I long to stand at the sea, April 2008

I stagger under the weight of my skin
implying corridors and crepsecules
my mind idle and furtive
is a raven picking at carcasses
bringing me as quarry
the bitter memories of dead loves

I long to stand at the sea
jagged rocks spat forth
from the Earth’s volcanic bowels
sculpted smooth by wind, water, salt, sun, time

I long to be buoyant in the water, my skin
and mask manifesting a semblance
of weightlessness

As the widow and the whore drew water at high Noon
I cloister myself in the margins
finding joy and justice
in grass spurting through asphalt
role models in spiders

I smell of earthworms and dewdrops and honesty
and I laugh but none hear the Great Joke

1:23 am, by dgpoetry
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Look like me, Dec 2007

I’m coming out like a debutante 

I’d previously not gotten a poor response 

Revolutionary mind Like Martin Rizal or Guy DeMaupassant 

Lovingly I borrow the rhythyms of Africa

The same ones stolen by rock 

Perhaps I’ll say misappropriated 

Look at this mess we’ve created 

The shoes on your feet quite likely made in a sweatshop factory 

By children that look like me 

It’s a moral quandary 

And the only frame of reference you seem to have for me 

As a multi-racial Asian 

Struggling to function in a sub-strata of society 

That doesn’t look like me 

Is Tiger Woods 

Or Apple and Tab of the black eyed peas? 

Or maybe those 2 dudes on Sesame street, Bert and Ernie? 

I’ll let you in on a little secret. 

I’m changing the world 

Lock me up for miscegeny 

foregoing homeginazation to forge new Nations 

Orange skin is the future 

A lot more people will look like me. 

Black and brown, lock it down. 

Yellow, white, let’s get it tight.  

I could waste my precious time 

And be David VanEyck on the mic 

And talk of the secret business of reptilians 

But I’d rather build 

Regarding the covenant of Elijah and Isaiah, 

The 6th insight and math of the Egyptians, 

The tetragrammaton 

Metatron 

And Kabbalah 

I got the Audacity of hope 

Like Barack Obama 

I could try to switch to emcee mode 

But my beloved vocation of poet 

And in order to scream the truth 

I have to learn it, love it, and know it, 

All of it 

The stripes of the lash  

on our collective ancestor’s backs 

The sting of parsimony 

My family tree written in blood on sand with knives 

And in rainforests with 45 calibre slugs 

The older brother I never knew in an unmarked grave 

Getting jumped and called faggot  

by boys fashioned as thugs, 

But who would never have the personal courage  

to admit that anyone had ever called them a faggot  

On a microphone to a group of strangers in a bar 

On a military base 

Look at my face 

I am beautiful 

Made in the image of GOD 

My dna the intonation of his perfect voice 

And so are you and you and you 

We are GOD’s masterpiece 

A galactic map to love and peace 

A history book of post-colonial culture 

The key to theoretical aquarian age release 

Divine is my architechture 

Blessed is my rhetoric 

The work callouses on my palms  

for new psalms will be the the genisis 

I’m burning and hungry evaporating injustice 

The steam engine of a locomotive bullet train 

Zooming down the track to a new Jerusalem 

This train was bound for glory 

Screaming past streets and strip malls and liquor stores and pawn shops  

and check cashing places 

and borders and walls and security fences  

and green zones and oceans and boats and volcanoes and jungles and  

reefs and icebergs   

to a dwelling place of new vision 

And another world is possible if you just open your eyes and look like

me 
 

1:04 am, by dgpoetry
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I’M NOT GUNNA GET SICK, Feb 2008

Note: This is in all caps because I was experimenting with layout. Bigger font, all caps is easiest for me during performance if I need to cue myself from notes. This was my first attempt at a humourous piece.

