Friday, June 18, 2021

2 Minutes. Go!

She got her high heel boots on; it’s a long walk to a backward con. 

Listen to the clapback, all them cobblestones she’s walking on. 

Don’t get it twisted; it’s just life in the city; man, she gon’ roll along.


She so cute with that Instagram smile, all ducked out and small. 

Take her down to the Taste Freeze, fill her bags up at the mall. 

She’s got boxes full of drama, and that’s not all.


Beneath the heat, the sly smiles wither. 

Look at me coming yon, coming hither. 

Listen to the morning birds while they dither. 


There’s a mud castle, and it’s decorated just the way you like it. 

No car, just bike it. Can’t love it, like it. 

Stay away from brujas, them bitches mad psychic.


Take me down the bodega, turn the hydrant, pass the popsicles. 

Stand in front the ice cream, turn you into an icicle. 

Be radical. Magical. Done give up; it’s tragic y’all.


Or turn yourself to stone, wondering where the greenery grow. 

Who’s there finding out, and who already know… 

It’s summer in the city, and the rooftops smell like snow.

3 comments:

  1. Fantastic! You should write poems more often. I love it. Has a great stomping rhythm and loving the rhymes. The rap is goooooood :) I like the way it ends on snow too.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Buckets and spades

    The things we would wish upon
    we collect in small plastic buckets,
    levelled with a red-flamed spade.
    We save these things for prosperity.
    this serenity we seek to keep,
    hold it to our chest, do not weep.
    This is the place to stand and cheer,
    not knowing how long you’ll breathe
    before the collection of eyes.

    You can seek derision or wholeness,
    despair or try to plummet on.
    It’s a carousel, an endless turning
    and you shall have your horse.
    We chase the rain across beaches,
    spread-out sand dunes so pristine,
    and run like dogs into the waiting
    waves, our spades still in our hands.
    We don’t ask for all that much,
    and some of us don’t ask at all.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Sentries

    An invitation of colours wrapt,
    night’s ache drips full scope,
    lights suspended, pure small dots
    of living sensation blinking out
    to the lost, all the wanderers
    on their own searching, unfound.
    The trees stand sentry on the lake,
    still and steady, not breaking lines.
    They are the watchers of the dark,
    this pristine place, displaced art.
    The pool collects light, its rays
    trickle from the sky like silk,
    splashing in a steady tune to water,
    sinking and spreading night’s word.

    ReplyDelete

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