Punnett Square

This is my inheritance: limes rubbed

on the inside of wrists, earliness

as a virtue. A clever tongue, to be a

happy drunk. The ridge

that splits our faces and green blue eyes

from southern Flint. Pens,

writing lists as daily prayers

we add to just to scratch off.

Smelling the trash

to know it stinks - Thus

an aversion to tequila, to

our knotted knuckles and backs.

Johnny Walker Black

with water on the rocks and

the snap, pop of seasoned knees.

A steady hand on a French press,

folding and refolding dogged ears

of Melville, of the gospel of Luke,

margins almost black with scraps:

poetry. Doodles. Hebrew and Greek.

I know why you married her;

how her grace tempers our nature.

And she told me how your father

pressed cash into your hand

as he hugged you. And you bookmarked

your favorite poems

with dollar bills for me,

threading our inheritance.

the land of

i had a dream of milk and 

honey you were in it, leading me

across a way i never built, saying

sorrow never hurt a body and oh

will you give me yours, sweet heart and soul?

i had a dream where i was ghost

so maybe more than how i am

to your pen on paper future

spinning a wish of what i could be.

it is sorrow, isn't it honey? it bites

me so swiftly and heals by the

the knowledge of God that steps

where i step since i met

your conscious voice, all of grace

verse my nature. it is nature, isn't it,

this sorrow's hurt upon my body

and this awake. it is not just

my dream i dreamed of milk and

honey you are it.

this is indian summer

this is indian summer:
sepia ink on my wrists,
the dusted monarch wings
resting on your extended palms
face up toward the cool sky
and the rogue moon that brushes
against your flushed cheeks
as you dance with a grown ocean,
landing with lavender and
half-turned leaves.
it is the finger dipped in batter,
the first delicate step into
a lightly bocca-ed rain,
nails navy blue and lashes
curling with laughter, slim fingers
round a coffee cup i fill
and fill again to hear my name
upon your lips, & eleven-morning
sun on a street burned gold,
shadows matching and smoothing
the frayed edges of my hope.
it is your Michigan Americana folk song
smile, gifted.
this is my return to your unaware;
the architecture of my autumn.

k vs. k

KH

I have never been so aware of my misery,
never held the shape of it in my hands and known
its color, width, breadth, so acutely, and this
clarity is compounded by past experiences which
drag me into uncertainty. in fact, I have known all
along the mystery, but afforded myself the luxury
of putting it away with the other cobwebbed relics
of common sense and sanity. someday I’ll come
back here looking for an old feeling and will
find these broken smiles to remind myself.
I know this – I know what happens – I have seen
the descent, I feel it beneath my feet and knocking
knees and I have heeded myself. I am pausing
just to remember, to learn, like reliving
the past will eradicate it.


KC

you pressed first though you didn’t know it
I breathed fast as a summer breeze, wasted not a moment
to absorb the inches of your features.
then I knew

you to be beautiful by the measure of your voice,
a burning light baritone, and the steady smile you gifted
carefully. I began to see our differences
match

your measure where I rush, faith in place of
moxy. I project loudly. and I pressed back, to your
knowledge just a brush, a flicker in a
meadow.

you may see a sea from where you stand but
my eyes among many are thieves for you only.

for P255 - Personality & Voice ("Pride of the Philippines")

It’s like my tiya Shang says:
“Lub neber pails.”
I got this idea man –
I’m just full of
so many damn ideas –
if I could just
get this one right,
you know
it’d change stuff.
Hand me that sauce
over there, yup.
Lolo says I can split
the tip with you ‘cause
your car’s gonna smell like
crispy pork. Anyway
who’s asking Rin
to prom? I heard
Beckett. That’s some straight
bull. Dude touches her I’ll go
all Manny Pacquiao
on his ass, right, all,
“Pride of the Philippines”
til he learns to
treat a lady right.
Remember when
I did it for you?
That was hi-larious.
But dawg this pig’s not gonna
fit in your scrawny trunk –
you bringing this lil’
thing to school? –
put it in the back seat,
we gotta go before
this feast gets cold. Ya know
if I was at your school
I’d be bumpin’ Weezy
everyday. Becoming
a “murse.” Yo that’d
be sick if we went to
college together
if I went to college.
I’ll come see you bro
don’t even worry about it,
you know my tiya
Shang says love never fails.

strife of the innovator

That's sort of the thing with the world,
you get older and you think
with the freedom from getting in
trouble for the truth everyone
will be open
and
not fear it.
but then we have fear of
disappointment and failure
that fuel the fire of disillusionment
and over time this process has become and infrastructure so big
that those that chose to work outside of it are insignificant 
and find them selves lonely in crowds
and competing for naught

those of us that are outsiders are punished with our own doubt
minds clouded by the economic wrath on our innovation
the social wrath on our exclusive radical nations
hurt because we are an after thought this great 'haven'

Broken after the cruel thick humoring of our brain children
 that don't stack the capital and promote diversification
Unsteady once our children can hardly eat off our slave wages
The youngest of us looking to soffocate the light of the spirit that
  differentiates us in an effort not to feel empty

I feel like a swordsman with a sword that lacks in reach.
He is a nomad because there is no place he can see to lay his head.
She sees no reason in competing in a race when she is not a runner.

But we have no place.
 we are alone

for Poetry 255 - On Love

Love
was that time I ruined
one whole side of the car. Love
was when I threw up from
dawn ‘til dusk on
someone else’s birthday.
Love was tracking mud on the tile
forgetting to scrub the bathroom and
leaving my lunch behind on the
first day of 8th grade.
Love was that time I went 87
in a 70.
Love was awake when I came home late
(love was, every time).

Love was then &
love is,
love is,
love is.