You Left

You left flowers in the apartment when you went away

Beautiful flowers

pink with white outlines and dark red spots

surrounded by bushy jungle green leafs

Flowers whose blooming buds filled the air with a deep

sensual aroma

like the one

you left

in my sheets

morning

lying

in the

truck bed

looking up

while

my boss

drives slow,

i listen

to the

crickets

singing

for the

dawn

to

bloom

and

i

light

a

lazy

cigarette

and

watch

the sun

grow

while

the

prairie

lifts

its

fingers

and

writes

a story

in the

wind,

“the sky

is never tired –

the sky

has never

slept -

the sun

and

moon

have

always

taken turns

so

the sky

has

one

eye

open

while the

other

rests,

one eye

dreaming,

one eye

dreaming

secret,

always

dreaming

us

awake

. . .”

yes,

these are

the

words

and

i

believe

them,

smoking

in the

truck bed

looking up,

my boss

still

driving

slow,

and

i believe

them

inside

looking

underneath

the

memories

at

all

the

lives

i’ve

lived

before

today.

yes,

dreaming,

one eye

dreaming

secret,

always

dreaming

us

awake.

By Vince P

Conclusions

I wanna grasp you from behind and wrap my arms and hands round your belly.

I wanna incite your lust.

I wanna kiss your neck and whisper softly in your ear.

I wanna pull you closer to me, hold you tighter, and turn you round till your breath is my breath

and your breasts are pressed

to my breasts,

your lips to my lips

my hips to yours.

I wanna feel you tremble and shake.

I wanna gaze into your eyes from above

create new formulations

and come;

to our own conclusions about love.

Brown, Proud

A boy’s head was turned from mine on the bus

I saw his dark hair, slumped shoulders

He could be my little brother

Could be a neighbor kid out on the court

I’ve seen boys like him before

Populating the stoop of my Spanish Harlem apartment

Boasting a Domenicano pride on their chests

Baring grins and passing footballs

Over my head as I duck with groceries in hand

I know I’ve seen that hesitant sideburn

On other faces rocking dreadlocks and Jordans

Shooting the breeze outside the Johnny’s

Chinese restaurant in the nation’s capital,

400 years after their ancestors built it

I swear to you that brown nose is familiar

As the scent of fresh mint

Lathered in Asian tea and softened with French bread

On a spring morning when North Africa

Began to rise and fall in a new day

I can’t see his face, but I know as deeply as

I know the color of my blood

That it is all the brown boys I’ve seen in my short lifetime,

All the wayward fathers

Confused by their passion and betrayed by their strength

All the babies who succumb to the lie that

Growing older is growing wiser and stronger

All the brown boys whose mothers’ love

Suffocates away their ability to love another woman

And expect a partner, not another mother

All the chocolate eyes and shapely jaws

And potential-brimmed hands

Whose elders fought, not just to exist,

But to be heard and respected

Who laid down their lives and swords and refused Alabama buses

For brown boys who picked them back up

Without knowing what for

Whose lovely brown eyes scream

For a reason to exist,

But not for much more

And I look down at my own brown hand

With the same red blood in my veins

And I thrash myself for not turning to

All the brown boys on my stoop, my steps,

On the sidewalks and buses of my dreams

For not telling them their purpose,

A reason to be and to thrive

And to make my brown hand beam with pride.

If blaming them doesn’t help the backslide

If cursing their habits their speech or their pride…

I see it was never their burden to bear

They wear the mask

But it’s me behind what they wear

I curse myself for thinking and thinking

And never saying a word

The brown boy at the window –

On the stoop and the steps

At the ballgame

In the courtroom

At the party

In the rastas

Behind bars

Or at the frontdesk

In the bossman’s chair

At the podium

In the Versace suit

One fist held high for justice

One fist ready to fight for honor

The one more ready to quit than to try

The one with more bling than Biggie and 50

The one with a meek woman in tow

The one in my family photos

The one in my bed –

All beckoning me to see into their chocolate eyes

To turn their heads

Towards mine and no other

And say: “One day, my brown brother, you will make me proud”

- Ihotu A.

Reconciliation

A room full of Jews,

Save one.

Hebrew thick on their tongues

Like mouthfuls of bread

Like raspy Arabic syllables.

And this non-Jew, non-Arab wonders

- blindly? -

If two sounds so similar

Could ever learn to speak

The same language.

-Ihotu A.

#2

back in california

back in my

old room

sitting at

my desk

waiting for

the perfect words

to come

and tell me

who i am today

and why i thought

of you

again

watching the sun

bleed through

the clouds

at dusk,

just south

of guadalupe,

going 80

on the highway.

the light

was

falling like

rain

against

my windshield

spreading like

flames,

down

down

down

till

they were

licking

at my tires,

forcing me

to watch

the sky

and not

the road

and swerve

enough

to make me

nervous.

but it

was worth

the risk

to see

the sun

and moon

switch roles,

above the hills,

above the waves,

above even

the stars.

for a

moment

they were

just

two eyes.

by Vince P.

