Whirlwind Publishing

the referencing of rain
as the inbred cousin
of disaster
recklessly
breeding babies
given the names
of diseases
i can’t help.

here, no notions
of amber waves
no bombs that burst
like they do
over there

here, bombs
deconstruct dams
decimate pride
homogenize
neighborhoods
and otherwise act
as agents
of social control.

ii

she had corn rows
planted neatly
in the halo of her hair
this student
pupil of my bluest
eye.
she called me mr.
while i had visions
of seeing her verse
in the new yorker.

last time she
tsunami’d by
laughter left her
breathless
brown eyes watering
like she had oceans
behind them.

iii

she doesn’t.
as grand and beastly
as it is
the mississippi is just
a river
which, if ingested,
bursts capillaries
hearts
dreams.

wind carried cold
from grotto ghetto
to that secret
barrio space
where muralistas
channeling frieda
diego and zarraga
paint monuments
to the past
to lives not lived
and anything else
eyes itch to see.

cold curled up next
to the frescos
hoping its frigidity
would halt
the desecration.

wind didn’t wait
or politely beg.
it whipped cold
about the place
howling
as callow concrete
workers, intending
to giant buddharize
people’s art,
found will power
dissolving
before the heat
of wind’s cold anger.

"I’ve had 20 years of pain” – George Wallace on the 20th anniversary of the attempt to assassinate him

A stone’s throw from Sun

A ball that doesn’t bounce

Suspended

Down there

In under space;

Home to humanity

And other life forms

Worth saving only

If we want

A repeat

Of this gathering

Millennia from now.

What we do here?

Why we be here

Navigating our way

Through discourse?

I say shell it

With our thunder.

Annihilation today.

Annihilation tomorrow.

Annihilation  forever.

So sayeth the god named George Wallace

Hands locked to the wheel of a chair

He was forced to operate                

Because every single deity asked

Refused.

When he arrived

In pantheon celestial stomping grounds

Old George immediately requested

Use of his legs again –

A request neither denied

Nor fulfilled.

The agreed upon rules specified

That two gods had to second and third the request

Before it could even be heard by the full pantheon.

In all the time, Old George’s chair has been gilded

With the artistry of celestial secretions

There never has been such

An agreement.

They can agree on the weather,

The actual age of earth,

The alignment of planets

Everything and anything

Except that

George Wallace should have legs.

 Over in the corner, Atlas groans

- The world revolving on his back without cease –

 As the last syllable in annihilation forever dissipates;

Knowing the gods

Will now wax eloquent

Into eternity

Turning language upside down

In the effort to not be the one

Who seconds

The god George Wallace.

juicy from night secretions

open like an o’keefe petal

i am stymied

blocked

from light of day

enjoyment

by the fact

that mentally

and emotionally

he falls far short

of what i need

but not what i want.

I could…skulk…with him

in the middle of the night;

alarm set for some early hour

disturbing earned slumber.

I could be subterfuge

personified

but I am too much

the daughter of my mothers:

one who loved a man until he died

(but who also told me if she had known

his impact beforehand

would never have got with him);

another who will never offer

even a facsimile of an apology

because to do so

would be like breaking omertà.

i am their daughter

but i am also mother

to the future.

i model womanhood

for my son.

so i walk the line

between sacrifice

and desire.

I’ve filled oceans with my tears…
Painted the skies with my scattered
blues…
I’ve bled my pain…creating tides of
crimson on busted boulevards
I’ve lost myself numerous times on
the hunt for love…
These days, Cracks of Harlem dance
across my heart
I’ve written my life in bits & pieces
on pages…
I’ve sung my deepest poetic sorrows
on stages…
Which has given me strength while
making me vulnerable
My truth exposed like the meat of
an open wound
My misery & emotional instability
are sometimes the brunt of your jokes
You shake your head at my unfortunate
circumstances
Secretly holding back the fact that this
is your story too
You were once the slighted mistress…
You were once the rape victim…
You are the quote un quote crazy man
with an artistic magic in your hands
You used to slice your own flesh searching
for some sense of control…
wanting to feel…something
Because the numbness was unbearable
You used to fear trust so you drowned
in the pits of lust…pretending you liked it
This is me peeking beneath your mask…
peeling away the layers of you to really
see your soul
Opening your eyes & saying look…
there is nothing wrong with who you
are
See, I write my life in bits & pieces
on pages
I sing my deepest poetic sorrows
on stages…
Secretly knowing, this may be your
story too
But I will stand…I will write…
I will carry your story for you

~YeYo aka RAW SUGA’~

grimacing at this circular reminder
of an engagement of deceit
I wonder, what should I…could I
do with it?
DECISION:
melt it down in the shape of a silver
bullet…just for you
Yea…then it’s presence wouldn’t hurt
my psyche

~YeYo aka RAW SUGA’~

All I can say is this scene formed in my mind…so, I wrote it down
********************************************

Melanie YeYo Carter (c) 2011

FORGIVENESS (VIDEO) ^!^

This piece is less than 24 hours old. It can’t be seen in written form anywhere. I decided to give this one to you personally. I hope you enjoy…& understand the message… RESECT & LOVE

~Melanie YeYo Carter~

Lord, I was twelve

A week away from thirteen

When I vowed

I’d never pray again;

Never address you

Even though

That was blasphemy.

I have kept to my sacrilege up until now.

Now I am forty-three

And down on my knees.

Unrepentant;

Yet so wretched

Hunger –

The kind that leads

To emotional destitution

Is the only thing

I feel.

One of the first tenets taught

is

Thou shall not kill.

But Lord

He killed me first;

Spread me open

Pushed inside

And killed me.

Lord, I would kill him

Again

For changing

In me

Forever

The sense

That love is home;

the space to be

Unadorned.

Lord, I don’t want to be a killer

but I do want to kill him

all over again;

I want him resurrected

Like Lazarus

So I that can

Plunge my knife

In his neck

Over and over

Until his diseased blood

Jettisons its container

In a shower

Of benediction.

I want it so bad

I am here

down on my knees

committing my form

to the sacrilege

of pleading

for the impossible.

#i’mjustsaying