Three Poems – Pages Matam

 

Stitch

             Dear ________ [insert name]

only ____ [insert age]

you are the latest stitch in a delicate pattern

weaving all of the lessons we learn

that when black bodies leave home

they may often return as:

             something to not be talked about,

a stopped and frisked heart

a different body

a bloodied rainbow

a wounded opera

              something to not be,

an appropriated testament

a muted Chapel

a leaking constellation

an espresso machine on 125th & Lenox

              or

              doesn’t return home at all.

              so  many bodies

another memorial
           	
              and counting

another mourning

              and counting

another name

              and counting

another mistake

              and counting

another child

              and counting

another poem

              and counting

and another

              and another

                            and another
           	



              and still counting…



Dirty Diana speaks, after she hears of Michael Jackson’s death

My name, sullied in the trench of your song.
Pretty is a halo of thorns befitted upon my tongue,
how it hurts to bleed courageously 

to be more backstage door than woman
was I not enough to seduce you from your grave,
to suck the fame from your lips

let its poison curl in my neck?
is this the homecoming you spoke of so bravely?
did her worry lay you to rest 

my skin immortalized to quench your dreams
I took your weight off, not because being a star
felt heavy, but as a reminder 

that I’ve never needed you to be clean.
If dirt and spit could undo the blindness of man
imagine what my holy is capable of 



Naked and not Ashamed

A found poem based on titles of books on my then shelf
Title of poem is the name of the first book . 
Make the last line the name of  a book you wish to read.

Teaching to transgress, is a malicious intent.
mo’ meta Blues for the practice of poetry in a wideawake field.
I'm writing down the Bones for the Role Call in
a County of Kings, where the toughest Indian in the World
wears Yarmulkes & fitted caps.  Great day for UP
is why he hates you? The Walls of Jericho are the Alchemist’s Joy.
African Folktales are the Resume Writer’s Handbook
for Sources of Indian Tradition. How to really love your child is
in the Sun the Moon and the Stars of The Prophet’s
Yellow Fever...Black Goddess, says to Man Up
because If ingested, seek Professional Help
Sometimes there is an incoming storm: City of Rain, 
where Green Lantern lives as the Science of Psychology.

They call me 299-359, others call me contemporary poetry (volume
two), or retellings of the Norton Anthology so the voices
of the future, can finally start getting it together.
if the Vampire Armand, can lead the purpose driven Life,
then why can’t Tar Baby find Peace, Love, & Healing
in a Light Bulb Symphony. if i show you my thoughts from the inside out
will I be Beloved, or Jazz, or Poisoned for Profit?
I believe the three “Whys” of the Russian Revolution
reside in a porn nation, filled with Poetry like bread.
Hip-Hop Development and how to Develop a Powerful Prayer Life
are half-siblings - born from the undisputed greatest writer
of all time's songs from under the river - as a surrender
to the simple truth about LOVE.

“My name is Jason. Mine too.” is the quiet game we play
after the witch hunt, when She says Her Words - Her Poetry
in the Green Mountain Review as the appeal, before her
sonnets of LOVE and friendship grow up to be letters from a nut.
I follow the money handbook to learn pole dancing to Gospel hymns.
but when you are Black like me, the narrative of the Life
of Frederick Douglas becomes the Dictionary and Thesaurus
for the corporate planet often directed by desire. Lighten Up!
The Stranger is Gone, Baby, Gone...
		Said the shotgun to the head
...Please, You are more than an athlete, but it aint my fault...
blame it on Hip-Hop (or the Holy Bible) for terror incorporated,
when we let God be God. Soon, the memoirs of a bastard Angel -
born Palestinian, born Black - will be blessing the boats
like a blood dazzler with the Gift:

Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World and the
power of your Subconscious Mind, is all about Sex in
the Parable of the sower. Lies my teacher told me are
A long way Gone from when they Poured Fire on Us From the Sky.
I am Assata’s Invisible Man, like Baldwin or the Seven deadly Sins, lost in
the book of Revelation. I once was the Prince in understanding
the dreams you dream. But the God I am: from tragic to magic,
stuck in the art of war on this strange terrain, only wishes for
all the king’s men to just give me a cool drink of water ‘fore I diiie of this

Black Noise.



[Image: After "Invisible Man", by Ralph Ellison, The Prologue; Jeff Wall 2000]