Post the Ninety-Seventh or Make Love to Rage

The words

Born from my fingers

Glitter like blood

In flames

Forming visions

That cause my heart

To freeze

–

Wings alight

On the lids

Of my eyes

Femme Fierceness

She says

Is a birthright

To power

And sorrow

Dressed in the color

Of glory

Walking through worlds

Watching

Waiting

With eyes the darkness

Of space

–

Chief Spence

Sits

In her tipi

Filled with legacies

Of betrayal

Her belly

As empty as the promises

Made

By white men

But she stands

Tough

With iron encased will

Femme Fierceness

Can topple

Empires

–

I want

To get married

To shields and spears

Wear a wedding dress

Made of morning stars

And a veil

Of daggers

Make love to rage

And bust open

Across six continents

Revealing the dismembered

Bodies and

Broken

Land

Holding it all

Femme Fierceness

Does

Not

Flinch

–

My friend

Stands there

Shaking

Trying to

Re

Move

Trespasses

That mark her

Mascara running

Nose bleeding

I hold her

Imagining

The most exquisite

Revenge against rapists

Femme Fierceness

Does not

Take

Prisoners

–

Terror

Is a familiar

Bedfellow

The threat of violence

A constant companion

Pale shadows that

Dance across my body

Following me down

Alleys

Up streets

Into home

And

Soaked sheets

Twist around

My face

Femme Fierceness

Feels fear

But

Never backs

Down

–

I am

A fierce femme

A big

Scarlet fuck you

Ejaculated across

Masculinity’s face

They do not own

Me and my

Silence cannot be

Bought

Post the Eighty-Sixth or Sometimes you get lost

Sing, O Goddess

Sing about the Rage

De nuestro pueblo

Sing

Of the Colors

That run across

Borders and Centuries

Sing

Of the Reistance

Residing in the

Inside of our Bellies

Sing

Of your Daughters

Who lived as they died

With swords in their hands

–

Poetry is

my Native

Tongue

Spoken only

Under/Full

Moon.

SHE kissed my Fore-Head

And I saw

Sky

Written in Gold

Earth

Written in Amber

Life

Written in Struggle

Death

Written in Life

–

I often Wonder

how to find

Mean-ing

Forgetting

Kindness

Post the Eighty-Fifth or Whispers

I hear

Her whisper

Beating

In my chest

I exist

I exist

I exist

Holding two halves

Of a Broken cup

Trying not to

Cry

–

I hear

Her roar

Tearing

Through my veins

Avenge me

Avenge me

Avenge me

With your sword

Of black lace and sharp mind

Colored brown

With dried gore

–

I realized

That life is

More than just

A series of

defeats

But dead women

Do not feel

Rage

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 Forty-Ninth or Rage

I woke up this morning breathing fire

My hair writhing in the heat like snakes

My anger manifesting by the blazing hot inferno

My apoplectic rage expressing itself by the withering heat

The flames consuming both me and my target

The conflagration cocooning me

Caressing me with light, dancing kisses

I felt nothing

But it burned me all the same

And yet

My target was unharmed

Unconcerned

Uncaring

Unmoved

For how can my rage effect something that is

Everywhere

And

Nowhere

At once?