Tag Archives: lady death

writing on the Q train

dear readers,

here are some shorts i wrote on the Q train this afternoon, i was on my way to nyu’s italian house, for a seminar class i’ve been digging, called italian masculinity in 1920’s american cinema. enjoy.

west coasting
cube instrumental on the ears easy
brooklyn bridge on the eyes

the subtle knife
all this warrior work
and i am descending
into subtler spaces
the subtle knife
pulling for windows
into new worlds

fort hamilton
sister adorers of
the precious blood
graveyard day laborers
under a tree for the flood
watch cemetery turn fall
red and yellow
above them all

family is a joke
in the morning one tiny toke
eliminate waste
preliminary haste
to shake off the rage
of the morning
i woke up itching to fight
can’t barely control the tide
like a part of me died
buried alive
still seething
rage is the only breath
im still breathing
avenger with feathers
to get her
i am nobody’s nightmare
not even in full flame
but only my own angel
basquiat said samo same

bikram yoga #1
halfway thru i always want to raise my hand
and say, excuse me, perhaps you haven’t noticed
but it’s hot in here
could you open a window
because my body can take it
but my mind can’t believe
pouring sweat like water through a sieve

bikram yoga #2
even my shin bone
is coursing with sweat
i am on my stomach
a river spills out from
the valley of my spine
one drop right, one drop left
i am on one leg
the river runs off my angles
elbows knees edges
drops fly off ledges
even my shin bone
is coursing with sweat

celebrating the dead, alora!

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death notes from la rumba in spanish harlem: dedicated to miguel piñero

dear readers,

this piece combines prose with poetry.  it is based on a true story called last night.  🙂


last night was la rumba up in spanish harlem.

her feet


burn into wings

fly on the heels of music

turn shoulders into spears

she is cutting through fear

and landing on the beat

of his drum


october, the time of dia de los muertos, a south and central american tradition of honoring the ancestors who have passed.  october, and i am celebrating eight years free from the living death of incest.

frida impaled

i bleed like you

on the dancefloor

death rising with the night

music got me open right

now I can feel his swipes

at the slice of my womb

she excavates her tomb

uprocks a bee petal to bloom

never again

would be too soon

rape is a tunnel

black moon


so when we ladies are clap clap sidewalk war lording, or when us ladies are clap clap dance floor courting, don’t get it twisted, we are clap clap bravo and take a bow before the specter of our this, our daily dead.

they call me death

lady death

my hung neck

is bobbing

and i am watching

this rumba is rocking/knocking

air thru the lungs of her coffin

four tokes, no coughing

corner caballeros

all chivalry, no jocking

they call me death

lady death

and i am watching

a conversation between

hips and drum

moon versus sun

hands full of skirt

face fierce with flirt

she his only begotton one

chest tempo to gun

thighs pounce for fun

air slicing hands

and she’s done

bows to the drummer

and when she smiles

her skeleton whispers

I won


la rumba, from africa via cuba, where the drummers and the song singers pulpit out a rhythm of battle your demons and get twisty on el espiritu.

stop, don’t start

one million musicians

slaves to our hearts

we are spinning, cantilevers careening

we are whole galaxies

tilting towards the sun

this fun is instead of murder

this fun is icy hot burners

lighting up a night white train

this fun is who we are

when there’s no one left to blame

women brawl fiercest on the dancefloor

as eagles as hawks

we oshun but we cocks

she fly when she die

silhouettes don’t stop

808 at my back

fuck a yellow cab cop


catcha laters,


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