ITS THE WINTERTIME
AND I’M NOT GUNNA GET SICK
ALL MY COWORKERS ARE SICK
BUT SEE WHAT IT IS IS
MY BODY IS TOO ALKALINE
CHLOROPHYLL AND ENZYMES
MY BODY IS ALIVE
SYNTHESIZE VITAMINS FROM THE SUN
TO FULFILL MY BLOODTYPE
I TOOK KRS ONE’S ADVICE
READ HOW TO EAT TO LIVE BY ELIJAH MUHAMMAD
BECAME A VEGETARIAN
AND I’M NOT GUNNA GET SICK
MY DADDY TOLD ME WHEN HE WAS 3
HE SAW THE DEVIL IN A FEVERDREAM,
ALL TAIL, TALONS, AND TEETH
AND HE WAS SICK
SICK WITH THE POVERTY AND FILTHINESS
INHERENT OF PLANTATIONS
MY GRANDPARENTS CUT CANE
NOT THE KIND YOU COOK INTO ROCKS IN PYREX
TO POISON BLOCKS AND PROJECTS
THE KIND YOU PUT
IN YOUR COFFEE AND COOKIES
THE SAME KIND THE SLAVES WORKED IN JAMAICA AND HAITI
AFTER THE ARAWAK INDIANS DISCOVERED
COLUMBUS LOST AT SEA
AND THEY RAPED THE INDIANS AND THEIR AFRICAN SLAVE WOMEN, TOO- IT’S NOT BLACK HISTORY, IT’S AMERICAN HISTORY
AND IN DOING SO COLUMBUS
DID THE ONLY THING HE EVER DID TO BENEFIT HUMANITY
HE INVENTED LATINOS
AND SPAIN WENT THE OTHER WAY
TO TRY CREATE A NEW RACE OUT OF FILIPINOS
EASTSIDE MULLATTOS
AND THEY TOOK OUR NAMES
AND GAVE US NEW ONES
AND THEY TOOK OUR ISLAM
AND GAVE US ROMAN CATHOLICISM
NOT THAT WE DIDN’T NEED JESUS
I NEGLECTED TO MENTION
WHEN FERDINAND MAGELLAN
LANDED ON OUR GOLDEN SHORES
WE KILLED AND ATE HIM

BACK TO MY FATHER’S FEVER DREAM
HIS NAME IS LARRY
AND HIS TWIN BROTHER JERRY
AND LARRY BEAT THE SICKNESS
BUT UNCLE JERRY DIDN’T
AND I SUSPECT THAT’S WHEN
POPS BECAME COLE AND DISTANT

SO I AM NOT GUNNA GET SICK


IT’S MIND OVER MATTER
I MADE UP MY MIND SO THE REST DOESN’T MATTER
I FEEL A LITTLE HOT BUT I DON’T NEED MEDICINE
I DON’T NEED TYLENOL- IT’S ALL SUBLIMINAL
I NEED PEPPERMINT TEA AND BEDREST
PROPER NUTRITION
AND A NINA SIMONE BOX SET
AND I’LL BE ALRIGHT
CUZ I’M NOT GUNNA GET

*ACHOO*

Sh*t.

11:40 pm, by dgpoetry
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Untitled, Feb 2008

Dedicated to Lawrence King (1993-2008).

A beautiful young boy was slain
15 and queer
his killer
14 and scared.
F O U R T E E N.
they said the boy had a crush on him
and he couldn’t take the teasing
so he shot the boy
perhaps more afraid
of what people would say
than he was willing to pursue
love

A beautiful young boy was slain
15 and queer
He couldn’t take the beatings
and the bullies
and the bullshit
with horsemouth snickers
with rumours like fireflies
pointing fingers like
guns
and Brandon,
14 and scared
pointing a gun
like a fucking gun
to show he was a man
but he wasn’t a man
he was 14 and scared
so he took aim symbolically,
because gestures and symbols so important
like monster trucks
and who can do the most pushups
and peach fuzz moustaches
like hot faced shame
and teenage breaking points
and awkward with acne
so much more important than life
and pointing Los Crudos fingers
asesinos

he couldn’t take
the home he lived in
foster care
for abused and neglected children
mistakes and broken dreams
"Maybe I wouldn’t drink so much if the boy was normal"
angry father

he couldn’t take
being the faggot
Mexican and fabulous
floating down the hallways of his Junior High School like a spider’s line
with earrings and high cheekbones
like an Aztec priest
and nails to die for
(and perhaps he did)
with a circle of girlfriends
to help him be strong
never got to know the
weirdness of prom
and how camp and tacky it was
he never got
to be in
Yearbook or drama
or auto shop or debate or ROTC

