Note: After lying hidden under my dresser for about 3 years, I stumbled upon a typed version of my original "Third World Rhyme," which was originally written on a napkin in red ink–which quickly seeped into every cranny of the "page" making it a largely illegible trace palimpsest of a particular moment–at a bar in Cambridge, as I waited to watch a casual "flamenco" concert.
It's almost incredible, really
How I'm near to firin' back
I can almost really feel me
My thoughts have long lied slack
Withered bombs of openness
A presence forged from black
What comes out must fail, depress
Unwind, knot like a noose
Rather no self; express
Expunged like fruitless juice
Of blood, ink and skin
Black berry, sweet sluice
The front porch was locked in
But the sweepstakes kept on ringing
A taxation with a spin
To represent the poor by singing
A worthy alternative
But I just kept slingin'
Candy canes with poison bibs
The giving suckled through the teeth
My mother formed me from her rib
My dad took cover like a leaf
Spitting image of some shame
I rolled out with a queef
Reign of coldest hearths
Sole seed of warmest earth
Caliente days went dark
Giving back with a smirk
Keep digging my brothers, sisters
You only figure where you work
Almost there, but I missed her
She gave her life so I could live her.
urbansonnets 