DULCE DE LECHE

My mother spent 270 days.
270 Days letting her bones lift and organs shift.
To make room in the womb.  For you and I.
The future generation, cause when you’re born
It’s appreciation para esa leche.

When your mother was carrying you, she wasn't
Thinking of the evil that men will do.
Don't cut off the hand that feeds you.
But we do.

When we oppress women on so many levels.
Our perception of them less than equal,
Call ‘em tricks
When we demand flicks.

Her dulce's hot like her cuisine,
When pots and pans begin to flip,
And from her sauce you want to dip, your tongue.

But we don't even appreciate this,
When worshiping this,
Dinner de arroz con abichuela negra
Con maduro o tostones
Y un bistec encabollao, should be easy.

But we’re like nah, you’re beneath me.
So shut up and feed me.
And while you’re at it
Could you put the kids to bed
So you could,  please me... 

Its not hard to detect that respect is lacking.
She should leave, but she won't, she wants to hold her
Family together, so she's like whatever,
Con su dulce, y con su leche.

She's always there to support and carry you,
When you’re sad in view,
But how quickly we forget.
When they pose a threat to leave us.

Suddenly, we’re like a six year old crying for
Wifey, like we use to cry for mommy. 

When I say dulce,
I'm not talking sweet, sugar coated confectionery. 
But what I'm really saying, when I say dulce...

Is that truly you are parallel to beauty
In ways we can't even comprehend. 
And in the same confusion we can't even
Understand... Why we messed up on you again.

Dulce, is the allure to your physical asymmetry.
Its alright if your left,
Is bigger than your right boobi.

Its alright if hips and thighs
Are shoulder wide for curves
That even GPS systems couldn't track.

You see, tu dulce is found in simple things,

Like the way your lips move when you talk,
The way you move when you walk,
The elegance in your presence,
The formula to your persona that radiates this
Charismatic charm, somebody just, ring-the-alarm... 
I could see another fine woman could be coming, oohoh,eeh... 

But what about her leche?
The one that skips the 1% and goes
For the whole 8grams in the red cap. 
now take that, as a lesson learned because you can't
Reduce or water her down.  Her leche is pure... 

Pure like Rosa Parks who refused to give up
Her seat and made a whole nation stand on their feet.

Pure like Celia Cruz who became the queen of salsa
Shouting "Azuuuca Mama!"

Pure like Harriet Tubman
Who led 300 slaves to freedom.

Pure like Ms. Cuningham my 5th grade teacher, who
Taught me to think outside of the Crayola box.

Pure like my mother, for raising two boys single...
With two jobs just tryna make singles... So she could put food on our
Table this, leche... Is what will nurture us.
And provide for us.

And the way I see it, this will always be a man's world...
But under a woman’s supervision.

HUMAN THE DEATH DANCE

On the face of her phone
Wileen programs a message to herself
so that when the alarm clock rings
the screen flashes:
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.

Jordan tattoos the words
FORGIVE ME
in thick black letters
down the inside of his arm
so that when he looks at his wrist
he will remember not to hate himself so much.
What they both keep forgetting
is there is life after survival.

After Dave left
Mary started sticking her face
between the film projector
and the movie screen
so that when the credits roll
she still gets to be somebody.

When Tara’s past comes back
she mashes chalk into the sidewalk
until her knuckles bleed.
She scribbles and scrapes
and scribbles and scrapes
until the words take shape
and this is what they say
I wanna die y’all
die DIE y’all.
hold tight if I love ya
cause it might not last long.

Y’all, we’re all gonna die.
That’s the exciting part.
It’s learning how to live for a living.
there’s the tricky stitch.
Just ask Denise
whose family taught her when she came into this world
that Family equals Love
so Denise took that seriously
but after a lifetime of craving acceptance from their cruelty
she now finds herself jamming Polaroid pictures of these people into a typewriter
and pounding out the last letter of the word mercy
over and over again.
She strikes the key Y.
Y? Y? Y? Y? Y?!

And the answer?
The answer comes in the form of a hand written letter from the moon.
that says:
This is brutally beautiful.
So are we.
This is endless.
So are we.
We can heal this.
Signed,
Crater Face
P.S. See me for who I am.
We’ve got work to do.

But my father
he didn’t read moon
he didn’t speak moon
and he didn’t write moon
so there was no note left next to his body
when he chose to leave this world on purpose
without telling us where he was goin’ or why.
There are still days you can catch me
tape recording eternal silence
and playing it backwards for an empty room
just so I can listen to his dying wish.

Yes,
it’s true,
and the apple 
it doesn’t fall too far from the tree,
but thank goodness my family tree
was in an orchard on a hill
that rolled me to the river
and that river ripped me through the rapids
and those rapids
rushed me into this moment
right here right now
with you
at the mouth
This is my church
And if church is a house of healing
hallelujah welcome
come on in as you are
have a look around
stay out of my porn.

