Your hot testicles swimming with future generations,
And that rhinoceros horn there
that makes you shiver all jazzy--
You are where I get my fantasies, nigra.
And here is $300.”
I say, “Man, I ain’t selling no black jazz to you.
He say, “Humph, uppity nigra.
There’s plenty mo’ where you come from.”
I say, “A fag live down the street
With his daddy ma yellow shotgun house.”
He turn his corpulent fat face to leave.
I say, “Hey Joe, ain’t information worth a $100?”
He say for me to kiss where the sun don’t shine.
I say, “The sun don’t shine
In Cicero Illinois or Queens New York.”
I close my dark door and lock away secrets.
Published in Soulfires 1996
Brick Sweat
“Chile, that nigguh so fine, he make a brick sweat!”
“What you say?”
“I say he so fine
he make a brick sweat.”
“What you say again?”
“I say he is so fine
he makes a brick
sweet as sugar.”
“He is fine, now.”
“Yes he is.”
“He is cinnamon.”
“Oh yes he is.”
“He is fine.”
Yes he is.”
He is black licorice.”
“Oh that sweet sticky thing.”
“I kissed him allova.”
“No you didn’t!”
“Yes I did. I mopped his teeth
with my tongue.
I kissed him allova
put one of his nipples
in his belly button.”
“Lord, chile!”
“I kissed him
where the sun can’t
reach, even when
he’s naked on the
frying beach.”
“Lord, chile.”
“I loved him.”
“Did you really?”
“I really. Pawned
a television that
was my Mama’s.”
“For him?”
“For him, baby.”
“Bought him blue
lizard skin boots.”
“From where?”
“From Neiman’s”
“From where?”
“From Neiman’s, I say.”
“Aw, chile, you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“What love really is, baby.”
“I loved him so much.”
“How so much?”
“I went to the corner
and got him a ho’
when he didn’t want me no more.”
“Honey, that’s love’s love.”
“Love’s love,
That’s what my man was.”
“Why you say was?”
“I say was, ‘cause he’s gone.”
“Gone where, baby?”
“Back to his wife.”
“Aw, lord.”
“But I ain’t worried.”
“Yeah don’t worry.”
“A man grows on every street corner.”
“That’s the truth.”
“But you know?”
“Know what, girl?”
“A brick don’t sweat
but one time in
your goddamn life.
And you better lick
while the sweating is good.”
“Lord, lord, ain’t that the truth.
Nothing
No money
no honey
no love
no Mother
no Father
no sister
no brother
no aunty
no uncle
just an ASS--
me and
the one
who uses
mine
I Want it All
I want to be a crack salesman
The biggest in the world
I want a crack house
Bigger than New York
In every room, a shootin’ gallery
and a buck naked ho’
Grinding on my Hollywood beds.
I want to wrap my body
In 14 karat gold.
I want to buy my Mama
A sea otter coat
My dad a penguin-skin suit.
I want my ‘Royce trimmed in gold.
I want to be bad, so bad
I hook the devil on my shit,
Turn earth into hell and
Hell inside out.
Then when I die, I’ll go down
And kick the devil in his booty.
I want it all.
The Cat
I’m gone get rid of this cat.
All he do is eat and sleep,
Eat and sleep,
And scratch his neck.
I’m gone get rid of this cat.
He stays out all night,
Always losin’ his fights,
Growls when fish ain’t on the table,
Smells like he slept in a stable.
I’m gone get rid of this cat.
Brought me a bunch of kits, he did,
Left ‘em on the garbage can lid.
He ain’t good for nothin’,
And the way he act,
Nothin’ I give is good for him.
He stays sullen all day,
And when he do run his paw down my leg,
He rips to shreds my stockin’
Now what is this cat good for--
Buryin’ his head in my crotch,
Then off runnin’
Quicker than a rat trap springin’?
I’m gone get rid of this cat.
I take the ‘nitiative
Like the book says,
I scratch his belly
And he buries his claws
To the bones in my fingers.
Yes, I gone get rid of this cat.
WOE’MEN ARE DOGS
***
Grace’s Tribute
I like boys
Who spit
Who smoke
Who leave turds in my toilet
Who roll dice over my back
Who wear black leather jackets
Who ride horses
Who dare the sun to blind them
Who fight in jungles
Naked from the waist up--
And kiss each other for victories.
I like boys
Who stroke saxophones into screaming fits
Who thumb guitar strings-¬Jimi Hendrix was my boy
And I’m Steve’s musical instrument.