“Parisian Existentialism”

Few stars above Paris ce soir

the air has a bite, a chill.

Apartment buildings tower

over a quiet street

long past its bedtime

but lights still suggest

the lives lived inside.

Lifetimes played out

like a child’s bedtime story

l’un sur l’autre

a baby grows between

a newly wed couple and

a lonely old man

a girl has her first kiss

beneath harsh noises of a love gone wrong.

Lives lived like pegs on a checkerboard

like moths to a flame

they gather here

under a starless sky

hovering on a quiet street

in Paris.

I wonder if God can see us all

like Santa delivers his Christmas cadeaux.

If she knows our addresses

social security numbers and visa expiration dates.

I wonder if these things matter

in the least, to her,

or is it the color of our eyes

that she studies with caution

the temperatures of our hearts

the fervor with which we cast off our fears?

Does she keep score as we accumulate,

when we backslide or when we achieve?

Does she see only the win,

or also if we had to deceive?

A la fin, will she smile with benevolence

or strike with thunder?

And when we stare out at a starless sky

in Paris

does she notice our millions of eyes, staring up

and reciprocate the wonder?

by Ihotu A

Carnal

Here, I finally give in:

indulge me.

Let my breath out with a whoosh,

loosen the belt of my mind,

remove my watch, and

stand: naked to emotions and urges

generally kept tightly wound.

Here, I let my heart lead

- no – my stomach

and my gut becomes a

force to be reckoned with.

Let freedom come

from Blackberrys and timekeepers

and all of Tom’s peepers,

cause when we get it on in public

I want them to watch.

And they know they like watching.

Here, I take my cues

from whatever and whoever takes charge

I fill in the gaps

and enjoy the breath.

Leave behind the world of regrets

where stress rests

and open new eyes to possibility best

created in a world of:

lines erased

fears chased

chest open wide

with a brave heart inside

Act, Do, Breathe

for at least one moment.

Take your respite and

tour the depths of what it is to live.

Here, when my walls begin to give.

by Ihotu A.

indisputable…

Bumper stickers, posters and t-shirts

can never demonstrate or prove

the way that you do

a certain fact immutable.

Your simple presence,

is the most effective evidence

to demonstrate this truth

indisputable;

Black is Beautiful.

Daniel M.

# 1 by Vinve P.

three seagulls

staring

perched upon

a searchlight

floating in

low tide.

three seagulls

watching

our cars

lined up

like cattle

locked inside

the ferry.

three seagulls

three wise men

or at least

three lazy prophets

waiting

for the sun

to pass

below

the water

and sleep down

on the floor.

“hello,

you there,”

i say,

slightly

embarrassed.

i don’t want

to offend

them,

but i

do need

their attention.

“pardon me,

wise ones,

fortune tellers,

yes,

you three

over there.

“i apologize

for interrupting,

but i was

wondering,

well,

i’m struggling

to know

why i still want

to hold her,

to kiss her,

slowly,

to trace

my tongue

around each

tattooed flower

blooming from

her spine?

“excuse me,

you three holies,

again,

i’m sorry,

but could you

tell me

how i believed

that resting

my head against

her breasts

was ever

just for fun,

just for distraction,

just fresh air

from my year

apart

from bodies?

“how

could

i?

“how

could

I

ever,

ever

believe

i could

just turn

away

from

so much

beauty,

so much

tenderness

so much

kindness,

so much

light

behind

those eyes?

“i know

it’s only

been

5 days

since i

last

saw

her,

but i was

hoping

this feeling

would have left

like smoke

or fog

so i could see

where to go

from here,

what i should do,

so

i

could

focus

again,

or

at least

pretend

that I am

focused.

“so,

you three,

you sages,

I would be

much more

than

grateful,

i’d even

buy you

each

a loaf

of bread

and feed

you

if you

would just

read your

crystal balls

and tell me

why she

stays stuck

in my heart

even though

i’ve asked

quite nicely

that she

go,

that she

leave,

fly away

to greece

to burma,

far away,

and take

her memory

and stuff

it deep inside

her luggage

and use it

only as a

bookmark

to measure

out the pages

of her

new life.

i see

you give

no answers,

no nods,

not even

waves

or

winks

from your

white wings.

i see

you three

are only

staring,

watching,

waiting,

for your

next chance

to fly.

“good luck,

then.

no hard

feelings.

thanks

anyways,

for

listening.

“i’ll just

be here

wishing

i hadn’t

said

goodbye.”