urbansonnets

There’s a sweet spot between boredom and rest
wherein dreams are dreamt and thought and undreamed
in a trip to the freezer double-teamed
by hope and by fear, or sorrow and jest:
When the only burden is skin itself,
that protective organ which bleeds when pricked
and sweats when hot, tasting salty when licked
and cries when enchained, or needled, or kicked:
The fear of such death, like the end of dream,
lurks deep in the conscious so hard to find;
it’s the reason I flail outside my mind
clinging to the bank of a shallow stream:
That’s the spot, alright: wet, knee-deep and warm
Too lazy to die, too bored to perform.

I long for grounding on my kitchen floor
the air smells sweet as the pumpkin is cooked
cinnamon wafting every which way, or
my head is a lie, unseemly, unhooked:
I sit here for hours at a time like
some fidgety monk waiting for the beep
of the microwave timer; my food is done
I’ll eat here too, since to eat is to sleep:
Or so says the saying for the black man
to eat is to sleep, a logical step
from slaveman chains all the way to Sandman
feeding piggish collards to human pets:
By my human flesh, I can’t stand for it
So I sit here ‘sleep – a black cat, to wit.

Intelligence of the most high degree,
aid this mortal pilgrim with speed today
to clip the wings of devilish memory,
which soars like buzzards taking life away:
The mental cycle of oppression done
to self and parents and ancestors long
forgotten on this earth of moon and sun
but persisting as this body plods along:
At least I can relate to histories
of enslavement, poverty and freedom
from agency; the muddy memories
of true endeavor, before the chains have come:
In my DNA, I bear my own defeat
at the river mouth where fresh and salt must meet.

Hardcore fast line red dot sapphire blue note
black music tasked with layers of self-doubt
across the eras, epochs, eons quote
this sign might be what this world is about
Astride the left side of the sea my eye
goes right I see dolphins they speak to me
Poseidon’s watching lurking while the sky
god is just laughing at the timeless sea
The flesh is weak it’s hot it’s taut around
the reddest parts aflush with fluid  love
let’s take thought back to where natures abound
when people saw green grass then looked above
the pale sunset must rust my tongue it tastes
like light across the earth it smells like waste.

The temperature rises, initially
and then falls like lead on a string, plummets
to the weightless depths, interstitially 
ensconced like a valley between summits:
What is effort? What is grit? What is time,
when blood boils to a fiery, viscous pitch
and the pulses lose their rhythm and rhyme
because the block is hot and life’s a bitch?
By day I sweat through armpits and temples
to quell my soul’s corporeal furor,
but heat lingers like incense in temples
masking the stench of a thousand pilgrims:
No wonder, then, that I had to go down,
but you’re coming with me: we all must drown.

The yawning block that sputters in silence
the unanimous heart’s empty voices
like a purring cat that cannot listen
to the inner cry that roars for comfort:
There are no words for unuttered speech acts
that crawl into the burning throat and croak
before truth finds expression in beauty
and lucid thoughts unravel explicit:
Like a dog, still muzzled as its master
nears after years of forced separation,
aims to bark, or whimper, in glee — but can’t;
so too do the voiceless strive to be heard:
Resigned to the freedom of potential,
another night blurs into the deaf air.

Snow falls down like liquid angels frozen
in contemplation of the divine gaze;
Look on look, a face-off of the chosen
with their own Source, its loving eyes ablaze:
In an instant, each moment is infinite,
ripe with the fullness of an endless now;
a panorama of light and from the dark pit
of unrestrained vision, the endless glow:
But the snow, it still falls as soft as sky
on a placid winter morning, the sun
behind a sheet of clouds, as people try
to make sense of fates; the past is gone:
And the present is live in each snowflake
that quivers towards Earth; each crystal will break.

The wood panels shine but are not brilliant
Streaked with sweat and blood and the stench of time
The air is filled by the roar of the vent
Dully droning its tune in throaty rhyme
Young people dawdle on bleachers hanging
Between the wooden slopes and the urban
Valleys; used to lies, deceit, haranguing
From those who should guide but lead into hell
Is there potential there, like rosy Dawn?
Cracking knuckles in the sky that turn white
Then blue from the brilliance of the green lawn
They may never possess, but the sun stays bright
Over all things, even asphalt and dust
All souls are savable, until the dusk.

Importance is relative. The cosmos
is free. I drowned in the milk of culture
I only drink the beers that do cost most
I add tea to my lemons for Palmer.
I don’t pet dogs, but I do pet kittens
“It wasn’t a cruise, but I was in Spain”
Overheard as I beg to get a pittance
The reign of Charlemagne falls on the plain.
Roncevalles for valley girls and boys
“Ricardo Montalban…got the work in
… I saw it at Newbury Comics.” Noise
issues from mouths I should stick a cork in.
At the heart of a diamond lie heads of state
Or is it zirconia, this country’s fate?

The room is dark, so I must type tonight
Instead of write with pen and with notebook
This is an exercise in finding light
From darkened rooms as summer’s heat onlooks:
A word can issue from any origin
As humans find their naissance anywhere
They happen to be born, in faith or sin
Depending on the views those people bear:
So, say, you came to light equipped with dark
Skin in America, United States
Of sin in your dread skin you bear the mark
So says the Constitution, seals your fates:
Fates in the plural because you’re entwined
with the hapless Man’s boots that you just shined.