Transitory (adj.): Me

I mean, I know this isn’t a big deal for most people, but I recently realized something. While people are free to feel and do what ever they please, I am the only one who controls my reactions, emotions, and responses. I have control over what makes me upset or happy or confused. So I’m trying to become better at not letting things make me upset, and strangely, I’m trying to find healthier things to make me happy.

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and all of the sudden, i realized i could be happy

Day 3

black is—blue is—bruises are—

black is: folding in and out of blue

purple red blood clod catching and

exploding beneath skintight negro

muscle covers. dark am—I is—real not

black is: past due past death past packing

and too past repacking for a question

or breath or anything. spliced black is—

sliced black was: dark like inky snow bank

awful amalgam of anachronistic unwelcome

signs we are.

Day Two (Urban Renewal)

I am reclaiming the city

            I’ve never met, never even

                        slept with in these poems

                        full of trees and spit and

            family. The city of pictures

and stories—women with steel

toed kisses and army

            brakebones. Men who love

                        men and themselves.

                        Whoever told me the history

            was gone: empty as a rotted

squash shell, did not watch

my grandfather rehabilitate

            a brickface on the Southside

                        calculating the costs in cents

                        and safety; did not see my aunts

            and uncles, varied in their degrees

of truthiness, whisper alabaster

blasphemies to Carl’s shores;

            did not even see, today: me—with

                        my cousins walking across a bridge

                        under the shade of Wright’s city

            planned so perfectly in square

and rectangular plots. 

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Day One

it’s already tough, this writing,

this word after word the way they

build on each other not around or through

but with, the most difficult

direction, I think. It makes

writer’s block sound like laziness

like i don’t wanna like close the door five

more days, then i’ll wake up I promise this time.

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