he reminds me of Bronson
who I met in 8th grade
and knew he was gay
blind people and animals knew he was gay
unfabulous and poorer than me
and I
spit poison and pointed fingers like spears
like fucking guns
they pointed fingers like fucking guns at me, too
because I talked too loud
and I smiled too much
and I argued with history teachers
holding them accountable
for their glaring misinterptetaion and the innacuraccies of the text
and I hate football
and I did my homework
and damn it, I like purple
they wanted to snuff my light
and walking home meant dodging rocks and bottles
and I didn’t want to be the fag anymore
because its hard to date girls
when your mack is unseasoned
and its harder to date girls
if someone’s spreading rumours
that you have A.I.D.S.
and you got it from Marilyn Manson
I wore a mask assigned to me
and I was suffocating in it

and Bronson had it worse
and he was fierce
and he was in foster care too
and he called Ma when we were 16
and asked if he could stay with us
his foster dad was touching his sister
and doing terrible things to him
using fingers and cock
like spears and guns
fucking him
and I with hot faced shame
accepted a new brother
who always wanted to talk to my girlfriends on the phone before I hung up
and wake me up at 3 am
to bake cookies
and smoke Ma’s cigarettes
and drink coffee
and watch Blood In/Blood Out

and I never used gay as a swear word again

I wish I could have talked to the beautiful young boy
15 and queer
and protected him
cloaking him like Catholic incense smoke
singing madrigals
and told him
love is not wrong
held him and told him
it wasn’t his fault
tentacles like Leviathan
like hot snakes descended
while his heart dreamt of twilight
praised him for his bravery
lipstick as warpaint
a swishy fist of solidarity
and told him of Bronson
my brother
and broken homes and small minds
and ugly families
and the real world with grown ups
and some people never evolve
but someone has to make the sandwiches
and his sun was still rising
and people want to put it out like they tried
to do to me and Bronson
and it’s ok
and those bullies will never
leave the town they’re born in
and millions of lightyears from now

his Sun
would be
a star.




11:35 pm, by dgpoetry
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Strays

Strays

My Mother’s floral-print heart
and hatred of neglect
forced her to wage peace,
as a denim-vest wearing Sister Of Mercy,
ensuring we always had an extra plate of Hamburger Helper
and an empty couch,
or chair, or blanket on
the floor for battered women and
their children,
runaways,
and good kids gone bad.
These transients became Aunts,
Uncles,
Brothers,
Sisters, or
Cousins.
Scraping and scrimping
what was left of our foodstamps
and clipping coupons to make
a cauldron of oatmeal
with powdered milk,
or sunny-side-up eggs from the coop
with fried spam,
we fed the Bangladesh
of our neighborhood.
Urchins orphaned by crack cocaine,
we washed their clothes by hand
while their teenaged parents
stole Betamaxes.
Baking Loaf upon loaf
because we could not afford
the thin squares in bags
that most people called bread
I took to school a 3 inch hunk,
smeared with the guts of a passion fruit
from a wild vine ,
that the kids whose families had cars and shoes
laughed at.
They loved their Nintendo,
but would never know the joy
of having pigs in your yard
or tending the garden
where the beans
that would be next week’s chili dinner grew.
Even at our most destitute,
we still had much to give,
conjuring 100 Dollars
to get Josh’s guitar from the pawnbroker,
the black Stratocaster knock-off
that his mother, no stranger to
the abortion clinic
had put there to apportion
a day’s supply of Crystal Meth.
I did my share to help,
stealing haunted clothes from the Salvation Army
and on my way out
grabbing a Boogie Down Productions tape
so I was fresh for 1990, YOU SUCKAAAAAAS!, but it was 1998.
My Mother was a Libra,
her entire person bearing the icon
of Blind Lady Justice’s scales,
she has lived a life of
giving and love
and when she acquiesces to the Cancer
that ate her brain
and sucked her teeth out
with the help of the Chemotherapy
that has sucked her hair out,
she resumed giving until gone,
consumed by the grace and mercy
that drives each little decision,
retired from Active-Duty
to Heaven where
she can be the Child instead of
the Warrior parent,
financier,
tailor,
teacher
and anchor to
The broken children,
Strays that worshipped the fractured portrait of masculinity that was
Tupac Shakur
and whose parents
resented the burden
of their existence.

2006

11:31 pm, by dgpoetry
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