A Blast from Birmingham

So you say,

"Wait."

Easy for you

who've never felt

stinging darts

of segregation.

Wait for what?

For the vicious mobs

to lynch my father

drown my sister?

For a hate-filled officer

to kill at will

curse and kick me at a whim?

I will not wait for this

Hate or this

Brutalization.

When we see our Negro brothers

smothered in an air-tight

cage of impoverished night

amidst the affluent society

which spits its twisted speeches

as I seek to spell out

to my six-year old daughter

that's it not her fault

but she can't go to the public

amusement park

because the social abuse

the author of our lives provides

by writing clouds of inferiority in

our mental skies.

When you too feel this sense

of 'nobodiness'

you will not need to wonder

why we will not wait

to sever ourselves from this

disconnected state.

password

I decided today,
this morning actually,
after much too much to drink last night
with the uneasy feeling of thoughts revolving
in my head, squirming
through each wrinkle in my brain
without any say
as to what they would be
where they would go
how I would interpret them
under the fluorescent lights
that shone much too brightly
for that hour
and my condition
which beat against my head
like a flat bass line,
a crash of cymbals
pounding distracting messages
from whatever it was I was thinking
I decided
a password is the greatest symbol.
It is secret and used to gain
access into someone else's something.
But the word or combination of letters and numbers
in itself will tell more
about the person than
most anything in the world.

I sleep like a jackknife

i sleep like a jackknife
curl my blankets to my chin tight
never stray from the chasm of black night
wake only when alarm resonates light

Nel's Diner

The records on the jukebox went around & round & round
but it was clear to Dennis that there was no sound
He yelped out his own lyrics & the manager calmed him down
While Dennis' life was frozen, the world kept spinning round

He burst out words of Japanese
About American politics & types of cheese
& continued to persuade imaginery people with his theories
Some people stared, but the regulars knew
As he told an old woman about his sojourn to Belize

And as the waiters served up the last rounds of pop
Dennis rested his head upon the countertop
Cause if he tried to walk home, he'd never stop
His feet would never find a place to call his home
So Nel's Diner was has always been his place to plop
Feel sympathy for Dennis but for him, life is fun
And maybe he's not the crazy one
He resides at Nel's while we're all out on the run

If you think about it from a different perspective
Maybe our world revolves around Dennis
& he is the sun.

Stuck to run

...And I’ll dig myself a hole
in the cement blocks of the floor
just like they used to do
in the old flicks about inmates
named Bud who was up for life
for killing his neighbor's wife
for snitching the secret
about his strife
that no one could ever quite
figure out in the plot
but everyone always cared so badly
why he was there
and we sat on the edges of our
vinyl ripped chairs
and stared to see if the
the guards would see him escape
through his underground maze
that he’s been digging for some months
with the back of his toothbrush
carving out dirt, in search of the sun
and later than soon, the plastic breaks free
he pokes out through grassy ground
and runs away, his feet still bound
by clanky chains, but he continues to flee
no where to go,
but finally
no where to be.

Pyre

If I knew you a smidgeon better
I’d be jumping through flaming rings
with you
just to show you, you wouldn’t catch fire.
I’d tie myself to your pyre of fear
and circle myself with a hoop of gasoline
tracing the radius of my feet
and let you decide whether the stake
would ignite.
Tonight, not tomorrow
no matter the hour, I’d sit and wrestle thoughts
of ‘who knows’ and ‘what ifs’
meet you in a stranded parking lot
for a conversational tryst.
Please, even if you don’t take me up
on this
don’t let today pass by
without a lyrical script
written about your viable wish.

I smiled instead

I turned to you
and smiled in my head

I spun in a circle
to dance a quick quirk move
but when Cake was played
I almost caved
almost gave in
to your lips for a kiss

but I turned to you
and smiled instead

A sneaky memory

Last night for the first time
in a while
I imagined myself
nuzzled in between
your bicep and your pectoral
Puzzled by the sneaky memory
I quickly canceled the thought and
sprawled out as far as I could
in my spacious twin bed

Compulsion

Caged in by possibility:
what a paradox
but still I feel
confinement in my inability
to choose a path without
frivolity.

Undesirable Flash Photography

And it’s not the lack of sleep I fear
it’s the faux red-eye creeping close and near
cheering delicious whispers into my ear
jeering the thoughts inside my head
asking me to make love to my delicate bed
challenging the words I write with lassitude
continually thinking up passing platitudes
that need to be written
they need to be documented
this is the time, no other minute
and so I cave and open a new
blank page
and scribble my terminal ink away.
it’s nonsense, most definitely useless
but either way, I’ll regret it tomorrow
if yesterday, I passed the chance to
dance my thoughts upon the page.

Too late to procrastinate

I’ve come to a sputter.
I cannot utter a breath without
feeling the walls in my head
caving in with distress.
I’m shivering from cold.
I’m tired and lack control.
My hands quivering
from the coffee
that was supposed to spark me.
And I’m telling myself to concentrate
but my brain won’t take the bait.
My mind won’t read
it will only writes in rhymes
to distract and quicken the time.

