Free, free

Had someone told me the journey back

to ourselves was so long, I would’ve

packed lighter. I passed up three

signs that I couldn’t read

think they were in a different language

couldn’t make out the meaning

did not know how to recall a constant sound

a roll of the tongue, the pronunciation

unbeknownst to me.

Away, Away

Though I am young

I’ve been brave enough  to travel alone

in search of myself

in forests, rivers, and savannahs.


the gift of s o u l

It’s inside of me

it lives in my heart

in my brain

in my mouth.

It is the product of my life

the baby of mine who would nourish me

keeping me from being aloof, from being hard.

Its love is a gift not to be given unwisely

given only to those who request it, need it, deserve it.

It governs my happy place from the simulation

where fears are thought over and made to be goals

and fulfillment is like mimosas runneth over.

I’m offered mercy and compassion

and judgement against me

falls on stuffed ears, because love here

for me is law.

It is the very thing that moves my feet

and sets a fire in my eyes.

Born with it so it’s been mine since the beginning

my solo act

a gift from unknown,

my light

and the theme to everything.

How could I give it away?






We have the ability to blend in
to our background spaces.
Our black faces
black bodies
black clothing,
black romance
black rules
black manners.
We’d believe we were free
and act accordingly.
Relaxed inside our dark blueness,
when truly we are dramatists,
wanting purple, fuchsia, and gold
flaunted realities.
Some of us
find the diamonds underneath
the subtleness and find ways of
performing our true selves
that once held us captives.
We’d eat our cornbread,
fish and collard greens
with silver spoons, and
drink Hennessy out
of jeweled-encrusted chalices.
Keep our Jambalya recipes
in the family
and teach our babies magic

Give our elders their proper
reverence and tend to them.
’cause with their death comes
our resurrection,
the access granted to
emerge from their shadows
adorned in silk and fleeces.

We’re taking our pleasures
that were meant to be forbidden
and making it our new livelihood.
Giving the swine back and demanding
our pearls.


The shy pink of a grapefruit,
the twisted twirling
of a thirsty tongue,
hunger brews
in the belly
and summarizes on the
I take my fruit to my mouth
and sink my teeth in
the bleeding flesh.  It
sticks to my teeth,
leaving a film on my lips
one two three droplets
on my white shirt.

Setting my tiny feet in the dirt
soiled by morning rain.
The untamed blades of grass
loop around my ankles
as i dig pink toes in the earth.
Mary jane girls is playing
on shuffle
and a dream from lastnight
on replay
one of common language
and local color.

This is one of Sunday’s luxuries.
I’m in charge of the narrative,
the song choice and the energy.
Today i’m starting off
outside and eventually
i’ll be upstream.


Symbolized —


Black woman,
with her father’s spirit
blood and flesh of Mama,
dark nebula with tiny planets
and starry clusters
placed in her womb.
She sashays around condensed galaxies,
a possible maker of honeyed realities,
sticky and sweetly curated.

Bronzed skin like sunlight flooding through
from the heart.
Her head hangs high,
from her mouth, the breath of life.
Her hands, balancing many things
— protector, nurturer, martyr;
untamed, unchecked, and distinctive.

In this body also lies an essence,
luberon red ocher in color,
so archaic and passed on gracefully.
A quintessential element
that sets her apart.
It’s what you witness when she
wakes up in the morning,
hair and face untouched
–sans clothing.
What you hear while she speaks her mind, unapologetically,
slick and gum popping.
What you feel when she places all of herself in your lap,
wrapping around you like an aura.
Keeping you safer than you ever thought
you had the right to be.

Her loving,
a peach deep,
cocoa sweet intrigue.
The friction between her thighs,
a high voltage electricity,
shocking souls into something
call bliss.
Freeing and also binding,
ceremonial at times,
casting pearls before her lovers.
Reigniting his sexuality with interweaving
of fucking and philosophy.

Her story will be told, but not today.




meant for Don

I know the real feeling of intimacy.
a provoking sensation
that pulls out of the chest to his,
crosses arms around bodies,
while kissing him frequently,
as he covers my existence
with his nakedness.
staring deeply into his eyes
as he sucks on each breast.
smiling down at him,
turned on by his submissiveness,
i caress his head,
realizing in this moment
he is my lover
but forever a slave to my sex.

i am the indigo snake with a mouse in its jaw,

the magi that can turn his blue to sweet reds

with a raw spirit of passion
capsuled in between
my thighs
tasting of sugar, water and lime
and always ready
and knowing how to make love
jerk and snap.

i use intimacy as bondage
sealing a moment
with my hands and mouth,
our unification becomes
a secret pact.



in common

not all of us are fragile,
easily broken
and silenced,
neither conflicted or naive.
some of us are perpetual,
shades of cool,
blooming continuously through
annual heartbreaks.

i felt each one just weeks before.

i know that frigidness,
that animosity
between making love and a hate fuck.
both terrifying and unreasonable,
and neither one more transparent than the other.

this recent one though

was different than the others,

heavily adorned in fidelity,

eased into






i’d met my match.
he knew that damn feeling
of unsuccessful relationships just as well.
so his deflecting skills
were just as dangerous as mine,
avoiding conflicts
momentary compromising
reversed psychology
playing defense 24/7.
a man in my own image,
who i still worship for his resourcefulness
and his willingness
to demonstrate love