Posts tagged: love
By The Time This Reaches You (as appears in A Detroit Anthology by Rustbelt Chic Press)
I love you but by the time this reaches your ears
it will be too late
I will be headed back
within the mouth of the beast.
In my hometown
2 men aged 16-25 are murdered
each week, which means men my age
have asphalt graves dug by trucks
made in the ghost factories of our homes.
We are cracked futures,
buried in abundance
as if something is supposed to grow there.
Our lovers forget our names like subtotaled receipts.
After we fill up the garbage cans
we are heaped on top of one another,
like tables overflowing with the dishes of deaths breakfast.
By the time this reaches your ears
I will be cursed in betrayal.
I’m ripping down the wallpaper of my heart as we speak,
dragging an ax along carpets where I once laid in love.
I’ve replaced all the doors with windows.
I’ve become more open but I’m letting less people in.
My ventricles are wrecking balls.
My arteries are arson art exhibits.
Little boys and girls have pistols for mouths.
They all have similar targets and I’ve slowly begun
to grow a large red dot on my chest.
There is an orange circle around that,
and a yellow halo around that.
Every time I try to talk to them I see their tongues twitching.
I tell rooms full of strangers
things I don’t tell my best friends.
Those who I see an oasis in desert me.
There are vultures and hyenas that have long circled my failures,
and I fear I will disappear searching for you.
Your attention is worth more to me
than the attention of millions.
I don’t know the depth of your damaged heart
but mine has been broken
into small enough pieces across Detroit
that it will fit in and fix it.
I’ve tried to repair my soul with a hammer
for so long that I know how impossible it is.
I face myself in the mirror knowing that I
have loved bricks that think they are wrenches.
They will have wrecked more than they repair.
If you told me to swallow gasoline
to get that kiss from your flamethrower of a mouth
I would engulf every motor in my city.
I am just a man with a woman’s heart.
There is a landmine between my neck
and my navel and all I want you to do is fall for me.
But by the time this reaches your ears,
I will be back in the mouth of a beast
that wants nothing to do with me. It’s teeth will be stars.
It’s gums will drip comets.
I will suspended the sky above my head
waiting for you to notice me and
the crazy thing about stars
is what you see is really an image of something that died a long time ago.
like an egg broken before being boiled for breakfast,
like a dying animal watching the scavengers
wait for a meal, or a victim of it’s surroundings
waiting for someone, anyone to show them love.
Days I Don’t Have
Desire, her weight
an iron pressed
on me. Our breaths,
steam. Thighs delicately
held, the glass window
both soaked with rain.
Our clothes, autumn leaves, raked
off our bones, urging us
to spring towards each other, grips
shoveling into backs, shoulder
blades, sharpened by the clench.
The evening sky mimics
the interior of us. Shivers,
shakes, shutters, in my arms. Shining
in, the warm orange orb watches her chest
rising and falling, tides in each
breath, bare breasts sun
kissed by the dawn.
We fog the windows, talking
promises that aren’t full of hot air, before
the drawbridges in our mouths connect. Touching
deeper than what fingertips reach
she says she thought you would be the one
for me. I thought so too all those years ago. I forget
to close my front door when she leaves. These
days I don’t have as much to lose.
Your body is a temple I hope I’m worthy enough to pray to.
when the poet in me is restless I make beats.
when the producer in me is restless I write poems.
when both are alive I aim to make love
but love is never created or destroyed
only shared, because love is matter.
love matters. love is all I have.
it is all I know. its all I will ever know.
its all I have ever wanted, all I will want.
I speak in music and dance to words.
I write for the rhythm in your heartbeat
and compose for the language of your tongue.
My fingers communicate for your eyes and ears
yet all they really want is to know if we feel the same.
Like the shoelace
the bicycle becomes a memory.
So does the time with the car
and the tire, and the time
you smelled breakfast but mom
was still in bed. Or even if that didn’t happen,
or if he wasn’t yours and was more hers
you remember each time
he sat with you, or talked to you
even if it was about basketball
or your mother, or violence,
or manhood, or standing up for yourself.
Whatever it was, you remember that,
regardless if his name was brother,
uncle, grandpa, friend, that one guy
or father. You remember each memory
that you one day want to be remembered by.