flies.

there are no starving babies on my block
sucking on air like the blue breeze is a warm bottle
no crows hovering for the final step
or flies sticking to the children’s breath
no matter how many times
i tear out pictures in a magazine
or weep at the somber scene on my television screen
then blog pictures for the world to see
i am not there.
my hunger struck early, too.
but it still left a residue
on the outsides of my cheeks.
the every day honey combs, reeked
the stink of urban black american poverty,
but still left crumbs for the feeding of roaches.

the summer of my sista

you stole my womb
that sordid summer
when
you were my June


that joyful july
when the sky sat still to watch us
spread a wicked wild fire
on treeless streets

i saw you smear her brown face
disfigure her soft taupe
and cloak her in burnt red

you ripped her
right from my arms
you made her call you mother
then set fire to my name

and sister
i’ve been trying not to love you the same
way i did last summer


because you hurt me
real ditch deep
then told me to get over it
like you don’t ever bleed

and we both know you do.

see sis
i loved her saccharine sweet
how she kicked
my tangerine tummy with her black feet
how she caught the rhythm
of my movement
and danced inside of me

it was you who helped to plant the seed
inside of the barren land
i could never reach
alone

do you remember
our side by side
summertime?

how we sank into the seared
summer blind?
watching the world
with soft smiles
in hard homes.

do you remember
big black girl bike rides
in place of telephones?

those days when
our laugh
shook the city
before it all got this gritty
before you got so greedy
before summer
stopped her seething.

but sis
i saw her the other day
bouncing real fine
yeah, she was happy, round and brown
as my new full belly

and i was happy
to see her dancing
even if she didn’t remember
the auntie
who carried her
breathed life
inside her flat back

she never
had the chance to be held in my hands
but it is in her blood to know my dance

and
i am happy to see her dancing

z.bediako

slither.

it is 12:44 a.m.

she is sleeping
when the snake arrives
side winding
against her backside
slithering his sour self
across her humid hips
dipped dark in summer drape
she awakes
starched stiff
quietly pressing
her thighs together
like two spiraling twist ties
being steamed flat
on a white unyielding ironing board
he grows outside of her
as she shrinks
inside herself
he slinks against the
complex brown
he doesn't care
that she doesn't want him
that she will still feel him - crawling
in his absence
nor does he dare
to hurry or hush his heavy breathing
he doesn't even bother to avert his eyes
during family dinners.

19th Street U.S. Postal Service.

He stood still
at the front of the line
but backed away at my entrance.

My southern self could smell his
request, for a few minutes of a gentle listen.

"I am not waiting to be helped"
he said.
He gently pulled his hat off his graying head

"You see,
I haven't been back to this neighboorhood
since I was a child. This use to be my favorite
place to come and be rowdy.

Now, This neighboorhood used to be a lot different you know,
You see that shop over here, belonged to Mr. So & So.
Now white folks, drinking coffee
Where the AME church burned down
And there is a bar
above the burial ground.

It's been a real long time,
30 years to be exact.
This is the only business, that remains intact.

His sugary sweet eyes
glided across the freshly waxed floor

"Nothing around here is the same anymore."




Inspired by a conversation I had with a man in the U.S. Postal Office in North Philadephia.

untitled.

them winged birds won't ever fly

just jump up high to sift the sky

they'll run away to lemon hill

then sit down flat on ferris wheels

them winged birds will never soar

they'll merely strut the corridor

they'll walk away from open doors

then close them shut and kiss the floor

them winged birds won't ever swoop

they'll only envy parachutes

shoot the shit inside the coop

ignore the wind and droop.

red, white, and real blue

i use to have play dates
with revolution.
her red moved me into march like a tricycle.
her black taught me to feel the midnight blind.
her green sat soft, as blades of grass bent under my skin.
but somehow i lost her crimson
in the white fog
its got me real blue

Cityscape

for veronica


it is cold today.

the wind is bitter and on a rampage

- cold and deliberate

targeting every one in her path.

folks are finally packing up their folding chairs

and abandoning their porches by reason of autumns bleak blossom.

vibrantly colored scarves are draped for the draft

under ill fitting fall coats.

wooden toggles timidly stretch across satiated summer bellies.

the loquacious mouths of the bus-stop regulars keep quiet now

as mouths must double as warming devices for wrinkled fingers.

philly natives fall in to rhythm

while southern souls, like me,

stay stiff

and off beat

trying to get the hang of thanking god for the warmth of 40 degrees.

homeless men and women

waste no time in worry

the impending season,

sends them in survival mode

an intrepid scour

through downtown for shelter.

most settle for populated parks, heat vents in the middle of busy sidewalks

and underground train terminals that reek of desperate piss.

black garbage bags, heavy with scrap material and newspaper,

sit beside them like the loyal stray dog they can't afford to keep.

there is so much around me.

so much to see.

the streets are busy in whizzing whirls of traffic.

impatient drivers raise fists, pound on horns, and text with the free hand

pedestrians ignore crosswalk demands and chatter on cell phones but manage to keep their way.

i am rushing

- trying to catch the trolley i know is dropping off riders as a line forms outside of the double doors.

i try to run sometime, but only manage to muster a slight gallop.

most of the time the trolley has passed and i lean against the chipped green pole

and get a book out to read as i wait for the next one.

today, i was lucky.

i caught the line and even got a seat to myself.

i'm seeing the world with different eyes now-a-days.

i find myself looking out for things i'd love to share with you when you come visit

i tell myself that it is healthy to think about other things, too,

and i manage to take my mind off of you

but even when you're not in the front of my thoughts,

you blend into the background like the perfect soundtrack

as i navigate the cityscape.