There are massive stacks of bad choices in my backyard.
Clearly I have not yet reached enlightenment beyond a few fleeting moments
but I’m tryin’
and I found somethin’ here I want ya to have.
It ain’t much
just a story
but it’s all I’ve got 
so take it.
It’s called Dillon.

Dillon’s drug of choice was more
so he took more
and more
until the day he woke up
babbling in a pool of his own traffic jam
realizing he is killing off the best parts of himself
and claiming he could read people’s skin.
When he looked down at his heart flap
it read Boy, go find your spine and ride it outta here.
Wileen’s gut said Day 1
Jordan’s arms: FULLY FORGIVEN
Mary’s face: The
Endless.
Tara’s knuckles: Healing.
Denise’s fingertip said C?
C.C.C.C.C!
And Dillon said my smile it said Fix it
so I came back here to the mouth of the river
to look at my own reflection under the moonlight
and see what it says for myself
where down my whole body
it is written
P.S.
See me for who I am.
We’ve got work to do.

As for Crater Face,
I can’t speak for that guy.
His skin
brutally beautiful
handwritten letter
from the sun.

TEACHER

If you are going to be my teacher –
you will have to become a tiger
so that you can bight my head off
and I’d have to follow you everywhere
trying very hard
to get my head
back.

WHAT TEACHERS MAKE or
OBJECTION OVERRULED or
IF THINGS DON’T WORK OUT, YOU CAN ALWAYS GO TO LAW SCHOOL

He says the problem with teachers is
"What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life
was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true
what they say about teachers:
“Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.”

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor"
"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
“How dare you waste my time with anything less
than your very best.”

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. “No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.”

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
“Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.
He said, ‘Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?’
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.”

I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell ‘definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful,
definitely beautiful’
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (the brains)
then you follow this (the heart)
and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a difference! What about you?

IT IS WHAT IT IS

It is what it is, the popping underfoot of the Bubble Wrap
in which Asher’s new toy came,
popping like bladder wrack on the foreshore
of a country toward which I’ve been rowing
for fifty years, my peeping from behind a tamarind
at the peeping ox and ass, the flyer for a pantomime,
the inlaid cigarette box, the shamrock-painted jug,
the New Testament bound in red leather
lying open, Lordie, on her lap
while I mull over the rules of this imperspicuous game
that seems to be missing on piece, if not more.
Her voice at the gridiron coming and going
as if snatched by a sea wind.
My mother. Shipping out for good. For good this time.
The game. The plaything spread on the rug.
The fifty years I’ve spent trying to put it together.

SELF-PORTRAIT AS A BEAR

Here is a fat animal, a bear
that is partly a dodo.
Ridiculous wings hang at his shoulders
as if they were collarbones
while he plods in the bad brickyards
at the edge of the city, smiling
and eating flowers. He eats them
because he loves them
because they are beautiful
because they love him.
It is eating flowers which makes him so fat.
He carries his huge stomach
over the gutters of damp leaves
in the parking lots in October,
but inside that paunch
he knows there are fields of lupine
and meadows of mustard and poppy.
He encloses sunshine.
Winds bend the flowers
in combers across the valley,
birds hang on the stiff wind,
at night there are showers, and the sun
lifts through a haze every morning
of the summer in the stomach.

Read Constance’s thank-you note about Robert Bly, bone cancer, and how Don’s response was the final link in her chain of healing.

THE GREAT POET RETURNS

When the light poured down through a hole in the clouds,
We knew the great poet was going to show. And he did.
A limousine with all white tires and stained-glass windows
Dropped him off. And then, with a clear and soundless fluency,
He strode into the hall. There was a hush. His wings were big.
The cut of his suit, the width of his tie, were out of date.
When he spoke, the air seemed whitened by imagined cries.
The worm of desire bore into the heart of everyone there.
There were tears in their eyes. The great one was better than ever.
“No need to rush,” he said at the close of the reading, “the end
Of the world is only the end of the world as you know it.”
How like him, everyone thought. Then he was gone,
And the world was a blank. It was cold and the air was still.
Tell me, you people out there, what is poetry anyway?
                                      Can anyone die without even a little?

WIND-GUIDED CHILDREN

We are the wind-guided children of the future
The wind-guided children of generations to come
Thy Kingdom come
thy will be done in
the brick of Timbales
We built this gran combo
And planted it in the soils of concrete jungles
y lo pie de mama y papa created the movement
Their salsa swing back the feet smack
Created the movement
for all of us to follow

Our drums were never hollow
It was just a hallway to the echoes of spirits
Feel this cuz this is us
La guida’s ringing
The ancestors are answering like
“pero tato hey forget about Menudo”

Because our dial tones existed in the screams of congas
That shouted our history in vain
Our people had been contained
In nine to five packages
So we found comfort in Goya cans
Cuz we can beat that can like a steel drum
And we can eat from that can a real song

Served in Buena Vista Social clubs that
Fed us cowbells for dinner
with a side dish of cantante vocal cords for flan
And if you thought you was vegan, not tonight
Tonight you are on the one
We are the guan guanco by the ton
So feel the weight pressing against your chest
Cuz this is us

From the depths of Taino Mountains.
Pushed to the north by the winds of
Conquistadores.  

