writing is hard
and it gets harder
and you will want to
more and more
in your flattest
coldest moments
mostly at night
the baby will be crying
the bills will be towering
the man will be gone
the dark will be gaping
and there will be no sleep
no respite in dreaming
no hot fuck
to melt the
bitter fear
just words
hissing
skittering through
the clutter
of your mind
their spiny
minuscule
legs pricking
dragging sacs
of tiny nascent
notions
the spawn of
more pestering
poems
they will scatter
when the sunlight hits
duck from the
merciless tread
of functional
thought
they will
feel unreal
writing is hard
and words are wily
the trick becomes
luring them
with your sweet
your salt your savory
voice
drawing them
into a
harmonious
swarm
in the shape
of a your
outsized
heart
©Michelle R. Smith 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Melodious Thunk (In the voice of Nellie Monk)
I learned the city's songs with my spine, with my hips.
The crush of bodies in the subway, an endless line of dance partners.
We moved to the low rumble of trains burrowing beneath the concrete.
We jumped at the angry horn blasts of gypsy cabs.
We sang along to the metrical chants of street corner vendors,
We spun in the shrill wail of police sirens.
In Florida, every step I took was a sin.
Every mile of the state was a dead nigger's grave.
In New York, I kicked up my heels shamelessly.
Its music was my Holy Ghost.
When Mama wanted me home, I listened to the city from my window.
I caught basketball games on the blacktop court; the fistfights were my first ballets.
Black- and brown-skinned boys artfully contorting themselves into freedom—
I sometimes sneaked out to watch, blushed at the boys' shameless grunts.
You found me in this maze of dark, kinetic bodies.
You introduced yourself, and I marveled at your name.
I knew you were a musician right off—
You made a riff of my pulse when you touched my arm.
Your fingers played over my skin,
Loosed sapphire F notes from my throbbing cleft.
Your confessions strew the bass beat of my heart.
You made jazz of us right there—something never played before.
©Michelle R. Smith 2002-2008
The crush of bodies in the subway, an endless line of dance partners.
We moved to the low rumble of trains burrowing beneath the concrete.
We jumped at the angry horn blasts of gypsy cabs.
We sang along to the metrical chants of street corner vendors,
We spun in the shrill wail of police sirens.
In Florida, every step I took was a sin.
Every mile of the state was a dead nigger's grave.
In New York, I kicked up my heels shamelessly.
Its music was my Holy Ghost.
When Mama wanted me home, I listened to the city from my window.
I caught basketball games on the blacktop court; the fistfights were my first ballets.
Black- and brown-skinned boys artfully contorting themselves into freedom—
I sometimes sneaked out to watch, blushed at the boys' shameless grunts.
You found me in this maze of dark, kinetic bodies.
You introduced yourself, and I marveled at your name.
I knew you were a musician right off—
You made a riff of my pulse when you touched my arm.
Your fingers played over my skin,
Loosed sapphire F notes from my throbbing cleft.
Your confessions strew the bass beat of my heart.
You made jazz of us right there—something never played before.
©Michelle R. Smith 2002-2008
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