sometimes I like to imagine my life on a motorcycle

sitting here dreaming
licking pistachio salt off my fingertips
sometimes I like to imagine my life on a motorcycle
on a
on a
bike with big fat wheels
and my hair wrapt up in a helmet
so I can
pleasure-filled and vain
take it off
burst it forth from its plastic gumball top
and shake it out shake shake shake
see here and look you people!
I have blonde goddess hair you people!
my bike shall have flames on the sides
licks of them like cats lit did it
long and thrilling
and with them
throughout pavement and
steaming I shall ride
over snail trails
that wind shiny loops through the Napa Valley
and down Arizona streets with their dust cakes
and under New Jersey electricity that is killing us all
and around old has-been festival grounds in Ohio
with their dopey carnys
and empty-eyed freaks
all dull and sad inside
except and but when I ride my bike of fire by
they would get new life inside of themselves
and opt for a sweet shiny apple
I toss on the fly
instead of another cotton candy hot dog monstrosity
“Gotta keep your teeth!”
I’ll yell
“Nature’s Toothbrush!”
because I believe in dental hygiene
and we will all laugh and laugh
I will ride right past all the things I never did
short trip
and I’ll undo my sins
I will grab everyone I ever did hurt
with purpose or
in an accident of painful adventure
and place them gently and with love on the back of me
and beg them to wrap their forgiveness tentacles
around my waist in several hoops
and he will and she will and I will and we will
knit our brokenness
in the purifying flames of my back seat
and the cotton candy stick catlicks along the sides
sins are salty things
pistachio things
things licked off fingers
on a dream of a motorcycle


New York

New York
My high-falooting souldigging fingerflipping pirhouetting lickety-quick stepping
dance partner
I have passion for you!
New York I lay sleepless because of you
Your blackness meets my blackness and we talk for ungodly hours
Your night tips the blue blood of your sky into my face
And I go walking up the back flap of your streets
And then
You plant your longing within me
And I make it mine
Does that make us best friends?
NY NY my lover I haven’t gotten any form you in a lonnnnng-ass time
Remember summer?
Sexy fishes in slick dresses riding up over a tart-tongued cranberry brown hip?
And a bare naked male chest chains a swinging over a steep nipple?
Those hot yawns you flipped my way?
Those street struts? Those sways?
I melted in the arms of your stumbling summer drunk in Little Italy-remember that time?
New York you have beaten me to a bloodless pulp and gleefully tromped around in my skins like a wine maker and I love you
Picked me up and ran a cloth over that bruise and then gave me something glittery and wild to make up for your sins and I love you
New York–I’m leaving you
I really mean it!
And then I unpack and pack and unpack and pack
I make jelly sandwiches and cut off the crusts
Throw them in a sack and hit the dust
Yee-HA! L.A.T.E.R. to you you fucking–you
I come back to you begging
Like some addict thick with charm
I hand over a bunch of posies I stole from another city and say
“for you. you just need to treat me right this time. throw me something pink once in a while…”
New York open up your legs for your artists!
We have passion for you!
We desire you!
I want your heart, city.
I want your reckless beauty.

for the Nuyorican Slam 2001

i got things…

i got things…

i write poetry
without underwear on
i mean panties
i aint got no panties
on because i have this idea that
i get the words from the ground and
i don’t want cloth in my way
or propriety
my labia on the pillow
feels like animal-right to me
and i can hear better with my fur
i don’t even care if the breeze gets up my dress
and it is turquoise
did i mention with
flowers sprinkled upon it
for a minute i think the people across
the street
can see up me but then
i dont even care about that because
i got things i have to say
and i can say them better
with no panties on

and i aint wearing no bra neither

pink throat

Every time this mouth gets used let the people sniff
And wonder where the garden is.
Let their feet pull them along
Whilest their brains
go What The Fuck
And the ankles join in until their
legs are it the crossbows
And scarecrows envy
Legs twitch and dance like
They’ve stepped upon sparklers
Or a divine third rail.
Let them be drunk and stoned
On speeches
Brought to me by the
Toasted undersides of clouds.
How many words for pink are there?
How many words for praise?