Woman Seeking Baby Daddy: A Craigslist Ad

Well, I've never used this service before,
but for something as sensitive and personal as this,
I knew there was only one thing to do:
put this on Craigslist.
Woman seeking baby daddy.
But not just any baby daddy, oh no.
This baby daddy has to ride slow
in his mama's dark green Toyota Corolla
and see me walking on the street and roll up
and honk his horn two times until I turn around annoyed
and then he'll hand-crank the window down
and say, "Wuz up, beautiful? You're so beautiful. Come here, girl."
This baby daddy must hit me with as many creepy compliments
as he does uncomfortable personal questions.
For example: "Girl, your skin is so smooth, and your eyes are
so dark and soulful. ... Are you Mexican?"
Must be freaky.
Suggest, about halfway through dinner, and by dinner I mean
after I bought us two beers at AJ's
That we should get my sexy ass back to your mama's house,
cuz she's at work right now,
and when I hesitate, you protest, "What? I didn't mean it like that!"
I would prefer it
if you at least tell me something like
"Ooh, let's not use a condom. I'll pull out before, don't worry."
But it's OK
if you just feed me some line, like you're allergic,
or you've had a vasectomy when you really haven't,
and I'll even settle for you pretending to put on a condom
and never actually having any condoms at all.
I'm looking for a baby daddy
who has it all:
he lets me take a shower at his place and use his old, damp towel;
he drives me to Burger Kind on Tuesdays and Thursdays before his shift;
he occasionally waves to me when I see him at the mall with someone
he will later tell me was his cousin.
I want you
to slowly let it filter into your conversations
that you have other children, possibly as old as 12 years old,
but it would be better if you don't tell me at all,
and I wake up at your mama's house one day
to some crazy woman yelling at you with a baby in one hand
and a knife in the other
and you're telling her to shush so she doesn't wake your mother
Ooh, baby daddy, you'd be the greatest
if you leave the room immediately when I tell you I'm the latest
and you never come back.
So baby daddy, if you're out there,
please respond ASAP.

Voices

My voice
is like a sponge
soaking up the spilled milk
to stop you from crying.
My voice
is a detective
asking probing questions
to prevent you from lying.
My voice
is a shield
deflecting others' bullets
to stop you from dying
and I'm trying all the while to collect these voices
My voice
is a Trojan horse
wrapped up in this harmless package
you wouldn't think inside held a warrior
My voice
is a Trojan condom
letting myself relax and have fun
but still putting up a barrier
My voice
is a live virus
infecting you so deeply that you'll be the carrier
and I'm warier all the while of these voices
My voice
is the day you were born
learning with each new step
that you are incredibly capable
My voice
is the day you died
relinquishing family secrets
and putting everything on the table
My voice
is life itself
messy, unpredictable
often crude and mentally unstable
and I'm able all the while to collect these voices
I hear her voice, and his voice
and my voice grows stronger
I hear their voice, and your voice
and my speech gets longer
and that he-said, she-said
becomes the you-said, we-said
and I said someone should collect these voices
even if they're actually all in my head....

I B That Poet (3rd revision) (Written for The Original Man CD release party)

I B That
undeniable voice
that gets stuck in your head
I B That
girl who gets boisterous
forgetting she's shy instead
I B That
poet intoxicated
forgetting the words
I B That
white girl assimilated
becoming a nerd
I B That
student of phonics
discovering new vocabulary
I B That
prostitute to turns of phrase
who's ready to pop ur cherry
I B That
solicitor of soliloquies
living in Ophelia's reign
I B That
type-A positive blood pumping
so the haters can die in vain
I B That
uncontrollable need
to speak only in metaphor
I B That
black-eyed survivor
after ignorance slammed a door
I B That
irrepressible spirit
in no need of salvation
I B That
flared nose, gritted teeth
clenched fists, fire-eyed determination
I B That
insatiable desire deep in
the marrow of your bones
I B That
only goddamned rational thing
that you have ever known
I B That
flutter in your stomach,
that spring in your step
I B That
sinking feeling
that this is all u have left
I B That
light-bulb idea
brightening up your morning
I B That
200-miles-per-hour wind
without an emergency warning
I B That
multiple personality
who only shows face on the mic
I B That
5-year-old on the monkey bars
who never learned to play nice
I B That
rulebreaking miscreant
never doing what she should
I B That Poet
... and the rest is understood.