Play me, man. Play the hell out of me!
Steve was a boy-
¬A thin piece of ebony-¬
Naked on my bed,
He smoked marijuana-
Threatened to stuff the roach
Up my ass if I didn’t take a hit.
I like boys
Who curse
Who piss in alleyways
Who hold their crotches
As girls pass them sex.
I like boys who steal from me.
Steve was a boy
Who beat an extension cord
Across my back.
Later he called me “Mother”
Smeared glass and cherries over my breasts.
He kissed my trembling lips.
(You laugh at me, but I know
Pain is a state of grace.
Ask Jesus. He will tell you so.)
I like boys
Who forbid me to write
Who forbid me to stand
Who whistle at--
Who touch--Who hate me
Because they want me
Steve was a boy
Who crossed his legs
Over my bed after beating me
For staining his white s
hirt.
He looked down at my bones
And offered me his foot.
I sucked his toe.
Baby, I die for this cause!
I like boys
Who do not wait for traffic
Who take
Who refuse to give
Anything but a backhand lick.
Steve was a boy flying, until
Death stepped on his heart.
I wiped the white powder from his nose,
Laid my head on his chest over his hands,
Waited and waited for him to strangle me
How I got Over
...Getting up at 6 to watch you sing at 7--
You and your white-robed cohorts shimmer
and sway across the gray video screen--
How I got o-over
My soul looks back and wonders
How I got over
The night before, you fooled me to an arena.
Next to watery glass doors, i stood like Lot’s wife.
With Rocket’s tickets in my hand,
I watched schools of people swim by me.
Through my glazed eyes, I counted heads.
But not one belonged to you. Not one was your smug mask.
The next day you smiled through bone-white teeth and said,
“Baby, don’t you remember?
I said I couldn’t make it.
Are you crazy or what?
I would never have stood there all night.”
But i loved you, man and pretended i was forgetful.
Getting up at 6 to watch you sing at 7-
You and your choir weave left and right
Like a forest of red trees under the spell of an easy wind.
Two weeks ago i gave you money
So you could ride to that place,
St. Pious Holy Baptist Church--”Built to the Glory of God!”--
In your new crimson robes, in your ice blue thunderbird.
There you prayed the sinner’s prayer:
“Lord Jesus, I am unworthy to walk this earth,
And I know it. But rain down salvation anyway
On my burning flesh--on my rotting corpse.
No man knew your disease,
But it was I, woman, who saved you from your minor hell.
The repo man was at your thin heels
Ready to hook his hook to the underbelly
Of your shiny metal ego.
You held him off with my lucre.
The next day, you called me an idiot and hung up in my ringing ears.
i had asked you for a dollar
So i could ride the bus to my gig
Deep in the soft belly of EXXON Company, USA.
i use a typewriter. You use me.
“How I got o-over.
My soul looks back and wonders,
How I got o-over.”
My Mother is ill. Cancer is slowly eating her eggs.
But she said i was sicker than her for fooling with you.
i said, “But Mama, i love his brown eyes.”
She said those wet slanted eyes belong to a fox,
A hen eater, a tail-between-the-legs dog.
i looked down at my feet and saw them chewed and bleeding.
When you called my Mama a bloated cow to my face,
i told myself it was because your mother had tried to abort you.
But the coat hanger caught your twin sister instead,
And you had to live in the dark shadows of that woman’s disappointment.
That is why you hate me, my Mama, all women.
“How I got o-over,
My soul looks back and wonders,
How I got o-over.”
Standing before you naked, you laughed at my breasts.
Said they were nothing more than peanuts,
And i was cheap, my ass was too big,
My thighs too long,
i had hair like a dog’s, and smelled like one--How
Could i expect you to get it up for somebody as ugly as me?
You spat those words in my face so softly.
And i stood shivering in front of your limp cock-
Shivering in your room walled with blond Playboy centerfolds,
Shivering under your burning gaze--my mind asking me
if i dyed my hair, would that make a difference?
Getting up at 6 to watch you sing at 7,
“How I got o-over,
My soul looks back and wonders,
How I got o-over.”
Baby, i bought you that cherry-red suit
And alligator slippers to match, last Christmas.
You gave me a $1.98 box of candy
And a card with a black Santa Claus exposing himself.
It said, “Merry Xmas. Have a peppermint, Baby.”
i just laughed and said, “Oh how clever.”
While you ate my Mama’s turkey breast under her watchful eye.
