Out For Dinner

I smell spicy meat, hear it sizzle as a server walks by.
The place is glowing with green and red string lights,
tinsel wrapped around every chandelier, mistletoe
dangling from the flat screen near the bar.
We sit at a booth across from each other. My side rocks,
and wiggles each time the person behind me moves.
A baby girl eating with her family smiles at me, a mouth
full of rice and beans. She waves, I wave back.
Our food arrives, pork tacos for me and a beast-like
steak dinner for him.
My tacos taste like barbecue pig, they're wet with
sauce and grease. I lick off my finger tips and
the corners of my mouth.
Our server walks by, half empty glasses of water, dirty plates,
and used napkins on a tray, on the tray at first.
From the tray to the floor falls the dirty plates. From the tray to my lap
falls the half empty glasses. From the tray to my plate
falls the used napkins. Bon appetite!




This poem is dedicated to my dear friend Stephen Ryan Jackson. Thank you for encouraging and supporting both of my arts. Would do this night again with you anytime Tuna!

Shot Down

A pigeon shot out of the sky, arrow penetrating
breast, plummeting to the ground, no wind to carry wings,
the thud, crack of body and bone to pavement.
Falling for you, hitting rock bottom in a head first
dive. I'm bleeding out for the world to see. Holding
on only to die another day, to fall for you again, and again.

I will heal, wear my scars on my sleeve. Let days,
weeks, a year pass before taking flight. Praying
for a breeze to catch my wings, give me life,
for the sails on my ship to inflate, a baby's first breath.
I'm hoping to float on waves that splish and splash,
to find treasure at sea.

Still the answer is no. The answer is always no.
I'm falling again. No, sinking, being dragged down
by murky waters that crash and crash. Fighting against
waves that push and pull, slipping into the darkness,
Davy Jones' locker. This time I won't get up, I refuse to
heal, to come up for air, to remove the arrow from my breast.

More

More

I know how you see me, but I’m so much more.

I’m more than just a midnight score, 

more than your mid-week booty call.

I’m more than just my smooth, brown skin; 

more than my thick thighs.

I’m more than my wide ass, 

more than my triple D breasts.

I’m more than my big lips, and dark eyes.

I’m more than good pussy, and you ought to know it.

You ought to know I’m a lover, with every fiber of my being.

I’m a crooner, my voice like the richest and darkest of chocolates.

I’m a fighter, blocking and countering each blow.

I’m nobody’s victim. I’m nobody’s bitch.

I’m my own superhero, and I’ve got wings.

Do you see it now? Do you see me?

I’m more than you could ever imagine.

So now I’ll demand more too; 

more of me and more of you.