Coagulation

Forgotten thoughts of my memory
mist over my mind as I find
a once warm hand intervening me...

Almost as I once was warned
to scatter from you not to skinny
dip in your deeply embedded thorns

it's not as if I knew your tricks
were trickling round the rims of your rose
lingering my lips with each spurious kiss.

But now I've awaken from the abyss
of tremulous giggles and ignorant bliss,
rudely aroused by this glacial tryst

that will feel so fantastic once
you realize my eyes are past it:
Beyond the catchy tune of your tattered words.

A comfy hop out of your lure,
the chill of your touch provided the cure.

exegesis

Is it absurd to
see your words slurred
up on my cyber answering machine?
Do you even wonder what they mean
to me, to spark the use of them?
Do I need your copyright consent?
I ensure you, I'm not obtuse, my friend...
but can we try this route again,
where I pretend to speak to you
in wonderment
about your reactions
to these little things
that bring two strangers
loosely close…
A friendly visitor
requesting a mimosa to share
and stare into the spiraling significance,
a conversational chance to find
an acquaintance with your inner intentions.
I'm aware, we conversed about
this all before
rehearsed the connotation/
denotation war
but still I need to hear some
more descriptions of the avenues
that take you to
each lyric and each rhyme;
but at the same time
I keep my own interpretation locked up
in my mind:
I virtually declare it
in the away form of a square.

Anarchism

Evolves ex*
an order or
an organization
based upon
continual consent
and debating discussions
on the part of
its permanant participants
probably rotating
representative responsibilities
amid accepted equality
of all,
in a world where
everyone enunciates
their thoughts
thru automatic alliterations.

*Note... since anarchy has not taken over just yet, some confusing latin was intertwined to create the effect of recurring letters. "Ex" means "out of" in latin, for those of you who don't know.

Devoid of verification on the latin lingo? Check it out yourself: http://www.yuni.com/library/latin_2.html

Social swingers

Let's toss our keys in a dish
and learn to intermix
Each second that ticks
the hands on the clock
marks another second lost
of walks in the park
and coffee talks
So let’s share one another
with our friends
our lovers
with the world.

Maybe I'm a...

And I know it’s hard to sift
Hard to tell
the real from the bullshit.

But drop the smiling mask,
your words aren’t as
beguiling when you act.

And get off the stage,
You’re not even an actor
…this is coming out all wrong,
I am saying it all backward.
Because really I just want
you to open trusting eyes
it will help you peel off
the disguises
of those who adore you
for what you do
and shine through
the ones who love you
for who you are.

A characterization of the virtue of his patience

He doesn’t understand the urgency
I see
He sees this life as a long country road
where the horizon is the end
and since it’s boundless to him
there’s actually some optimism in his blood
Which is unheard of
with a man like him
Cynicism
is his distinction
A conviction
the world is inherently bad
and it’s not sad, it’s true
His duty: to save it all
before it falls
into hopeless oblivion.
Isn’t that noble?
Whereas I’d like to just
stay privy to him,
he’d like to cradle
the Universe in his
Arms.

my machez a mio

I see you flash your eyes,
that smile
and no, I don’t have an alibi
I’m frightened, timid, even
Shy. Despite the way I
dance around and clamor my mouth,
it’s all to hide
my loss of breath
my clenched up assessment
of how to speak
how to say something completely unique
when really I don’t even want
to be
distinct. I want to be me, just patented Meghann.
Because I’m as close to certain
as I can get
that you’d like
this person… that we’d both get
anxious and tense
to see each other next.
But as for now, this is all in my head
because I saw you last night
and I remember what I said:
I uttered a “hey” with a vapid
comment, rapidly expressed...
which isn’t even close,
it isn’t even remotely near
the length of conversation
I'd like to whisper into your ear.
That was yesterday, and you’re my persistent
Regret;
that I haven’t met you yet.

An Occidental Orientation of Words

Ciao chowder

Dining in a diner
American French fries
New England Clam chowder
A last supper
While he’s still American


Fairy-dust powder

Her toes touch the ocean
His dangle above it, also
Her tears drop to water
He left her with
a false hope


Right or wrote?

Dear Lakshmi,
Here are some pictures to pretend
You are with me
I am living
You are breathing
We are both fine
Away
Love, Venkateswara


Trampoline boat

One night, while you were away
I lost myself in romance.
We embraced, long lengths
underneath an abandoned hobie cat.
And still, I think back on it
with passion.


Chilluns

“He asked me a rather
question.
Would I rather have a misquito
or a monkey
stuck inside my belly?”

“I was head-butted today.”


Villains

“…it said open feet
which meant I had to part
with my sandals.
When I returned, I had been told
A monkey snatched the left one up
And ran away giggling.
But here it is! I retrieved the simian sandal!”

“Orange Peel died today. She was
the one with the left finn
smaller
than the right fin,
and so swam in circles.
Do monkey’s giggle?”

“That’s how I interpreted it.”


