Thursday, December 9, 2010

4/30--re-collect.

I remember,
zig-zag rows of suburban houses
short skirts with young legs
promise headed for the park
I realized we we're lost....

"Where are we going?"

my six-foot prepubescent statuesque goddess
of a best friend
shrugged her shoulders
a "We're almost there"
crossing the waters of her brown eyes

I am still trying to reclaim broken fragments of mind
defined shoulders
a piece of a cable remote
the smell of smoke
a cigarette-ashed-empty-beer-bottle coffee table
a couch riddled with penetration marks

While pulling at the stuffing
peeking from its leather, waiting for you;
my innocence became confused....

somewhere...
a door slammed

a giggle and grunt bounced from a window to my ears

it wasn't until I
unwrapped my virginity years later--a belated Christmas gift--
to an ex love
that I understood
your breaking point

we were twelve
running the urinated steps of your building
a maze for me
a burden to you

men, still boys
jingled car keys
as their thoughts lingered
near our barely there bosom

I understand now, why you suggested
that we start to ascend the staircases....

never halting

until I realized...

you'd stopped following me years ago.

I saw your ghost
limp from a bodega
laced in timberlands and matted hair
heard whispers that sounded like your name
from men who failed to keep you warm

I witnessed
a figment of my memory
glaze rumors of trains,
the tracks your thighs
your forever
broken between them

I want the chance to apologize.

For never pulling that flag from your left pocket
force tying you to me
and dragging your ass home

for never crazy gluing
our fingers to those saxophones

for never being your keeper
nestling you safely in my pocket

I should have worn you like a wrist band
told you that to live strong
is to have survival engraved in your spine,
like your acrylics to undeserving henchmen

You were my everything.

Role model of a sister
the calligraphy of a typhoon
a connoisseur of reiteration

you told me stories of your Jamaica
palming a basketball in one hand
trying to balance your pride in the other

a mother
of a four year old with the sun for eyes
and poetry for lips
her father,
a tribulation to your progression

I'm trying to get you to understand
that love isn't wrapped in a dime bag
or phallic fallacy cloaked in devilish smile

your womb is STILL a galaxy
stop giving the NIGHT your stars
let those big dippers find thier way home
ALONE.

the vernacular of a torn queen
called me last night.
A diluted version of you
sung a pregnant melody
and gave birth to my withered compassion.

I heard my name
seperated by three syllables;
the cracks, filled with tears and tomorrow

pictures suddenly began to flood my cerebellum
like a tsunami of intuition

puffy cheeks, kinks,
a scar above her right eye,
with nothing to fear

I am keeping these fragmented notions safe
and if you ever need to find yourself

I've got YOU, right here.

-riv-

5 comments:

dparrish2003 said...

Wow. I always read (or hear) your pieces anxiously wait for tha 'WOW'. I love the "let those big dippers find thier way home ALONE" part. You're still truly and inspiration!

Ran Walker said...

Awesome, Riva! Awesome! You are truly neo-griot.

Veronica said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Veronica said...

that's it! I'm burning my damn notebooks and starting the hell over!


This.is.HOT!

Veronica said...

p.s. shouted you out on my latest blog post! :-)