-For C.

Excerpts from a Life’s Survival Guide

If nothing else, I’m a survivor;
this is what I will tell you: I am that cat—
whether pushed or jumping—who lands
on her feet, licks her wounds, and saunters
away. Rule #5: Never react, when a reaction
is so clearly sought. See I know the game
I choose to play, nonchalant.

When the life plan you so carefully sketched, begins to burn, in
from the edges; gently blow out the flames
and make your life a phoenix: rise. Rule # 2:
Follow the flow of the river—not rushed, in the drive
towards a destined destination—but, be aware
of the ever apparent undercurrent.

Rule #4: Never tread where your footprints
are not welcome. My arms
are halfway open, my heart is protected, and my vision
has been cleared. Rule #8: Everyone from sinner
to saint; has the innate ability to be like nitrogen
both, enriching and explosive.

Is this what you needed to hear? What we
are all well aware of—how humans
are dichotomous? So am I…defying your desire
for clear explanations, perfect in my paradoxes. Rule #1:
Walk your path, avoiding the obvious obstacles; never intentional
in your injury, nor accepting of the intentional injury
of yourself. So saying this more simply:
I survive out of necessity, navigating the narrow
passageways allowed; so should we pass, closely
know that there is always solid, safe shelter
in me.

Stroking the Ego OR Faking for “Love'

I.

Who am I
to point out the blackness of truth? When I
have lied
in the darkness
with no proper responses
to an amorously awkward caress,
except the expected moan.

II.

At 19, he unknowingly initiated me
into the lair of liars. He grunted and I strained
a smile

behind my teeth hid the fear
of what the unspoken truth, meant.

III.

I have spent three years living
nothing, but my truth
and sometimes I’m the actress, still
putting on the pantomime
in the dark

I am laying and with a sigh, I lie.

This Poem is Not....(May 2006)

This Poem is Not an Anti-Smoking Ad




“…just take one puff.” Spencer entices me
mostly because she seems to mimic my first love, smoke spirals
whispering silent secrets to the air around her, not that she
is even a fuzzy mirror image of Denise; just the lithe cigarette, its burning face
glaring at me the limp ashes collecting in a pile on her thigh
are all resurfacing a memory:

I am sixteen, hair pulled back in one soft afro-puff, jeans fraying
at the ends, I am the picture of practiced nonchalance
teenage angst and ambiguity. She is my dream
or nightmare—at this point I haven’t decided
which—dark honey hair perpetually
in her eyes, six months my elder, an eternity

those were her words of wisdom, slouching
against the blue frame of the bathroom stall,
paint flakes caught in mid-wave; the school was in transition, transforming
“…just take one puff.” I was too static for this metamorphosis, swallowed
too many propaganda pills, could feel my lungs blackening
by just standing there letting her invitation hang
pregnant in the stagnant air

“No, I can’t.” I whispered, mad at myself, lacking
the need for peer approval, too involved
in sustaining the stature of self I’d created, too obedient

Now as Spencer’s eyes hold mine, daring me to say: no
she is really a figment of my regret; I am finally in transition, transforming

“No.” I sigh, because she is not who I want her to be, not
a three-year-late reflection, just another patron lost
in the fog of the twenty-four hour smoking section.