree burns
For a reaction
As natural as death, blue skys, and insanity

I claw at the nurses
Her eye made a popping sound
When I dug my fingers in her skull
And pried it out

I gave mercy, I left the eye
She kept her dignity
It sits on her cheek
Functional

She sits, watching the children Scaring the children
Playing ball in the park
But their eyes haven’t receded either

They sit, plump on rosy cheeks
And like she once did
Before death
Before reanimation

She can see
Sometimes
A simple cleaning of the lens
Isn’t enough

* I do not condone violence against women and believe it should be punished to the fullest extent within and outside of the law. It’s not cool.

A Feminine Ball of Yarn

stock-photo-vintage-knitting-needles-scissors-and-yarn-inside-old-wire-basket-on-wooden-stool-still-life-269218337

 

*Written from a woman’s perspective.

 

Tufts of thread out of the palm of his hand. A spool of yarn slowly undone down curling dirt roads. Our steps are not our own as we’re dragged down the trail littered with pot holes, but we refuse to let the yarn hit the ground as we grow smaller and the man’s smiling face is far, his only sign a taut string following the curves in the horizon. I know I must be minuscule before I can gather myself to that smiling man for I am unwound. The strand frays and I struggle to stay inches above the cakes of mud.

Damned Potential

auto-370768_960_720

*Trigger Warning* Depicted is the sight of a young woman being rundown.

 

 

And I can see the horror behind his eyes

the trauma to pursue

Forever fleeting confrontation

 

To watch a life fall from the sky

Fall and the leaves are muck in

The gutter, scum in the rivets

On the bottom of your shoe

But there was so much potential

In crimson torrents

Face down in the crosswalk

 

 

Surviving the Cold

Father’s burden. A Poem by Coyote Poetry My father taught me to appreciate laughter and woman. Father’s burden (My father  was a Ojibwa/Mexican man in 1950 USA. He never allowed anyone …

Source: Happy Father’s day

Powerful poem about fatherhood. I would highly recommend a read!

 

winter-234721_960_720

The men that built this country

Rosebuds at the end of each barfly

The cold

Granting the fitness

Necessary for survival

The many miles

Across this country

Were planted

Under brown feet

Under the feet of an immigration

A union of the five corners

To break the back of each of our fathers

And oppress indiscriminately

The frostbite is inherited

Brittle bones

Weather worn

Losing toes to frigid time

The nails

In the hands

Of our many martyrs

Look so much

 like

Icicles

Staying Silver Ponyboy

For my father, Ross Silver

human-854005_960_720

 

A great man is not measured by his accomplishments,

By the money in his wallet.

Greatness is measured in sacrifice

It’s recognizing the work of the sole’s

At every shoe bottom

Sewn to heel

To walk out the door

To something greater.

We pass down carbon

Like treasured heirlooms

And though there are many days

Where I can’t manage the resources to stand

I feel your strength in my legs, sitting.

I’ve been blessed in this life

And for the nanograms

Lost in the wandering transition

From life into the ethereal

I’ll be blessed after.

You poor insomniac

Granting me pleasures of privilege

In the witching hour

As well as mid-day

In the trenches

And on their pedestal.

Who could doubt

The suffering

Of a scimitar back

Pressure treated

From years of brick and mortar?

Who could doubt

The callous hands

Of the forgotten working man?