Tag Archives: death

Post the Second 2 or A poem for New Orleans

The city

Is touched by


The cracks in

The sidewalk

Filled with memories

and ghosts

Walk through the


Looking  for home

This used to be


She said

Teeming with muddy


and the sediment

of centuries

A sacred place

Where the rains

Of the four corners

would mix

Bringing tidings

Of great things

In land

Far away

How do you mourn

That which

is no longer felt

no longer known

How do you remember


that was never forgotten?

Now the land is


she said

Buried under layers

of oil and concrete

levees and canals

What once was a home

to many

Is now a barren place

Filled with the miasma

of self-hatred and

Willful neglect

How do you imagine

Something that is real

Manifest something

That can never be

Make love to something

That was never there?

The marrow of this place

She said

has been sucked dry

desicated remains litter

the ground

white shapes savagely


Art Culture Experience

for their sustenance

trying to stave off

the Yawing jaws of emptiness

I must have more

They say

More More More

and their appetites are never


Despite this

She said

We survive

In the cracks of

The sidewalk

Growing up out

of destruction

In the notes that leap

from the Jazz bands


In the homes

we rebuild and the seasons

we weather

We survive

She said

Because we must

There is no other option

the ancestors that we

Remember impel us


To claim what is ours

I see now

Where the road


and resistance exists

even if it is not


Post the Ninety-Second or I


Don’t know

What it is like

To die but



What it is like

To live with


My hand trembles

As I hold this blood

Soaked pen

Blood like rivers

Flow from the tip

Of my shores

Shoring up

The weak

Parts of self


Remember my sisters

Cradle them in my palm

Between lines and fingers

Charting the course

Through which I


Like life



Still alive

Despite statistics

My body crossed

With intersections of death



They will not

Claim me


Will not


My body strewn

Like so much offal

Across the pavement

Will not

Mark the way

I move

For death


Mean to survive

To live, love

And thrive


Mean to show


What it is like

To hustle

In a brown trans body


Mean to materialize

A life

That is


Full of familia



The softness that

Goddess has

To offer


don’t need

To assimilate

don’t need

Your “marriage equality”

Your white picket fence

2.5 children

I don’t need

Your lie


I want justice

Justice for my sisters

Justice for myself

Justice for all of the people

Marginalized by life

Justice that does not involve

Police brutality

I want to bring

My ancestors back

From the dead

And raze this world

To the ground

So that it can

Rise anew

Like a Phoenix



Plan to keep

Drawing breath


Know how quick

Life can go


And you miss



And you’re dead

But until then

I will feel

My heart pump

Vitality to limbs

My lungs breathe

Joy to heart

My mind thinking

Spirit to life




And I am


Live it


Post the Eighty-Eighth or Juntos

Rough edges

Grate across each



Words fall

Like drops

Out of your mouth

Into sore wounds

I never knew what love looked like

But you showed me

The inside of your flesh

And I remembered




Love is only ever

What we give

The sun lies

Across the mountain

Paining the sky crimson and gold

I turn to see

Your face outlined

In scrub bush and nettle

Your lips the color of


Qué es el cariño

Entre dos cuerpos

Constantly atropellado by the world

When the only sure thing

Is death?


Keep your palm pressed

Against mine

And don’t be afraid

Porque estamos


Post the Eighty-Sixth or Sometimes you get lost

Sing, O Goddess

Sing about the Rage

De nuestro pueblo


Of the Colors

That run across

Borders and Centuries


Of the Reistance

Residing in the

Inside of our Bellies


Of your Daughters

Who lived as they died

With swords in their hands

Poetry is

my Native


Spoken only



SHE kissed my Fore-Head

And I saw


Written in Gold


Written in Amber


Written in Struggle


Written in Life

I often Wonder

how to find




Post the Seventy-Fifth or Where do I begin?

Where do I begin?

The soft folds of her body


The fierce fire of her eyes

Are a good place

I remember what she said

That distant fall morning

“Don’t get lost”

My heart is a warren

Of old hurts

And new triumphs

The walls

Are the pink rosy gold


Of hardship

The rooms

Are filled with the faces

Of those that I love

Like radiant, shining beacons

Beacons that light the way forward

The rooms are filled with memories

That I would rather forget

Her head lay on the ground

Very much detached from her body

She looks at me with reproachful eyes

Almost as if

It was my fault

As if

I could some how prevented

Her murder

How dare I remain alive

When she was dead?

