sweet mo'ning haiku

she sends me haiku in the mo'ning

sun, kiss her for me
dance on her shoulders today
a reason to smile

they are sweet whispers awake
a kind balance to the screams I fall asleep to
she tells me she's not a poet
just a fan of the 17 syllable symphony

the words you spit are
treasures you do share with me
in awe I'm silenced

i don't haiku
not enough discipline to pare down words so samurai
graceful and mercilessly
she tells me she's not a poet
so when she wraps me in silk first moment I wake

i will paint your skin
fingers brush neck, back, hips, thighs
dance with me sweet love

i remember how she touches iambic
how we made shakespearean sonnet
so deep, so beautiful
i hadn't made love poem in so long

head laid on chest
tap to the beat of your heart
walking into love

i don't haiku but
maybe together, humans (5)
linked by the divine (7)

Late Nights, Early Mornings: NPS Edition

it started after group piece finals. after the obligation of competition lifted and I could truly breathe in the present as it was. we headed back to the hotel, and joined in on what felt like a back alley dice game in its rawness, though there was no aggression, no disadvantage, just all love and opportunity to share who you were on the mic. 
nupic is the purest slam I've ever seen, and it was beautiful in a way that's hard to describe. if I envied, it was the ones who said truths unearthed after digging deep, so deep that they had to scream out the words, though that may not have been the intention. I watched like a small child, marveling at the sacrifice and bravery.
after, filled with adrenaline and love I circled the lobby looking for something to pour my heart into. I thought I wanted it to come out in my poetry, that is how I usually release now, but I couldn't find what I was looking for. I wanted a drink, just to enjoy a cold beer as though that would make the moment that much sweeter, but my spirit wouldn't let me search enough to find it. 

Boston sunrise

once I made the decision to go, to go find "it," it led me and my brother to the 15th floor of the hotel. and although our destination was originally higher, the unlocked Empress room door and the wall of windows felt like x marked spot of our adventure. beginning and not end. we gazed at the skyline over the charles river in muted, astonished, marvelous silence. the sky was still dark enough to illuminate the lights in the buildings, and as the sun rose, glistened off the water, the shadows stood up and slinked back in appreciation of her majesty.
 people came, younger poets young at heart and looking for the memory that would last. they were respectful of the silence, revered the space we'd created. soon, we were surrounded by eagerness, and I couldn't scrape the smile off my face.
they found a way outside, and soon, we were witnessing all this up close, accompanied by the warmth and chill of the morning and a slight wind. I asked my brother to spit, not expecting him to freestyle the moment into verse, but he did, and it worked beautifully. the entire time - since leaving nupic - I felt like something special would happen. I didn't know what, but I was to be finding out with someone I've come to hold close.
I recited Music, and although the reverence of beauty had started to fail in silencing them, i felt like I was speaking to everyone present. it was an honor.
we only left once a hotel employee told us we couldn't be there. we walked into town so he could take pictures of the street art. he wanted the architecture, but there was no disappointment because the Most High had already blessed us with a beautiful morning. we dare not ask for anything else. we simply flowed. 

street art

it was about 6:45 a.m. and we'd stayed up the whole night. we needed food and I suggested a place in davis square I'd discovered before a bout. we had egg sandwiches and he listened to me talk, sympathized with all the struggles and hardships I've endured this summer in slam.
when we left, a poet sat outside the cafe, selling copies of his poems for $5. Ricardo, with the two-toned eyes and grey hair. he read a poem probably older than us both, and it made me grateful. we bought a copy of whispers, me combining one of my two-dollar bills with his $3. if you're gonna spend a two-dollar bill, let it be worth it.
on the train back, we snatched winks and embraced the tired that had seeped into our bodies. the walk back was not long. i disregarded a woman's bitter, her anger, because she obviously wanted to hold onto it - I let her - and he reassured me that my heart was in the right place.
I didn't want to sleep once we parted ways and I got back to my room. I knew I needed to. I laid out the blanket with a little more cushion and slept uncovered. the day had been so good, I reluctantly and quickly fell asleep, like a child the night before the first day of school.
two hours later, I was too excited about the morning to sleep. I went for my brother, but he was spent. 
I let him sleep, and followed some other siblings out again, this time to a Dunkin Donuts. on the way, during and after, I talked with my little sister about accepting what you have been given, and not feel apologetic about it. i paid for her food and drink, and sat with another small makeshift family, the boys still wrapped up in the strategy of the competition. on the way back, my little sister shared her joyous news with a brother, and he danced a happy that made me smile. it was a kind moment.
somehow we parted ways differently than imagined at the hotel, and instead of experiencing the planned picnic, i stumbled into an old-fashioned tea party. it was deliberate and exclusive. women, queer, trans only. this created a space for us to talk candidly over hot tea and pound cake, cheese, crackers and "bad bitch lunchables." seated in our circle were some of the most talented and revered women in poetry, and I felt honored to share such a space with them. the experience was needed, especially for me, and I was grateful.
after two hours, people started to disperse, and I snuck off to the room to sleep. the nap was only 15 minutes. even still, it felt like I woke up to a new day. there was still one major thing to do - finals night - and I knew it wouldn't disappoint.

