Intelligent fools distinguish who you are
by the manner in which you speak.
There’s no room for Mr. and Mrs. Ghetto.
Poverty ensures each one is left behind—
makes you forgettable.
Blinds you to the glass shield
you will never break through because
you are illiterate and lacking knowledge.
Forever doomed to exist among
the walking wounded.


Sometimes I think about the day
I learned you had cancer. I cry.
No, on bent knees, I sob.
It’s like being pummeled by a
large, smelly man; it’s a kick
in the groin; it’s pus on an
open wound; it’s a missing child;
it’s darkness at sunrise; it’s
rotten meat; it’s the best lover
who repeatedly lies; it’s loss of
sight and sound at middle age;
it’s alopecia; it’s rape; worse
than shingles, it’s a forced
clitarectomy; it’s wilted rose petals;
it’s an eviction notice taped to
the door of a roach infested kitchenette;
it’s your pulse rate slowly declining
in the hospital as I stood near
your bedside.