Fore-fathers would whisper courage like
“mi hijo no me llore porque”...

We must carry the knowledge
In the wombs of our culture
To give birth to the brighter (sun)
That could perhaps illuminate the children
Of our future.

We started singing songs of bravery using
The force from the same wind that oppressed us,
To re-enforce us.

This is us!

The children of corner store bodegas that
Sold us sweet dreams in “now or later”
Memories that got stuck in the back of our teeth.
Thoughts of colonial freedom within reach,
Hard to speak, so we reached for the wind in
The sky to guide us.

Landed us on twelve inches of wax 
While the pupils become intact for teaching.
With the breath of tunes in-tune with the soul within
As we begin to release the sounds of the wind
With a sha ka kla  kla  kla  kla  kla!

This is us!  

The wind-guided children who found
The fania all (stars) shining in the sky of
Spanish Harlem (nights) driven by the sounds
Of Miranda, el Conti, Pacheco, Barrero, y
Hector Lavoe, la voz que “te lavo” when minds
Were stuck in the dirt of poverty.
Tito’s (Puente) became the bridge between the
Gap from anarchy to sanity

The sound of mambo
Moving our riots feet from the street
To the dance floor
Wooden floors that kept our spirits grounded
It sounded like

This is us!

The children who rose from Taino ashes to spit
Verses that reverse the nervous system of politics
We spit for the god gift given “claves”
The secret language between god and us.
This is us!
That cuchifrito pico de gallo frying the ones lying
To us.

This is us!

The grand central station of Latinos
Speaking in frequencies of fm radio stations
Like “Damas y caballeros ustedes estan
Eschuchando la 97.9 donde la cultura se pega,
Nena nena!”

This is us!

The wind-guided children of eternity flowing from
The breezes of Guaguanco, future jazz,
Jazzing the path to the block en la esquina del
Espirito de Pedro Navaja
If you look for us
You can find us
Kissing your hearts
Like the skin
On a conga!

SPINNING TILL YOU GET DIZZY

For Dizzy Gillespie

It was never control we were after.
Jazz, by ragged definition,
pump-started its own heart,
sensed the possibilities of chaos
long before it became brown baby lullaby,
the ripples that pulse on the surface of whiskey.

Jazz demanded the unleashing of so many souls,
turned order into impetuous melody,
chords which blew spit at their captors,
and there was nowhere to run
and even fewer places to hide.

What gave birth to jazz,
what moist, constricted passage it struggled from,
who held it aloft,
slapped that newborn ass
and spark the glorious screaming
doesn’t matter.

What matters is fluid lines shredding into scat 
and us owning that sweetness;
what matters is cigarette-thin men
swearing at their reflections in the bartop.
What matters is sugar  browns
 hitching up home-made skirts
and pounding holes into the dance floor,
out past curfew and tired of asking the time.
What matters is the bee in the bonnet of bebop,
curses swirling from the mouth of a sax,
moans trapped in cool column of clarinet,
the blues twisting the guitar string’s throat
and mojo rising up from the brown battered skin of drums.

There is growling in all of this,
a warning to stop and shout hallelujah!,
to shout praise for all that is cool and raunchy,
to be thankful for complication.
And let somebody else answer
when the disbelieving ask Who is jazz’s mama?
What ripe woman’s body curved and struggled
and pushed that hardheaded boy into the light?

And somewhere, the bell of a horn curved up.
Because, you see, it was never about control,
it was never about polished brass eking out thin notes
for maybe brown babies in sequins and hardbacked chairs.
Jazz was never capture or compliance.
It was all about the possibilities of chaos,
and he never bothered straightening that bell
cause why shouldn’t heaven get the gospel too?

What he blew upset us, soured our gentle stomachs.
What did we need with music
that thrived in blue light,
music  with rumbling in its feet?
We begged it go away, they banned it on the airwaves,
but the heat in our hips spoke otherwise.
Couldn’t do, wouldn’t do, didn’t wanna do
didn’t know how to do without it,
those cocky, seamless blasts that rock us to rolling,
but it was not about control, it was never about control,
it was about the bell of a horn curved up,
not jazz’s mama, but her son,
all rough chin and sharkskin,
a black beret on cool kinks,
ever a note to apologize for
and
such
outrageous
cheeks.

TOTALLY LIKE WHATEVER

In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences — so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not —
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest? You know?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you, and
I challenge you: to speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.