Ode to the man who leaned out the truck to call me nigger

That night I hadn’t yet considered death.
Before I met you; before you leaned out
the truck window to call me nigger, I knew
nothing of my own flesh’s surrender
to blood, dust. But I did know speed; I knew
the weight of lumber and the forearm’s debt
to torque. I knew (and loved) the sound of shatter-
ing glass, the quick snap of a duressed jaw.
I knew the taste of my own blood. I’d had
a fist, test the tension of my kneecaps,
my heart’s tight buckle.

What you taught me, as I leaned out
the window; New York speeding by
at 50mph to catch you,
was about the song of the air
at night, how – as I braced my foot
against the dash, & limbo’d out
to swing at your windscreen – I craved
the tympani of glass & metal
the soprano of your screams.

So easily I could have fallen
under your truck’s wheels. I was
in search of love and somehow
knew you had it to give in blood,
which I needed to husband
my quiet, quiet rage. I had
not thought then about how I wanted
my body disposed, that I loved
a woman to call me names in bed.
I wanted a song that was mine,
something to belong to, a love
I’d recognize when I heard
my name sung
in the street.

Ode to the man who grabbed my arm in the bar
(for Patrick)

When you leaned in and made the decision
to grab my arm, you did not know
the cautionary tale you would become.
You’d left work earlier, for a few drinks
with friends, and soon you were bar-hopping,
and drunk, and happy, and a little in love.
When you finally looked up, and your boy said
yeah, Bar 13 has 2 for 1 specials
and your girl said awesome! You did not know
we misfits would be reading poems,
some of them terrible, but so necessary
to us that we couldn’t stop even when
we knew they were bad. You did not know
how necessary you were (are)
to everything I’ve come to believe
and to much that I’m trying to unlearn.
You were loud, yes sir, and you were rude
and you did not know how willing I was
to forgive all this, because you did not know
you required forgiveness. You did not know
you were not allowed every right
you chose to claim and so you leaned in
drunk, to grab a man 40lbs heavier
and 3 inches taller; and when my hand
pried itself away and made short journey
to your head, I was as surprised as you
to see you actually fall-
the slow-motion tumble of it.

You did not know when you left work
that you’d be struck down (ever).
You had not considered that
even remotely possible
& neither you nor your friend knew
how willing I became then to fight
your entire crew – even the women.
I wanted the ballet of all of you
come to me – I wanted you
to draw blood to my mouth,
to remind me how close to love-
making is the wrestle, have me
believe in gladiators, gargoyles
and the night again.

Small man, you could not know
that I cried after I hit you
that I’ve always wished myself
beyond the tribe of blood, dirt
and immediate consequence –
but you, you brought me back –
you thought you could put your hands
on anyone you felt like, and I
had to remind you otherwise,
as I slipped out the back door,
to avoid the cops, who surely
would see it your way;
and take my chance instead,
with my body, my fists,
my good two legs running;
knowing I could trust only
my hands’ self-made laws,
the shadows the buildings make
of the city – the night
for me to hide in.

Ode to the hunting knife

Your scabbard is the laughter
of any man who once lived
on the big end of surprise.
You sound like a violin
when drawn swift – blade
singing a soft death
against the leather as it births
toward the light and then

your sweet weight,
like a small cantaloupe
or a large avocado – the heft
complete
it is how you catch light
sharp
like that twinkling like a shower
of glitter dust as you swipe down.

When I roll my fist around
your handle, four fingers nestle
the hilt’s grooves like piglets
against the sow’s underside.

Spine against my forearm
I become weapon;
my hands beams of light –
my whole body dances
musiced by your handle’s
intricate carvings

our love
is close – our history
deep.
Sometimes it is your song
I want again your kiss
against my skin
the blood-letting

sweet

Bout to set off some first draft Odes. Big Ups to my homie Samantha Thornhill


Ode to my Brooklyn fitted.

Brown like me – straight brimmed, you signal all my people. You, aggressive white cursive against the crown – Brooklyn. You cock smooth to the side over left eye; shadow like the borough – Brooklyn; shadow like how we run through streets. We could call you, cap – but every b-boy knows, you more than that; and when I say Brooklyn, brown, fitted, 7 5/8, the whole store knows that what I’m saying is – I stay Brooklyn, I won’t take no shit – Brooklyn; Biggie Smalls, represent, beef patties, I fucks with Original Ray’s – Brooklyn; Coney Island, 9mm, A-Train – Brooklyn. You mean to say fist, Flatbush and gentrify – Brooklyn. You keep me fresh, clean, head-nod and Sun – Brooklyn. You fitted, are so Brooklyn, I rock you wherever I know you live – so you, Brooklyn, answer to where you stay at, with Oakland, Alaska, L.A. and Chicago’s South Side. With you, I know where I belong, that I am loved. You keep it real in Logan Square, speak low to women in D.C. and Seattle. You preach the gospel in North Carolina. You bold-faced, swag, bop-walked; so I can be brown, hip-hop, beautiful, Brooklyn, bullet-proof.

2 first drafts - poems

Equal Opportunity steady pissin in my cereal

He’s 19 – already done things I know
I’ll never get to – has talked himself
out of point-blank, gun-slide, break-
yourself-Joe dialogues. His dialect
is smooth – homie can spit; can move
from UFC to death’s rifle truths
by rhyming Kimbo with limbo.
Makes sure I know he’s got a long life;
that for those who don’t respect that
he’s got a long pipe

*

The boy sitting across from me knows
at least seven things I don’t.

There are words for the things he knows
all street-coded and mash-mouthed

in a language unfamiliar to me.
He Westside, Missibamasee drawl – sometimes

I stop and ask him what he means –
bundle, pole, whip, trap-house

and errthing he fi’in to do
when he get out.

*

We’re in the Cook County Juvee
and youngblood will not write
and of this genius down; straight
says I’m blowing him, asking him
to fuck with this poetry ish. But he stays
spitting the illest Chi-town business;
reps West Side and could give a fuck
about a G-D he say. Young money
is free-styling entire planets into being
and already knows that for real
ain’t a damn place the police show up
that he need to be fuckin with
and that includes school. Young brother
cooler than a nigga in a Cadillac.

Sure bout how real he is
when there’s money in his pocket. Solves
20 problems a day on his cellblock
alone. Pretty sure
he’s gonna get out and pretty sure
he’s coming right back

Black can outsmart me
Black can probably outbox me – keeps
households alive and living
Momma comes to visit crying –
hoping; he’s her baby – her l’il man

even though none of us busters
have managed to teach him
how to read.



Still life with boy, bus.

Andiamos says the Father. He is
trying to wake the boy who sleeps
as soundly as if he’d been on hat bus
since 79th on the south side, but
we’re going past Lane Tech now
and well north, and it’s their stop. The boy
is maybe 5, and the Father might be
the most fatigued man in all of Chicago.

Again, Andiamos, as he scoops up
his gloves, the boy’s; to prepare them both
for the sub-zero night, and the boy
is a muppet of dead arms and legs
as the Father gathers up the bundle
of him and fixes him over his shoulder
and says thanks to the patient woman
at the wheel.

Over his shoulder the boy’s eyes slip
open and he smiles, half content, half
mischief suggesting his refusal to wake.

Oh to know again such love – to know
you will never be left behind – never
have to fear the night, the dark, the cold,
your father’s hands, a stranger’s. To go
into the chill asleep; blameless, weightless.