Source(google.com.pk)
Baby Girl Poems Biography
enjoys writing prose, poetry, and short stories. One of the first people to help in my writing was my mother, who unbeknownst to myself, tried her hand at poetry in the late 1960's and early 1970's. My creative spark happened around 11 years old when I wrote yin-yang. The art and science of putting words together to attempt to form a thought and/or feeling expressed... It's 'outrageous! '
I got two braids, a dozen neon bangles, and a pair of plastic pink
jellies jumping across the hot concrete cracks behind Dee-Dee doing damage
to old Cadillac passers-by appraising P.Y.T.’s1 in denim shorts hiking up
to the down
town
Granby Plaza.
At a pit-piss-stop at a bar up the block from Grandma’s house I guzzle
ice-cold cups of Coke courtesy of the balding black bartender who tends to talk with his eyes
like the cook
from the Chinese joint dishing out
free and greasy egg rolls as my eyes roll from the kind of out-of-place grin mamas warn girls
to get away from. But, Dee-Dee nudges me
forward, I muster a thanks,
look down,
ball up
feeling corrupt-like
the dollar bill crammed in my hand for keeping quiet
when
she followed her
boyfriend to the backroom to talk
for a minute. I kept quiet
when
she floated around
the corner scouting a fix, my eyes fixated on her missing tooth, her bruises,
her . . . baby girl,
Don’t tell your mama
I am here
in Lynchburg covering night cops watching
Oprah on one of her “Oâ€ccasional lightbulb moments,
the phone rings,
Mama says,
      Dee-Dee dead
and, I got this
two-ton cement block
of guilt weighing on me. I had to
white-out her black body
long before the detectives outlined the murder scene with chalk.
long before the drugs,
I just prayed
to let us be re-membered in our familiar selves
before the hai
at Grandma’s house
Uncle Willie slouched in the sticky pear vinyl kitchen chair
his oily hands sliding a cheap pipe between the empty space where
teeth were supposed to be.
patted his right thigh for me
to sit right there
to listen to a lisp-full of small talk of non-particulars until I
couldn’t stand sitting NO MORE. He fumbled
with his weathered brown leather
wallet to barter some change for some sugar. And I got
some stinky slobber of whiskey syrup slathered over my cheek
for two quarters,
I kept quiet
about the kitchen, until my cousin
Kesha pulled my earlobe to slip me some fresh off the grapevine gossip,
      and
without looking into my eyes
she got a whiff of everything that went on inside.
We erased it,
laughed it off,
ran up the block to the frozen-cup-candy-ice-cream lady to O.D.
on some sugar, to rid me
of a clear case of Cooties
caught
at Grandma’s house. He slid through the cracks
in the crowd awaiting the one-time family ride in the limousines
a half-hour before Dee-Dee’s funeral. He called Kesha’s kid to the kitchen.
Michael could not creep a half-step to the corridor before all the cousins could hear Kesha swearin
In the back of my kitchen,
I called her out.
Slammed my two cents on the three-legged table, picked up a handful of clothespins to hang her
should-of-could-of-would-ofs out to dry like the dingy white cotton draws’ she didn’t want
her Christian neighbors to see.
and I put it out there,
Baby Girl Poems Biography
enjoys writing prose, poetry, and short stories. One of the first people to help in my writing was my mother, who unbeknownst to myself, tried her hand at poetry in the late 1960's and early 1970's. My creative spark happened around 11 years old when I wrote yin-yang. The art and science of putting words together to attempt to form a thought and/or feeling expressed... It's 'outrageous! '
I got two braids, a dozen neon bangles, and a pair of plastic pink
jellies jumping across the hot concrete cracks behind Dee-Dee doing damage
to old Cadillac passers-by appraising P.Y.T.’s1 in denim shorts hiking up
to the down
town
Granby Plaza.
At a pit-piss-stop at a bar up the block from Grandma’s house I guzzle
ice-cold cups of Coke courtesy of the balding black bartender who tends to talk with his eyes
like the cook
from the Chinese joint dishing out
free and greasy egg rolls as my eyes roll from the kind of out-of-place grin mamas warn girls
to get away from. But, Dee-Dee nudges me
forward, I muster a thanks,
look down,
ball up
feeling corrupt-like
the dollar bill crammed in my hand for keeping quiet
when
she followed her
boyfriend to the backroom to talk
for a minute. I kept quiet
when
she floated around
the corner scouting a fix, my eyes fixated on her missing tooth, her bruises,
her . . . baby girl,
Don’t tell your mama
I am here
in Lynchburg covering night cops watching
Oprah on one of her “Oâ€ccasional lightbulb moments,
the phone rings,
Mama says,
      Dee-Dee dead
and, I got this
two-ton cement block
of guilt weighing on me. I had to
white-out her black body
long before the detectives outlined the murder scene with chalk.
long before the drugs,
I just prayed
to let us be re-membered in our familiar selves
before the hai
at Grandma’s house
Uncle Willie slouched in the sticky pear vinyl kitchen chair
his oily hands sliding a cheap pipe between the empty space where
teeth were supposed to be.
patted his right thigh for me
to sit right there
to listen to a lisp-full of small talk of non-particulars until I
couldn’t stand sitting NO MORE. He fumbled
with his weathered brown leather
wallet to barter some change for some sugar. And I got
some stinky slobber of whiskey syrup slathered over my cheek
for two quarters,
I kept quiet
about the kitchen, until my cousin
Kesha pulled my earlobe to slip me some fresh off the grapevine gossip,
      and
without looking into my eyes
she got a whiff of everything that went on inside.
We erased it,
laughed it off,
ran up the block to the frozen-cup-candy-ice-cream lady to O.D.
on some sugar, to rid me
of a clear case of Cooties
caught
at Grandma’s house. He slid through the cracks
in the crowd awaiting the one-time family ride in the limousines
a half-hour before Dee-Dee’s funeral. He called Kesha’s kid to the kitchen.
Michael could not creep a half-step to the corridor before all the cousins could hear Kesha swearin
In the back of my kitchen,
I called her out.
Slammed my two cents on the three-legged table, picked up a handful of clothespins to hang her
should-of-could-of-would-ofs out to dry like the dingy white cotton draws’ she didn’t want
her Christian neighbors to see.
and I put it out there,
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
Baby Girl Poems
No comments:
Post a Comment