Take It Back (Written for the North End Arts & Music Fest)

So now I guess I'm supposed to be
scared of the little kids
that run around my block
that have always run around my block
and occasionally yell curse words they think will make them sound
powerful and masculine and tough
because they might have a gun
and they might know how to point it
and they might know how to shoot it
and their bullets haven't hit me yet
but I hear pops in the night and in the daytime
and I can delude myself into thinking they're fireworks this time
but really, I know
that someone else has gotten ahold of a weapon
and decided to point
and I listen to the pops and know someone has snapped
the crackle of gunfire in our neighborhoods where we sleep is our fear
and even though we're supposed to be scared of that
and lock our doors and windows up tight in broad daylight
and never venture outside
and never talk to those kids or look them in the eye
that's ridiculous.
I shouldn't think that a 9-year-old looks suspicious
or a 12-year-old's intent is malicious
any more than I should hide
from a five-year-old on her training wheel bike
I'm only in my 20s, but I'm an elder to them
and I won't walk on the other side of the road
and I won't shy away from calling our your disrespect
Cause I expect kids to run wild
But I don't expect gunshots from a child.
So I'm saying this hot, cause I won't be mild:
Take back Waterloo
Take back the block
Before another victim is shot
Take back these streets
Take back our homes
So violence is not all our children will know
Take back the city
Take back the 'hood
Cause deep down all these people are good
Throw the guns away
Get your life on track
If you love your city, then take it back
Tell your kids what's up
Don't cut em no slack
If you love your city then take it back
We're all compensating for what we lack
If u love ur city, then TAKE IT BACK.

Allyson (Ode to a Friend)

She is all dressed up, and sits next to me
Because she cares about me
I didn't tell him at all, because
I don't care about him at all
And I think he might stop me.
The room is neutral-colored, like my mood
And I realize she must leave
Even though we love each other.
The time goes slowly. I want it over and done.
I try to stomach half of a sandwich I bought at a gas station
Because I was told somewhere along the line I had to eat.
I half-heartedly glance at OK! and Star and People
Each with images of what a woman should really be doing
I see the other women in this room
Later, the basketball player and I and another girl who asks
the nurse to stop telling her the details
Will recline in chairs with heating pads
Sipping on apple juice and eating crackers
As if we were lounging in beach chairs eating tapas and drinking white wine
Except the others have been swimming too hard or eating too much
Because their cramps are more severe
While I have been waiting on this moment and relax for the first time
Since I realized it three days ago
And the passerby who haphazardly fired his gun without telling me
Didn't cause me to bleed as much as they told me I would
And the sky seems sunnier now that my eyes are refocused
And the air seems clearer now that I am no longer stifled
And my mild-tasting toothpaste tastes like itself again
And though the ignorant billboards seem unnecessarily personal now
The only one who gets my life now is me
I take a dozen trips around the country that first year
I sometimes tell one more person a secret
And though I have not told my
would-be assassin how close he came to taking my life
I have forgiven him
Even as his bullets continue to find their marks in others.
And though I believe those neutral-colored walls protect me and
the cloak they provided still shields me
She remains the steady presence, the unwavering if unsure support
And she sees right through everything I try to say
Without my having to say it at all.

