2 poems for the nov 30/30. numbers 4 and 5. first draft foolishness.

Roger becomes a choir boy

I was born of the African Sanctus, Handel’s
Messiah, a handful of other classic hymns
and choir-loft dust. I sing myself in Negro
spirituals. Women clothe me in robes.
My grandmother awaits word of my
anointing, my doctoral thesis, my shining
coconut oil skin coming home from school.
I sing loudest when I want to be a man
when I want the approval of a woman.
I was born of the Doxology and blushing
Catholic girls. I am still waiting
for them to talk to me in the churchyard.
I am waiting for God to punish my aggressors.
I will live forever and I love blue. I love
competing shades of green. I hate
white women who look at me
like that, but their mouths are pianos.
I’m singing of rivers for my grandmother.
I’m a folk song, a wayfaring stranger,
anything a black woman ever thought
teach me. Their hands are xylophone me.
I want to be kept warm in a coat
of their natural hair – no Afro.
I’ve been trying to become hip hop
since discovering the color gold.
They dress me in suits. They choreo
sing my octaves. I’ve always
believed the sun would shine wherever
I used my imagination as a lance.
Whenever the boys gathered
in the street, I turned my throat
into fists. I became a singer then.
I became made of love.




Roger is hypnotized by Pandora

You do not know me but I know you very well
- Pharcyde

There is a sound like electricity. There
is a conspiracy to connect me to all
the things I’ve ever been. How have Common
and the Black Sheep ever entered
a parallel consciousness without dozing
off? Who was born of this way back
into my mother’s whom? What do
I do with this newly sharpened knife
except prepare it for a man’s liver,
except teach it the sound of its own
hilt? I was born of bass and the bay
outside the window. How dangerous
are the sound of drums at the bottom
of an ocean? How many mermaids
are unborn each day? How many
nations walk away from their own
spawning when sound becomes wave.
I am contemplating love or at least,
tolerance and its handmaiden, affability.
Pandora owns a very specific box. I
am become a victim of myth. I am
a runner towards any crazy religion
that promises a reason for my lies.
I’m still listening for the evidence
of my own history. I am listening
for the memory of my priests
and forefathers. I am mostly
at the trainyard. I am mostly
keeping my ear to the tracks.