Communication costs

When we would converse
I swear we were cursed
We could only communicate
Through howling whistles
And screaming winds.
Not to mention
The time…

“As the sun rises on Mary,
it sets on him.”


Lamp we wish we tossed

Enlighten me. Leave me an idea,
A parcel of hope to breathe with.
Keep me company with
reassurance, atleast.
It’s the least
you could lend.
For a friend.


…thoughts with conformities

Doyoureallyhaveto
leaveagain
justwaitaweekformetobe
backfromthewest.


“Interpreter of the Maladies”

Something’s been lost.
A passion, perhaps.
An identity we once shared.
When we were a “we”.
We were a great we, weren’t we.

A Piquant Moment

The sunset shell appeared mace-cerise
Fading to saffron pleasantly
Screaming mustard seed sunbeams.

As it sunk gingerly
Deep into the galangal horizon,
Every cacoa tree branch waved goodbye.

A few drooping, emphatic sumac leaves fell off
The tender boughs. The pomegranate stained
And a few pimento stragglers…

But the juniper fronds held on
With finochio hopes to live forever.
Every berbere verdure should know: this will never be so.

And a cayenne Cadillac settled in a nearby lot
Consuming the sassafras aromas
Wafting in from the fennel seed breeze

The timberwolf man smoked his clove
With an epazote assumption
His paprika rays would never fade

But the cinnamon flavor in the air
Soon became a chili powder
As the achiote seconds turned to hours.

And so the sky turned pepper grey
The wasabi zest had left the day
And somewhere a safflower wilted like the leaves.

Tonka bean night punctually arrived
With sesame seeds stars in the sky
Like garam masala, brought a tear to the eye.

The dukka vines strangle the trees
With peppercorn berries still ripening
But no nutmeg grows on trees in Brooklyn.

a lover's poem...Moondust

I planted a red rose on the moon
Gently ran my toes through the moondust
Cold and weightless; as soon
As I spelled your name it tickled

The stars shone frantically above
Ecstatically twinkling and blinking
Like spectators spectating love
Like bodies twisting; like lips kissing

The planets circled in honor
Dancing in vertiginous reverie
The honesty left them to ponder
How lonely their lives had been

Earth felt warm upon return
But it wreaked of indigence
The silent grasp of daylight
The clouds insistent covering

I watered the rose with tears
Ashamed at the intensity
I unclosed your eyes with fear
And found you listening…

To the sound of my naked toes
Recorded for your mind to see
The length I'd go; how it grows
When you smile heartaciously
^

shades

I bought new shoes today
but one shoe came without
a black lace.
I happened to have
extra laces stowed away…
but they were grey.

As I write about my pickle,
A tickle touches the back of my throat.
I cough.

How alike are those words, the word
Coughing
And coffin.

If you have it bad enough,
you realize their correlation and how
hellish it is to have a cough that
Will
Not
Go away.

I just need to release it.
I need a release.
I write to release
To find my…
No… too obvious.

Sometimes, when i write
I teeter on the line of
deep thoughts to impress
and
so superficially simple,
the reader’s thoughts
would write the rest.

It’s this line,
This grey line.
It lines all my thoughts
It is literally literary Purgatory.
Hell is not fiery red
Hell is Not hot orange
Not saffron yellow.
Hell is insipid gray.

Even the word gray
Cannot be definite.
Grey,
Gray.

Creation takes decisions.
Creators make revisions
because they lack conviction in their visions.

Now even tying my shoes will
remind me
I am a dull poet.

I'm sorry, Try this...

Your suggestion was lovely, & thoughtful, I guess
if that’s all you can say after
months- you regress
& attempt to untangle
the knots in my dress,
these textiles are not yours to touch
or to tempt
no matter how hard you try,
I’m exempt.
And your lyrics & efforts
bite me cold with contempt-
they are silly & foolish
and furthermore show
that the silence- your ignorance
has yet to bestow
a lesson, any reason in your
decision to go.
In this footrace, our chase
I’ve left you, leapt ahead
So, no. I don’t want it
Apology not accepted.

Soap in the gills

Sober wasn’t the state…
and this statement comes
much too late…
but I’d like to confess
I took Orangepeel out of his tank
and put him in our sink
while we waited for the tub
to fill up.
And then he bathed with me;
I felt he needed a scrub.

Needless to say, he died today
and I am pretty sure I’m to blame.

Hi-C

A snail’s slithering trail
Clandestinely climbed the incline
Of the crushed juicebox,
A scenario one doesn’t often
Stop to watch.
And as he reached the crescendo
A look of disappointment camouflaged
his face.
It was a bizarre ruse
In his eyes.
The snail expected the juicebox
To be his Pangaea
But after he finagled his way
Up the colored cardboard
He stumbled upon the truth:
His effort was superfluous
He was just an asterisk
In an anthology.

I lost my favorite notebook.

It is as if
my thoughts are stunted
words silenced
as if they do not want
to speak
to anyone else
beside the little
brown leather
one
I lost across
The country.


(moment of silence for my notebook that has decided to join all my other stuff in the black hole)