Poems

everything starts through me
and i can hear tamborines
everytime you die.
the limbs of crows are stronger
than i know and
even they, hesitate to cry.
i do not want to fly above a sobbing whisper of meaningless smiles,
for you stand for more than that
to me.
you leave your droppings in the sand
and i still have a pile of your things
in-between my ribcage and the stains
from your black-soot feathers.
i can press my hands into warm clay
and mold you
(i would)
but my wings are soft
and i fear of getting stucked,
all over again.

He'll loathe for you,
your sickle-cell bulimic bones,
the mustard stains in your greasy eyes,
wiping up floors with every word in your
mouth. You'll walk with ten-thousand horses
at your side, plateaus so becoming
will lift like rain leaving sweaty sidewalks. He will not hold still
when the shadows mug his Catholic body,
spot his tongue with the seas
of forgotten love, ripen his seedless hair.
You will move him, thru cities
with iron fences and the
muffled cough of trains.
i wanted him home!
To become, portray, elongate.
But with the strings of your
promised imposibility loose around your
neck. He cannot restrain,
he only can forget.