Writing Against The Machine featuring Princess!

The other week, I spent some time talking about my poetry, slam, performance and other things writing with an old college friend. Check out the podcast on their blog, Writing Against The Machine, and let me know what you think!

the most powerful four letter word. . .

the first morning i slept alone
i looked in the mirror
noticed
you kissed a four-letter word under my bottom lip
i thought
the last time you pressed yours to mine we were saying goodbye
rather
you bid adieu to the me that loved you past myself
loved you
til pain felt the same as loving and living for you
noticed
the same four-letter word stamped on the inside of my lip
know i never spoke so
it must've branded itself through my teeth
came up but refused to go down or out
mirror images of what we both want but can't have
you used it like a machete
swung at my arms and my legs as i inched toward the door
this four-walled hand I've been dealt
like this
four-letter sentence I'm serving in the new prison of reality without you
amplifies every time i tie my shoes
close doors behind
echoes like creaks in the floorboard
my home is not supposed to be haunted by a word you never said to me inside it
a word you never said just
rom-com kissed me into believing
fucked me into needing
I wrestle with peace when I'm up and when I'm dreaming
I'm sorry i couldn't stop you from becoming what you always wanted to be
bittersweet tragedy
shakespearean in its legacy
allegory in its relevance
you exist as real as the shadows on my bedroom wall
as real as the four letters you footprinted on my face expecting me to give chase
when all i can do is stand in the middle of apartment
heart
head
present
future in my hands
past like ashes from the sage smudged to clear the way for you
maybe i shoulda opened the window for that smoke signal
or just branded you like you branded me
that way
STAY
could be something you'd have to taste
feel and look in the face
every morning you wake

snow shields

*from a workshop I did with Desiree Dallagiacomo

snow comforts
encompassing white and blue sky
arms taut in my jacket
this is what it feels like to be surrounded and alone

i wasn't scared
did not fear the white
longed to touch the blue
my arms don't move
my voice has no use
just time and snow cold
tall to protect
tall to guard
like my mother guards
she'll be back soon
i know this
I'm not scared

snow shields
the wind blows swirls
on my face and my feet
keeps company as I wait
white and blue smile
high
feels like hugs
we should hug
she is warm

Tons of YouTube videos!

So, lately a bunch of people have been taping me doing poems. So take a look!

At Bill's Records in Dallas:
Lions and Trees



Snowflake



At the Battle of the Metroplex:
Snowflake

The night of. . .

Late night. driving a young man home to the same neighborhood I used to call home. hearing the verdict and all the sadness and all the everything from a people desperate for justice. Watching this young man til the door of his home is safely closed and locked behind him. Seeing much of myself in him. His bright face bespectacled and glowing like the neon green shoelaces from his 16th birthday gifts. . . trying not to write a poem.

Hugging the boy I once watched grow. Now 5'6", 11 years of man-child and mirror image of his mother. Boy in his smile but man in his glare and knowing. All the track practice in the world don't outrun bullets and fear and systems we can no longer run away from. . . Trying not to write a poem.

Working my retail job, hoodie up, and reading the faces for the same sadness crying down my insides. The black man looking for chess books I nickname Deacon cause his scent reminds me of my father's church, though at 10 a.m. Sunday he is not. The white woman arguing her book price with fervor practiced in her bathroom. The man asking for a markdown on the book for his daughter, quiet and reserved. Balancing anger and sadness in routine salutations. . .trying not to write a poem.

Her voice repeats, "if i could write this shit in fire," and. I can't. If i could, if we could, its ashes would have spread seeds and outgrown these old world problems. Still. . . Trying not to write a poem because. Because. Actions speak.