For Neda, from Iran

It was just supposed to be ordinary.
A simple day in the American Midwest
where we're all worried about the simple things
like money, like our jobs
like what's-that-loud-noise-outside
like why-is-this-weather-so-shitty
and we get so caught up in easy laughter and mild annoyances
that we didn't notice when
the YouTube screen told us we weren't ready
that our days were not preparing us
and we bristled at the suggestion
and impatiently clicked
and thought to ourselves that we might not have seen everything
but we certainly were ready for anything
and because an online video site thought us inferior
we had to prove them wrong
and suddenly we have found ourselves looking at a woman stagger back
and be gently lowered to the ground
and, saying nothing, rolls her eyes unnaturally to the side,
the side to which her head has drooped
and while people around her are shouting
and placing their hands on her neck and chest
and staring, and shooting video,
blood has begun to flow out of her mouth
and down her cheek to the pavement
and the shouting has become louder and more insistent
and the hands on her body have become more numerous
but no more useful
and by now, the blood has streaked her entire face
so that she is forever recognizable
and there is a large pool of blood on the street where she lies
in this crowded Iranian city
whose name no one will remember
but whose face will for many years be streaked with blood
but even though I have seen the video only once
it has burned images into my brain that are not easily erased
like blood on pavement
like eyes rolled sideways in death
like streets filled with strangers trying to stop the blood flowing from
the holes in your body
where a paramilitary drone shot you dead in the street
and though our countries are far away
and what does a Midwesterner know
about the deserts and the food and the art and the music
and it's not a big tourist destination, anyhow
and we're only supposed to be paying attention to that portion of
our world if your government suddenly gets mad at our government
and wants to blow us all into tiny little pieces;
even give all of that,
I feel that we have a shared hurt
you, for your final minutes bleeding on the pavement
me, because of my shame for watching it
stomach twisting at the sight
eyes unwilling to pull away as I gape openly at
the demise of a fellow human being
and I think is-this-what-it-is-like-to-be-shot? --
It's nothing like the easy unconscious death of the movies --
and why-is-there-so-much-blood?
and I fault YouTube for broadcasting that knowledge to me
and I chastise the people who filmed it
for being so used to seeing that kind of thing that it
must have been second nature to automatically pull phone from pocket
upon hearing the shot
and I wonder why it is that the paramilitary picked her out of the crowd
or if she was in the wrong place at the precise moment
or if the shot was deliberate
and whether the shooter was caught
and I remember reading an interview later saying
yes-he-was-caught-but
and I know the "but" means the cops are too crooked to be trusted
or else street justice befell him
and either way, none of it erases the blood in my mind
or on the pavement
and now I'm angry at myself
for trusting that I would be ready to see death
in all its untimely, unapologetic horrificness
because I was not.
It was just supposed to be ordinary
like my-computer-froze-again
like another-round-of-layoffs-is-coming
like the Cubs losing is the day's biggest bummer, but not super unpredictable
but today, I feel my chest burning
and my eyes rolling
and my lungs filling with the blood
of a thousand Neda's
pouring their blood out onto the pavement for me to see
because if you don't look for it, you won't see it
and if you live where I live, you can go around blind
but in Iran, neighbors step over your bloodstains
and I finally am ashamed one last time
as I think of myself in that situation,
walking down that same street
like it-could-have-happened-to-me-but-it-didn't, and feeling strangely relieved
because it's in our nature to avoid death
and the moon looks down on us all tonight
and the people will continue to die nameless and faceless
to the bulk of Western civilization
and that is how it must be, I shout to YouTube,
my fingers shaking as I navigate away
from the river of blood on my screen.

Merriam-Webster

I think these words are too much for some poets to carry
Maybe get yourself a Merriam-Webster's dictionary
So you can find out the meaning of "apothecary"
or "tributary" or "establishmentary" or "visionary"
Just because your pen can form crude representations
of letters forming something you heard
Doesn't mean your vocabulary is rich enough to spit $10 words
If it's more than three syllables, you'd better look it up
You can borrow my thesaurus, it's all tore up
Now I don't begrudge your lack of education
Because I know public schools in this nation
employ several forms of social and economic discrimination
And familial and societal pressures sometimes favor your
elimination rather than your graduation
But I've got a deep appreciation
For those who enjoy engaging in verbal altercations
If you're not feeling scholarly, don't worry --
I don't need a doctoral dissertation
But forget about the nasty poems
Give me cranial penetration
If you only talk fluff might as well be verbal masturbation
And my only sensation is boredom
Look, do me a favor and pick up a book
Because your words are so dumb
You took phrases that sound good and put em in a blender
and shook
But that's no fun
I want every piece I hear to make me think
I want each turn of phrase to take me over the brink
But make it succinct
Say your piece, don't take all day
And if you see me yawning
Go look up the word "blase."

