We cook this life into a liquid elixir where writing should be the only thing that does satiate us.  Save the flavor of the substantive goodness we place into it.  We are sous chefs of the intuitive loosing our profound passion for passing this pen by the plateful.  Placing our purpose upon the chopping block to be diced and dissected; juiced, julienned and justified just to get a taste that lingers over the tongue.  Some moments in the process of preparation are more profound than others.  Some are downright worthless for we know the range we wish to reach when writing towards the sky.  We should be higher than this day finds us.  Perhaps instead of writing to inspire others, we should pen ourselves a new breathing apparatus and scribe new oxygen into our present atmosphere.  I just want to cook in my own kitchen and enjoy the aroma of my final product like a metaphor baking slowly beneath a cast iron enclosure.

i’ve a
lifetime
of living
mathematics
in which
i cast
these
calculations
and upon
dismissing
the
inequalities
and balancing
numbers
on opposite
ends of
the equation
i won’t have
all the answers
but i will
surely
answer with
exactitude
the solutions
i’ve come
to discover
and if you’ve
anything
other
than useful
dialogue
to add
to the sum
total
of my being
this one
simple thing
i ask

put some
challenge
in your
chalice
keep my
curiosity
quickened
by
augmenting
the
originality
of your
argument
and offer
me
something
new
to chew upon
i’ve digested
all the
dogmatism
i can stomach
and found
it to be
nutritionally
narrow
i’m too
curious
to accept
belief
because
i am ever
on the cusp
of clutching
my gut
and casting
forth
another
question
in spite
of how many
cats
are killed
in the process.

smells of
gumbo
not like
you cook

people
gumbo
brass bands
boogie
beignets
craw fish
creole
crab legs
plantation
politics
pool
halls

an aroma
that sticks
to you
and if
bottling
souvenir
scents
for the
return trip
they’d read
"made on
magazine"

stinks of
harlem
not a city
but an
abusive
bastard
known only
to us
as drunk
uncle
whom disappeared
from life
at age 7
not of sudden
death
but certain
detachment

this
odor of his
aftermath
reminds me
of a
cigar box
Aunt Donna
kept under her
couch cushion
when she told
us to go
and fetch

all we knew
was that it
made her easy

she found relaxation

while
the heart
of the city
banged
like a dilla beat

below sea level
but
bounce music
and God who
wrote the sky
uplifts the
black
community

when the rain
bleeds despondence
still there’s a
second line
uptown
in the 7th ward
9th ward
your ward
and
in my ward

Mondays
we serve
red beans
and rice
some days
in shotgun
houses
moon-bruised
fingers
redo braids

another day
mothers read
articles released
by Times-picayune

"another murder"

their eyes
explode
then
intermix with
the reds
of the sun

still
this
city
lingers
like an
off white
delta 88
never
seeming
to leave
our driveway
beyond
the week
of my
brother’s
initial
purchase
making for
convenient
outdoor
storage
and a poor
replacement
for a front
porch

we are
permanent
hangers on
like pools
of water
for 5 weeks
or more
Harry Lee
for sheriff
Louisiana
legacy
textbook
and i’m convinced
that somewhere
the Kingfish
still runs
this town

i don’t
know her
like i used to
she still
smells
of creole.

i am
a mensa
mumbling
poet person
i represent
a rowdy pack
that won’t
stand
for the fact
that scrabble
now has the
audacious
intention
to allow
proper nouns

we shall
henceforth
commence
to continue
playing by
the old
rules
we are
always subject
to our own
rules
we alien
entities
whom
illegally
phone home
these jewels
and won’t
suffer
to fixate
even a fourth
our mental
faculty
upon fools

we are stupid genius

madmen
masterminds
mischief
makers
misfits
from our
coyote
thinking caps
to the
very tips
our anansi
fingers

we are broken english

for brevity
is the better
part
of an idea
best expressed
we capture
concepts that
creep behind
enemy lines
and pass them
back as
prisoners
of war
in the
passionate
throws
of poesy
debating
the merits
of poiesis
in the
focused folds
of our poetry
piss on plato’s
republic
we refuse
to park our art
in public places
for the sake
of social
governance

we are of prodigious substance

such
that sound
bites seem
sorely
insufficient
to redeem
this
genius
theme music
is a simple
salute
to my
secret
society of
stumbled over
stupid genius.

you are
the
butterfly
in my eye
your chrysalis
forming
warms me
nourishing
my slumber
names me
beautiful
upon
becoming
you my
utter eye
butterfly.

i waited
for each sentiment
to pervade
the syntax
before i’d dare
breathe
a sentence

used
all sorts of
simple sorcery
to summon forth
the sum total
of my senses

centered
myself
in meditative
mindfulness
and sang
sanskrit
scripture
as i allowed
the pot
to simmer

and before
i could service
you proper
we were done
and so was that poem
overcooked
and now condensed
down to this

a beating heart
you could not hear
a violent silence
that i desire
binds your
ears
eternally.

White Noise by Shirley Wagner

this
my second
skin
i leave you
tender
and hollow
outgrowing
the mold
of my first
making
for elemental
exposure
of what lies
beneath
soft
and slick
only slightly
vulnerable
for as long
as it takes
my outer
coat
to harden
armor

once
i knew you
as myself
we were
singular
in nature
we were
the same
and now i
float above
amazed
for while
i soldier on
you seem
to stand
still
statuesque
before me
perhaps
i look
similarly
in your eye
though in time
we both will
return to Earth
mere compost
and simple
sediment
but since
i am not
yet dead
i count my
growth
much more
important
than remaining
enveloped
inside of you.

while i find
traction
crossing gray
asphalt tablets
and leave
tire marks
in any place
that suits
my pleasure

which might mean
riding roughshod
upon your
religion
or parking
my opinion
inside of
your politics
for this pen
is no respecter
of persons
but
a personally
impersonal
multi-passenger
motor vehicle
for public
transportation
a mere
mechanism
for moving
a series
of ideas
between we
two minds
in the shortest
expenditure
of time

when writing
i am riding
reckless
exposing the
earth’s wretched
or hope
for humanity
driving a
dirt road
towards wreckage
trucking
ink pen aplenty
on a dead head
run
we must keep
these words
in a consistent
state of
locomotion
like the legacy
of bluesmen
moving through
freight cars
calling themselves
home amongst
contraband cargo
as we were
once also

in writing
we can
ride the crest
of previous effort
until we are dashed
upon the rocks
and broken
or open ourselves
to a moving
and distant wind
that renders
us renewal

whether
riding road
avoiding rage
or rolling over
breaking waves
from ship to shore
i know my direction
and i am in
complete control
of my mode
of transit
for i passed
that road test
long ago
and earned
full licensure
to write
my way
through traffic.