just another poem

amidst tiny tiles and yellow lamps she sat with me
weekends weighed her down and
her sadness the sickness infected me
smiles forced through swollen lymph nodes
in betwixt chamomile sips
our hearts brushed lightly against the other’s and
while waiting quietly we quenched
our thirst for the company of another
who digs like we dig, digs and understands amidst
tiny tables and yellowed eyes.


my eyes have seen the tan sand
between marshgrass green blades

and hallelujah singin’ white men
where black bodies lay

overhead flew stars and bars
red and blue they waved

in dixie land where I was born in
bodies molderin’ in the grave

they died for a land that broke their heart
I have seen Him look away

from blue black skins and broken flesh
and no more days to sing God’s praise

their souls go on a’marchin’
one frosty morning on the wave

the inspirations for this poem can be found here:

glory | dixie | john brown’s body | battle hymn of the republic | amazing grace | 54th Mass. Infantry

some shit that I wrote

the purgatory of 3 AM
rolled over these few
wearied bodies those few
who drank coffee and emptiness
with me near the crossroads
of columbia the sound system
sifting through the sadder chord
changes and random reflections
by various artists

we all came in unfilled we all
came with nothing…I even had
to borrow this pen this
I wish I could say I left we left
full but shit if I can speak for everyone

but for now, my melancholy satiated, and
others rambling on and others still
broken and more fitting the shards in place
in this purgatory of 3 AM.


she glows starshine
from each eye and
smiles happiness
she speaks
jazz and sullen blues
and walks out
storylines with
honest thighs and free
feet her every step a
plot twist – and every kiss
a whisper of this summer evening.


The boys marched and played
at death among bushes marked
by metal monsoons.

Unless You Plan to Bang


her hair streaked down her face
like sleet on an early march evening
the night walked in her shoes
and mocked her brisk gait
the old girl’s heel scuffed
by the tiles with
each quickening bootstep
she moved hastily
dressed in darkness
easing past me
through the metro doors

Continue reading

Garden Parkways

Her lids hung low
on her eyes as her
head vibrated gently
on the windowsill of
the bus gray steel
bringing us home from
other lives she shared
with me grafting me
onto her past
family, friends, lost
acquaintances reintroduced to her
through me old moments
and broken friendships
I dovetail into now
giving them to me and
me to them hungrily
we each devour
what was given gratefully.


hair like graphite
drawn out into scribbled lines
of words dedicated to
long forgotten gods
a child’s handwriting
jumbled together
like discarded phrases
strewn across the floor only
to be reassembled into poetry
her hair is like language

Three Poems

In the blue darkness she kisses me
her hair is everywhere like arms
embracing me as she kisses me again
like dew on my skin in the cold morning air
she kisses me and her lips have the scent
of newness of spring on the wind

ice between each word of
affection and space and
hurt inside the love rejection
divides her heart and she
hides her pain in kisses
shirt stained with tears
for the one she misses who
only is just now learning to
miss her too.

love both strengthens and
weakens us.
stronger now I stand
when faced with challenge
No longer alone do I face it
But less of steel than
of down am I, less
protected by my
armors. A well placed
word can bring me down
as quick as any king.
When before none could reach.
Yet stronger I feel, emboldened
to gaze upon the sun full
face, and openly
embrace my love.


Sweetness, good day.
imprisoned by your sickness.
Heal and escape.
I implore you.
My love, go
Indulge in confections
For lying ill
Shall pallid make you
And so thin and without
Roundness you become.
I pray for you
And your health.
My sweetness.

– based on A Une Damoyselle Malade by Clement Marot

This, an assignment from my Copyright class, is one of the essential elements to a student’s understanding of the complex nature of intellectual property law. Unfortunately, I have no idea how. Because my ability to create a derivative work is soooo vital to my ability to act on it in court. No really.

We Don’t Need Matching Pajamas

She snored. I watched
her take the night in
slowly and let it out in a
grunt, curled up tight
against the outside.
Her stomach empty this
evening, unfulfilled
by the books
and words and learning
she hungered for. She
craved thought more
than air, and in the
company of most men,
she damn near asphyxiated
from lack of both. And so
like the night she
exhaled I breathed her in.


Bank of America is the worst damn corporate entity in the free world. Yes, worse than Verizon. More evil than Disney. Also, slightly not as good as the Tic Tock liquor store in Hyattsville.


Sharpies™ are my favorite markers
Brown and blue and red and darker
They really are the best of pens
Thick or thin, it just depends
They’re permanent and oh so black
With a stench Crayolas™ lack
They scribble on near anything
They’re good for art, or doodling
Thank you Sanford™ for this gift
Your felt tip’s swell and nontoxic
And though they may seep through the page
Get a Sharpie™, they’re all the rage.