You Always Gotta Be Thinking

I never thought...
But that's my first mistake, see,
You always gotta be thinking.
But at this point, I was on autopilot
Going to work, watching the ink turn violet
Across the keyboard my fingers glided
I didn't try to hide it, but
For sanity's sake, it stayed hidden.
And as my normal life unfolded as written
Between the lines something was missing.
And even if I was ashamed or sadder
Or whether it was a little of the former and the latter
It didn't produce chatter, because
Hardly anyone knew, so
It didn't matter.
And it was because of this lame indifference
That I continued to feign interest in the same stuff
When they'd come back around, though,
I acted tough
Because a woman might not come out and say it,
but she knows when enough is enough.
And it was at this particular juncture
When I thought this balloon of sanity was about to be punctured
That I started thinking.
And yes, it might have been after I'd been drinking
But suddenly, I realized that shit wasn't all on me
And I stopped sinking.
And it was like I woke up from a nap so long
You don't even remember when it started
And you realize maybe all of it was just a bad dream
And you and the dream are now parted
And you bolt out of bed happy as can be
Because the dream left you brokenhearted
But a dream is nothing, for pity's sake.
Monsters and shame are just a fake.
And just when you think it's too much for one person to take,
You wake
And notice the blue and white sky outside your window, maybe for the first time
And you think,
I never thought it would be like this.
But that's your first mistake, see
You always gotta be thinking.

Celebrate (Written for Juneteenth celebration, Waterloo)

Celebrate because a celebration is taking place

And you don't need an excuse to swap laughs and handshakes

Eat hot dogs, chicken wings and cake

Celebrate because the park is green

And the sun's shining

Celebrate cause there's kids hollering

And babies crying.

Celebrate because the history books permeate the deep corners of our brains

Celebrate because while there's still so much hate, love remains.

Celebrate because that was us on the ships

And us in chains

Celebrate for Amistad and Roots and Bad Boyz and Friday

Celebrate for each of the 870 days

between Lincoln's pen and freedom

Celebrate because we recognize they cheated em.

Celebrate for abolitionists fighting for Emancipation

Celebrate because we remember, somewhere, the elation

Celebrate in memory of Martin, Malcolm and Marcus

Celebrate whether you're as white or as dark as us

Celebrate for a U.S. Government apology centuries later

Celebrate because it's never too late to stop being a hater.

Celebrate like you just heard from an unknown soldier

astride on a horse all in white

That all this time you thought you were blind in a tunnel

You were only waiting on light.

I Could Never Be a Poet

(What's she doin on the mic? ... Don't worry.)

I could never be a poet

because I've got a fear of speaking in public.

I'd rather retreat in shyness and embarrassment

Than stand up and share it.

I could never be a poet

because I didn't grow up

listening to The Last Poets or Nikki Giovanni

My mother's records didn't include spoken word

though she did teach me to write in rhythmic curves.

I could never be a poet

because I didn't have hardship after hardship

slamming down on my psyche like a sledgehammer on a bolt,

punching me into the ground until there's only a little left.

I could never be a poet

because I don't take enough breaths.

I could never be a poet

because experience has led me to believe

that I can't tell what is wrong from what is right.

I could never be a poet

because I'm white.

I could never be a poet

because I'm not very polished or skillful,

and sometimes I willfully leave the edges rough.

I could never be a poet

cause I don't know when I've said enough.

I could never be a poet

because I crack too many jokes

that get too analytical.

I could never be a poet

cause I'm too political.

I could never be a poet

because I have a job

that doesn't just let you shout whatever you want from the hills.

I could never be a poet

cause it doesn't pay my bills.

I could never be a poet

because you could write your whole life

and never find that gem.

I could never be a poet

who's anything like them.

I could never be a poet

because there aren't enough letters, words, phrases, pens and paper

to possibly document all the world's beauty and abuses.

I could never be a poet

cause I've got too many excuses.

I could never be a poet

because I'm still figuring out

whether I'm a young girl, a chick, a woman,

a hippie, a traveler, a lover, a miss or a ma'am.

I could never be a poet except
I already am.