Today
go outside
after you've had
all the turkey,
stuffing,
cranberry sauce.

After you fill
your belly
with
a cornucopia
of food.

Go out there
and thank god
that those
Indians
died off so quickly.

Thank god
for giving us this land,
because we own it,
we can own
it.

It is ours
because God
said it should be ours,
not because
we took part
in one of the greatest
genocides
in history.

Breathe in
all that good air,
and thank god
that you don't have to be
on a reservation.

A refugee
on the motherland.

Our bad.

Bleaching
the shirts
stark-white until they hold
your skeleton
like a vice is supposed to.

Feeling pain
and a grip of hope
like biting your fingernails
to the cuticles,
only to see the soft
skin-like crescent underneath your teeth.

Today
in church,
the preacher talked
about God.

God and his ability
to hammer your soul
to it's infinite potential.

Able to hammer you flat
and tired
until he could mould you.

He talked about a clean house,
and I thought about my ***** shirts.

He talked about the pleasure
of the crucifixion,
and I thought about
biting my fingernails too hard
and too often.

Who Am I?

Well,
I must be
that ******,
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.


Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.


You see,
I must be
that ******,
a stand-in
for all other *******.
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******,
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******.

In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.

But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."

And If I happen to be a ******,
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******,
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******,
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******."

Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.

And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******,
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-*******
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."

Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,

not in the ****** way,

but the familial,
species way.

Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.

Search and find "******"
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.

Coddling the past
“I am accused of tending to the past”

How can I lift my hands
To reach forward
If I cannot learn
To let the past run through me,
Gnash it’s teeth
And bite me
And fight me
Until I can make it succumb.
Don’t urge me to forget her
Cause she will slumber
Until she is hungry
Enough to leap out
And ******.

Preacher's Son

You spoke like a preacher,
Marble mouthed messenger
Of the rules of your domain.
You let your tongue slither words,
Voice deep, booming, bass thumping
Coursing through my chest, beating.
This was your weapon of choice - 
Each syllable a warning 
Of what was yet to come.
Your pulpit a collection of your vice,
Beer bottles, ***** jugs, remnants of snowfalls.

You are nothing more than 
A false idol,
And I will no longer cling
To your drunk speech
Or grovel at your feet.

Go crack your hammer hands
The ones that nailed my praise-song
Shut to my throat to make me meeker
But these hands were still free,
Free to write silence across your lips
And I hope these thoughts pierce you like darts,
Like spears of defiance.

This is no longer your church, 
And I no longer your son 
Worshipping the verbal lashings as Godly,
Laudable. No longer seeing bruises as adornments
Of unabashed, deep down spooky love.

Prayer Poems

A prayer from a five year old me

Diosito if you can help papi,
Wipe the white dust off his nose,
And let him remember my name,
My face, even when his eyes
Are lost somewhere
Bring him back
And keep him here with us.
Melt the soft belly of his feet
To the ground
And let him stick for me,

I’ll be thankful.
I don’t need much
Just mami and papi
And less bottles,
And belts,
And bad words,
Then I can be happy.

Musing of a prayer at almost 22

I don’t know you.
My tongue can’t bare to move
Itself to speak
To you anymore.
If you are there
Show me,
Take these words
And prove me wrong.

Lover

He said, “I thought you knew me better than that,’
And I responded, “I guess I don’t.”
So he sighed and kissed me on the lips
And let his thumb trace my eyelids to the hollow of my eyes,
Running palm down cheek, and he calmly chopped off his feet
And placed them in from of me.
“Here,” he said, “walk in these for awhile
Then maybe you will really get to know me.”