safe poems

i don’t wanna write safe poems
poems about whisping winds and fancy flowers
i don’t wanna write poems with nouns that rhyme at the end of each line
i don’t wanna write poems that are recited at inaugurations or graduations or celebrations
those poems are safe, sweet, guarded, nice, protected
they are created in a space and place that is hyper-real, full of folly, fancy, freedom, fun
FUCK THAT

i wanna write poems that smell like shyt,
bad pussy, or a
niggah’s dick after he has cum and not washed
i wanna write unprotected poems
poems that run the risk of infection- infecting your mind and soul
like a virus or an incurable STD
i want my poems to stay with you
sinking deep within, never letting you go, consuming you

i want my poems to be in the midst of abortions
between the legs of mothers who change their minds
the clamps the forceps
the discarded waste that was once life but now a bubbling protein mass of nothingness
innocent blood and broken eyes
a crushed skull
two hearts torn
a dream deferred

i want my poems to be unprotected
raw
like fucking a niggah in the ass that you just met online
cummin' inside
loose booty
no name
no love
no intent to ever return
“what in the fuck did i just do?”
too late now
shower
sleep
make a mental note: create new screen name

i wanna write the poem that’s there when you tell your mama you’re gay
the shock on her face
the void in her heart
the misunderstanding
the tears in her eyes
the lump in your throat
the final relief after years of hiding who you are
at least now she knows
and hopefully later, she will understand

sick is the poem that hovers over head while the priest in collar and robe
hard dick and old clammy hands feeling like wet fish
fondling the unripe dicks and innocent asses of 8 and 9 year old boys
fucking them up for life
raping them with images of Christ’s cum on their faces and in their minds
a vision that will be revisited in many nightmares and future court cases
to come
it must be written

i wanna taste the poem that is placed on the plate beside cold pork and beans and stale white
bread in front of the child of the woman who has worked her ass off
back hurting, legs aching,
tired, just plain
tired
puny paycheck that's
not enough
bills to pay
shoes to buy
groceries to get, groceries like
chicken wings or a piece of sausage to go with them beans
them beans
them damn beans

i must write the poem that
breaks promises
breaks hearts
breaks wind
winds beneath broken wings
give me two wings so that i may fly
high above it all
all these broken poems and broken lives
let me carry the burden as i sorely soar above it all
disturbing the funky fucked up lives of

mothers and fathers
sons and daughters
my people
and all the people that know what it's like to live a life
without rhyme
without reason
without hope
without prose
without poetry that matters to them

poetry that
suffers or
dries tears or
soothes pain
poetry that in the late night assures a new day is coming
a new day is coming
a new day
has come