It is the responsibility of the living

To bury the dead


It is the dead

Who must remind the living

Life is short

Where do I begin?

Post the Sixty-Third or Feel Me

He said that I write

With a pen dipped in blood

But I wonder

Is it my blood

Or theirs?

I’m angry

That bring down whole buildings

kinda anger

That cut people up

kinda anger

Anger that starts in your belly

Works it way up into your heart

And out your eyes like lasers

kinda anger

Mountains move at this type anger

And whole societies are built

With this kinda anger

This is that anger that yo mama

Warned you about.

My hands are soaked in gore

From beating against this pavement

Trying to dig holes in concrete

With nothing but nails and fingertips

So that I can plant this precious seed

Of rebellion

Given to me as a gift from those

Mothers that came before.

Can you cultivate plants from stones?

The lines on my palms are cracked and hard

Callouses rising to meet the scabrous sandpaper of daily living

A physical reminder

Of memories and histories

That have not passed.

His death is as keenly felt today

As it was 50 years ago

Or yesterday.

The latest felled tree

In a long line of deforested land.

I will chain myself to my lover

And bomb the logger’s machines

And shoot down the lumberjack himself

Before they harm even a limb

I still worry that won’t be enough.

The conversation is the same every time

A corrupted MP3

On repeat for 400 years

Only now

We debate over it’s very existence

Does a colored queer actually rage

If there is anyone around to feel her?

Post the Sixtieth or Like This

I remember her like this

Black hair, nappy and natural

Wrapped in a gaily colored scarf.

Like this

The way her body moved when she spoke

As graceful as a pirouette

As powerful as a hurricane.

Like this

 The way her laugh would start in her belly

Move through her body

And shake the whole room.

Like this

The way her voice would

fill with passion

When talking about teaching

Or the flute

Or beauty.

Like this

How she always found the brilliance

In anyone

Regardless of the mess left by someone else.

Like this

How her eyes would brighten with fury

At instances of injustice

How she would rage at the racism, sexism and queerphobia

That claimed the lives of those she called Family

How she would rant about the brokenness

Of America’s Public School System

And still pour her heart



Into trying to save just ONE brown child

From that monstrous machine that would grind us to dust

And jail the entrails.

But I also remember her like this

Body ravaged by the harsh toxins of Chemo

Hands, pale and peeling

Hair, graying and thinning

Eyes, fearful and sad.

Like this

How she showed up to teach every day that

She wasn’t felled by that life-prolonging poison.

Like this

How she lay in the hospital bed

Mind racing faster than the Hadron Collider and yet

Impotent to speak

Breathing labored harder than the contractions of revolutions and yet

Holding on to life with every last ounce of power left in her.

She told me once

I thought I would die alone

I took her hands into my own

(They were already cold)

And I told her


You saved this brown child and you will

Never be alone.

I remember her like the warrior she was.

Post the Twenty-Eighth or Winter

He said my eyes looked like


Eyes so cold they scalded

Eyes that could hack away


With FrostBite

Eyes that could create that



Warm feelings

That sets in before HypoThermic death

A death, he said,

That I will happily submit too

For only in dying

Are we reborn

Post the Tenth or Every Morning

I wake up every morning with the Sound of Sirens

Blaring across town

Another murder

Another overdose

Another death

I wake up every morning wondering what fresh hell

The world will throw at me

Will it be losing the job because I was too brown

Or losing the lover because my body was wrong in their eyes

Or losing my identity to the maw of Society that says I’m not real

I wake up every morning wondering

Is today the day?

Is today the day that I die?

The day that some fuck gets it in their head that

I don’t deserve to live

Is today the day I’m murdered?

And every morning I get up

Put on my make up

And face this fucked up world that hates me

That owes me nothing

And I. Demand. Everything

And I will not be denied

I dream of the day when waking up

Is the easiest thing I have to do