Metal making love to metal in a
distant but familiar place. The
calling of a feast I was not privy to.

Yet somehow, these echoes persist
in their fragile lives, filling the
empty spaces of this heart
as stuffing does a turkey.

This heart, the organ I think with.

The one that recalls every beating
it took in the name of survival.

The one that always strives to
forgive, but never forgets,
because it is also a muscle.

It remembers.

The last gift I clearly remember my
mother giving my father was a
set of silver handled kitchen knives.

And if I ever found courage to cut the
silence between us with my tongue,
I believe she would say the last
gift my father gave to her was my
youngest sister, who is like one of
a set of silver handled kitchen knives.

Teeth forever showing in my presence,
a serrated smile that slices into me
without causing me to crumble
at the sharpness of her mind, as I
do at the sharpness of intentions
behind the extension of knives as gifts.

Since the day my parents cut
the nostalgia loose from my
childhood like burnt crust, I have
dropped crumbs of myself
everywhere I made travel.

In the ears of women. A bowl of chili
cooked in a nearby soup kitchen. The
palms of a God begging the world for
recognition or a dime of every dollar.

Anywhere except the basket
where I was bred and baked.

Because my left foot always wants to leave,
and my right foot correct turns wrong,
they could never agree to walk in
straight lines, so I lost my way home.

Found myself sitting at a table
full of surrogates who carried
me in closeness for the holiday
like a son of shared blood.

They were unawares to my hemophilia.
Had no knowledge my family was fine
china not to be removed from the curio,
did not recognize my meekness as shock
at seeing meals shared between people.

Supper was a solitary endeavor where
I came from. It was separating the
foods on your plate like parents into
different rooms to protect the taste of each.

It was discussing politics with a television
resting idly on cable news. It was
swallowing your pride because you
had not yet learned to cook.

But time has passed through me like heat.
The yeast within my voice has risen,
and friends have been fed by my words.

I have grown, only to see much
of what was with me, still is.

I still dine with a television. I still avoid
cooking whenever possible since some
pots are better left unstirred. I still
separate my foods with restraining orders.

The shame of it all is that a meal will
never satisfy when one fears becoming
what they eat, and so I am left with this.

A stomach full of holes fit to sheath the
knives my father forgot to take with him.

By habit, I sleep atop my belly at night
and drive them deeper into myself.
My silence, an accessory to the crime.

Not to say there was ever a crime,
just that there were victims.

Not to say I am one of them, just that
I would like to avoid making more.

And so, whenever I find myself in that place,
I take that youngest sister, who is like
one of a set of silver-handled kitchen knives,
and bring her head gently into my gut
where I have fashioned a groove for her.

Tell her to be still in what she is, since
she is a blade, and life cannot always
be trusted with a gift such as hers.

Just look to me as proof.
We came from the same set.
Four forged with the mettle to love.

I look into it and see nothing,
aside from white space, that is.

II.
The pages are blank of confessions
like a virgin’s heart to their
spouse the night of the honeymoon.

And like said virgin’s body,
they are so very inviting.

Inviting, the way a guitarist’s
forearms are to the sharp
wit of a needle, saying
make of me what I wish.

III.
I discover an urge to recreate the
world along two dimensions and
simplify things a bit. I know depth
need not be the literal to be reality.

IV.
I write my name inside of it,
a first act of self-correction.

V.
The ink bleeds a little bit,
as if it is rising
from the paper itself.

VI.
I impulsively listen to The Wind Cries Mary.

VII.
I realize that art and pain
have never been more
intimate than in a tattoo.

This is without doubt
something to aspire to.

VIII.
I write a poem about my lack
of composure affront the sharp
wit of a needle, sewing my fate.

IX.
I look into myself and see nothing,
aside from white space, that is.

X.
I look into my book,
and see two dimensions,
working as three.

I made it what I wished.

If the answer is yes to any or all of the preceding questions, consider yourself informed that The Excelano Project Auditions are fast approaching. Come tryout for our collective of warm-hearted, lovable eccentrics. Please come with 2-3 minutes of original material to perform in front of the group! Don’t be nervous, be fly.

Where: Kelly Writer’s House

When: 8-10 PM, September 18, 2011

If autumn is another metaphor, it insists the most lovely
Things in this world are the ones leaving it. Dying.

If my life is another poem, this makes my little
Brother a metaphor. Lovely. Leaving. Dying.

For the sake of aesthetics we can call him November.
It’s fitting flesh. He has reddish brown skin and
Half his heart is in a grave. In plotting his demise
He had forgotten I would be home come December.

Maybe I have been the end of him from the very beginning.
It was assumed we would travel in the same direction.
Even our mother used to dress us in synonym.

He always struggled in his English classes and
I’m sure the results are related. He couldn’t
Define himself outside his relation to me.
No wonder he sees life as a prison sentence.

Those fingerprints on his eyes belong to me. I’ve
Reached out to him during dark hours, but I’m gone
Now. I only see him through telephones these days.

I remember every call vividly.

One in particular, sounded like wrist-slit and ankle-sprain.

The tone tinted maple leaf: red, alarming – my brother
Contracting into himself like an unspoken secret.

A tender laugh caved between his cheeks.
A blush surfacing like smoke. He burns
For the sake of another person’s happiness,
Since he understands you cannot
Be a martyr and die of natural causes.

So, he curves his mouth into moth wings.
Kisses the heat. Swallows his Aderol
Pills with a lava flow of vodka. Monk-like.

He’d been squinting at his prospects long enough to
Make the golden-twine of a noose resemble a halo.

People aren’t leaves despite how easy they fall.
We are foolish to consider suicides stunning.

Awestruck by their cold and colors so neither
Our fingers nor voices can be lifted, as the
Falling petals patty-cake the sidewalks softly
As kindergarten footsteps, until the echo
Disappears like cheer at the end of recess.

I often ponder where voices go once they fall to the ground.

I imagine he’d say they don’t ever reach heaven.
I imagine he’d say he couldn’t find the Lord
Even while he was high. I imagine that’s the
Essence of depression, but he knows it.

Melancholy has more mass than Catholics do.
He is by far the heaviest prayer I’ve ever lifted.

He needs help, but doesn’t
Feel comfortable asking for it. Not from me.

But I understand him, because we’re brothers.

The dread of being burdensome is a bond shared
Between us like blood, and bruises, and blue
Jeans neither one can wear anymore.

We both bow out when bowing down goes awry.
We both draw into ourselves like wrinkles.
We both know telephones aren’t happy places.

I wish he’d see we have more in common than the
Surname chaining our hearts to one another.
I tell him this, but he can’t see a locket through the skin.

I tell him not to fear splinters. I tell him they
Are the price of building beautiful things.

I tell him he has a beautiful spirit. I tell him he is black.
I tell him that his spirit should be skeptical of tree limbs.

I tell him to remember. I tell him to always
Remember: dead leaves; lives behind.

If the bird flipped was a peace symbol
Like its name implied

If nerd was sexy and paid as such

If homies on the corners listened to Common Sense
Before he went commercial

If money grew on trees
And didn’t leave cotton splinters

If the elector’s voted like they went to college

If college didn’t treat me
As just another commodity

If the dreams weren’t always more vivid than reality

If drinks tasted the same
In cans and bottles

If marijuana was conjoined
With every new treaty

If food was served family style every night

If rain came at uniform speed
And always with deliberate warning

If the clocks had fatter faces

Then, life would be air conditioned

The type of rare that’s inexpensive.

Break it. Give it to you.

Have you put the letters
Back together for me.

It’ll be a brilliant metaphor.
You won’t know it.

And I will

Thank you for returning
My feelings.

(one)