Her eye that asked me, “Fool, when you gonna wake up?”
i tipped into your unlocked 3rd floor honeycomb,
And smelled love, heard it growling in your bedroom.
There you were in bed with a young boy--Tongue to tongue, pelvis to pelvis.
In the hazed mirror i saw your ass twitching
Like the jaws of a nervous old man.
You said, stroking this baby’s soft curls,
That he was so much finer than i.
And then you kissed him on his forehead.
For people weak as water, as I am,
We leave revenge up to God.
They told me as you lay dying from AIDS, scalding sores
Erupted on your ass and chest, like little volcanoes.
You jerked like a monkey full of pepper
And cried for me and God to rub ointment on your wounds,
But I was in God’s house, singing.
When I get through singing on Sunday mornings,
I leave Stone Church
And wait for the robe of darkness to cover the sky.
In the graveyard, with evergreens as my witnesses,
I lift my dress and wash your mouth-
Your ugly mouth locked in a death grin--
¬I wash it until my bladder collapses dry and dusty as my heart.
“How I got o-over.
My soul looks back and wonders,
How I got o-over.”
Why Women Cry Like Saxophones
Her fingers, elongated, descended from his forehead
Down his high cheekbone, slender neck, smooth plained belly.
She unhitched his belt, and his trousers glided
Down long slender ash blond thighs.
She licked the moss that framed his jute stalk
Caressed the bobbing things that made him man
While she Performed her acts of
Servitude and beatitude
He stood reading the instruction card
For the Fisher 1-8000 turntable.
It read:Place woman on center spindle.
Place needle to her spine
She will spin for you
And from the grooves in her back will come melodies
will come melodies
will come melodies .
Miss Pearl’s Chicago
Chicago sleeps on Sunday
Gaped mouth and ugly,
Saliva dribbles on the clean white concrete.
Breath reeks fishy with dead semen.
Chicago sleeps on Sunday.
The city goes to work on Monday
Grumpy and long faced it greets gray time clocks.
Giant yellow caterpillars dig into earth.
Clicking typewriters write Bullshit
In sixty-nine languages.
The city goes to work on Monday.
Chicago grooves on Tuesday.
Alert after two days of black coffee,
It makes conversation. Everyone
Has taped the “Dancing Siamese Twins” on Geraldo.
This diversion makes the city laugh sweetly and
Chicago grooves on Tuesday.
The city humps on Wednesday.
The clicking typewriters thump out contracts.
Fat Polish bosses sign them in blue ink.
The caterpillars chew out a hole large
Enough to bury two pyramids and a Sears Tower.
The grocery stores announce
“Hams--ten cents a pound”
‘Cause cholera is killing
South American hogs and Strongmen.
The city shrugs its shoulders.
Thursday blows in from Lake Michigan.
State Street prisoners are anxious.
Got one more day to go,
One more contract to chew.
It rains at noon.
The city has just busted a blood vessel.
There are hog guts all over the Loop.
Miss Pearl, head of Data Entry
Has just caught Chicago’s third error.
She yells, “There’s a tub of
Cow shit difference between 100
And 1000--Do you want the market to crash,
The world to end, to lose your job?”
“Hell yes,” the City screams.
It goes home and beats its wife.
Blows echo like jack hammers.
Chicago is a perky as a young breeze on Friday.
The eagle has flown.
Miss Pearl gets a sweet kiss from
one of her blond “girls.”
Wives recovering from Thursdays are
Invited to lunch. Blood roses
Match swollen cheeks. Promises are made
To buy “Beloved” a tiger coat.
On Friday Night, love is naked,
Bellies glide together.
The city makes its babies.
Chicago sleeps late on Saturday,
Yawns, fondles its privates,
Goes to breakfast at 11 a.m.,
Remembers ham is ten cents a pound,
Vomits, goes to the cleaners,
Retrieves the shiny night clothes of
Red satin and brass buttons.
Saturday night, State Street bathes in blood.
Liquor flows down hot bellies,
Miss Pearl’s mouth earns her a toe tag,
Brains dissolve on sidewalks.
Rage rains in the city’s heart.
Blood fills lonesome stockyards.
A barking dog causes a riot.
“Niggers” in Cicero incite Armageddon.
Skins are tender and heads thick,
Sirens wail and cry like mourners.
Chicago buries Miss Pearl on Sunday
On top of old hog carcasses.
DREAMS N BLUES
****
Blue
I’ve seen
Technicolor visions of me
lying in my coffin, my coffin
lined with Blue’s satin suit