Poetry

outside the viewer,
black                         outside a mention                  of orishas and speech 
about freeing

Wine between cacti and carnivorous flytraps,
our bodies syncing to the DJ’s bad decisions,
I can’t stop getting turned on

                                     leaves a race behind
                 takes on the music                                      pop
                 its relation                                                    to capital

In the dream my mother pours
a gallon of milk over my head
because her boyfriend held my hand
under the table.

                                    Universal Studios of riot 
                interspersed with whites holding
guns and carrying
people away.

Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,
red-veined with a fine fuzz:
canebrake pitchers
hooded against the good rain.

The sound from some other kind of space or 
craft and foot           set in a downtown, US           shots
into windows

The blushed syllable it wore 
with its whole body,
tawny rose-hip orb
of antique origin,

Now it is night again, child on my chest.
I croon & my song drifts you toward rest.