Black Lemonade

I stand in the magic
mirror, dreaming,
and saying these
words to myself:

I.

Little red gal with hair
like a stump full uh
Gran’ Daddy’s

Hair spun like
nigger-picked cotton
candy

Red gal you’re so far from
Sugar Land, and there’s
no red riding hood
for you

Just tawny skin
brewed from black
swan feathers,
Appalachian soil,
and the pink veil
of oceans lapping
magical Haitian
shores.

II.

You’ve got skin knit
from labyrinthine voodoo,
spirit water, and the velvety
cum of Gran’ Daddy
arachnids.

Yellow gal
all tented in a chrysalis
of self-hate,

(a metamorphic cove
all Goldie-locked
with neolithic
ancestral self-hatred)

can you make out–
like a passionate kiss–
the silhouette of
karmic freedom?

It’s deep in a hollar
as tar dark as antebellum,
silvery, lotus slave souls.

III.

In the dark
lies your enchanted
church fan, fringed
in blood roses and
obsidian tassels;
it swats at balm
and lugubrious
shadow.

In the pitch dark
lies your Sugar Land
sun, resting high and
fat and Goldy-locked
over lynching trees;

In the umber of these
large, red mapples,
blood and sunshine
makes your
lemonade-stand
into a
niggery tonic
of pinkened,
sour, sulfuric
soul-fire and petals.

You dig for the sword to
thrash it all to death:
this magic mirror
that makes you an ape
instead of a man;

This long, painful
collective memory
that has become
a dark Middle Passage
in the Gothic bible
of your subconscious
mind.

It is a red text
that you overcome in one
fell swoop of thought:

I am beautiful, and my
people are too. We
are not for sale anymore.

It’s like a bad dream
that you’re continuously
waking from,

Like a bought of
holy, poly-generational
PTSD.

With every poem,
surviving is less like
surving, and the mirror
of thought is a little
kinder to you.

Monday Fun Day: The Diary Files

Here is a scandalous excerpt from my personal, juicy-licious diary of 2 1/2 years:

Whitish light makes a jigsaw puzzle: a porcelain necklace of sky behind the trees. The soft, supple, bold, fresh color of plant flesh reverberates lowly. The little hands of the profoundly green trees make the sky into a gem of logic:

The sky is a thing of serial beauty: of bone tinctured leather cut outs; of fulgid negative spaces; of mien and curvature akin to the quadratic alphabet: such is the bone sky.

Picket fence white apartment balconies make tire tracks on reality. Between each blanched piano key of the balustrade is a sliver of colorless air; is a [silvered] coffee cake of metaphysical substance.

Every transparent candy-stripe of oxygen hostels sequestered chunks of life: invisible triangular lines ramify, in the lingua franca of [semantic consciousness], the anatomy of a broken house.  Life is broken into [sweetish] pieces, like peanut brittle.