cocoy3's Xanga

The Mark

Wed, 04 Apr 2007 01:38:43 GMT

A subtle blemish at the base of the hand
No memory of its beginning--
Against the edge of an iron spike
Or the tips of bristly thorns.

I am reminded of its lightness
When I yield a fork, scoop soup with a spoon
Or pick pea shoots with a chop stick
Of whittled wood or pounded steel.

I'm not sure if it was ever painful
Or if it bled through many cloths.
It may have clotted into a darkened scar
Or the sickly yellow, that wounds sometimes get.

Against the grain of my winding prints--
They are also everlasting paths--
It traces my plodding days like a hash mark,
A little fissure for my eye.

The mysteries of its pointing,
Forward, down or left
Will stay as flying flesh flakes away
Into the moments hush.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Wed, 05 Jul 2006 12:12:55 GMT

A gravedigger observed two men arguing in a grave yet filled.

“How do I know you’re not the devil?”

“You don’t, but I’m just telling you to lie down and sleep. That’s all it is, a long sleep.”

“I’d rather not.”

“If I were the devil, wouldn’t I rather you roam around causing havoc for the living?”

“Good point.”

As the hesitant man crawled into the grave, the other man raised his arms to the sky. The pile of dirt by the grave rose into the air; the mysterious man then lowered his arms slowly and lay the dirt down onto the hesitant man like a sheet onto a sleeping child. The mysterious man wiped his hands against each other then walked away from the grave. The gravedigger approached him and said,

“Convinced another one eh?”

“Yep, hopefully he’ll decay a bit then dig his way out and scare the shit out of some people. It’ll be a riot.”

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Tue, 30 May 2006 11:46:44 GMT

The grass held many souls in its roots and when it grew too long to satisfy human eyes, would be cut and feed the roots again. There was a child named Jacob that saw the souls falling back into the earth, imprisoned in that chlorophyll infused place and he thought it might be hell. He watched this cycle day after day as his caretaker, Uma pushed him briskly through the park with his stroller. Uma had been a maid and clothes washer for a wealthy family in Haiti before coming to America, so was very in shape for a 50 year old woman and didn't mind the strolls in the park. Sometimes at nighttime as Uma put Jacob to bed, he often thought a ghost undressed him and tucked him into the warm, silent darkness, a ghost with gentle hands and a cooing voice. In the day, Uma was like a shadow, towering in front and behind the stroller, a kind of guardian angel in jeans and a patterned shirt but with no wings.

Halfway through their daily walk in the park, Uma and Jacob would sit and rest in the grand field at the center of the park, where according to Uma many souls waited patiently to be reborn. And though Jacob frowned inside as they sat in the grass, he smiled outwardly as if by reflex because the sun heated his face. It would not be until he visited distant relatives in the country and saw cows and goats chomping on the grass, and had a great banquet where he ate those same cows and goats and drank their milk and ate their cheese that Jacob's mind changed about the whole matter of grass and souls. Between bites of a cheeseburger, while sipping on frost bitten milk, Jacob turned his face up to Uma, and spoke in a low tone while his legs swung back and forth under bench of the picnic table:

"Some souls get to travel afterall..."

Uma patted his head and both she and Jacob continued eating. As grasshoppers and dragonflies flew overhead in a warm summer buzz, Jacob looked upon his older sister Sarah, who had just turned fifteen the weekend before. She sat with her arms crossed in the shade by herself and was the only one that did not partake of the feast because for her, hell was being eaten against your will in your own milk and juices. For a moment, Jacob tried to understand his sister's perspective but in time forgot the matter because the burger in his hands was so good.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Mon, 24 Apr 2006 12:51:44 GMT

My life has moved away from untenable dreams to those my hands can grasp...but in the process, I've lost touch with certain sides of me I thought would never fade...It's not sad, just surprising. Perhaps I'll return in time..

Friday, December 23, 2005

Fri, 23 Dec 2005 17:58:58 GMT

Autumn Tale

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0137439/?fr=c2l0ZT1kZnx0dD0xfGZiPXV8cG49MHxrdz0xfHE9YXV0dW1uIHRhbGV8ZnQ9MXxteD0yMHxsbT01MDB8Y289MXxodG1sPTF8bm09MQ__;fc=1;ft=21;fm=1

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Sun, 18 Dec 2005 22:54:12 GMT

The atrocities of man
Have been a product of attention
Kept from the suffering wrecks of the world.

Their suffering breeds saddness,
Their sadness breeds anger,
Anger breeds death.

The powerful eventually become melancholy,
Perhaps because they know
Their brothers are suffering in the shadows.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Sun, 18 Dec 2005 14:37:37 GMT

http://www.epitonic.com/

Monday, December 05, 2005

Mon, 05 Dec 2005 20:16:00 GMT

Went to this the other day, I've been frightened and disgusted into living a healthy life:

http://www.bodiestheexhibition.com/

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Sat, 26 Nov 2005 12:02:24 GMT

Rap: a sign of freedom

I hate rap but love it too
sometimes it's beautiful poetry
sometimes it's a bag of trash
in all cases leaves a rash
on your soul and nature.

Touching on the carnal
a celebration of freedom
a virus on society
illuminating the disease
of ignoring those left behind.

You hear the beats
stolen from the souls of other songs
given a new face
the voices in the background
yelling to come'on!

A bragging song of their own praises
an illusion to the jealous
cuz if they sing along
it's not bragging at all
if everyone's singin' it.

And those blinded by the ugliness
who ignore the strong slips of light
they don't find the message
the code to move on
take hold of the truth and fight

For their right to breed
desire, a new life of feats
better than their people before them
and find their backyard altered
distorted ever so slightly.

And slowly, in time
as more stories fly from tongues
show anger and hate
for the situation of a people
not completely forgotten

Maybe just maybe
we'll all realize we've been free
have the world before us if we try
see the dream alive
waiting to be stolen away.

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Sat, 26 Nov 2005 01:54:21 GMT

Half-proud, fully-shameful: the champion of rolling graves

We shun ourselves
some in half, that started with
a decision of elders
to forget themselves.

The idea to escape
give more liberty
through history's eradication
has failed before.

And a pain too strong
fought the urge
to remember
our forefathers were kings.

Microcosms compound
make titanic endemics
that kill our collective
memories of stunning things.

Until we're in the slums
clawing at everyone
desperate to get out
of the rut we allowed to form.

Who will champion the whole?
Give the young the truth?
Make them strive for lives
stop the rolling graves?

You, him, her, me?
Aren't you ready to remember
to forget our forgetting selves
and accept the ugliness and transform?

It's what I tried today
accept my ignorance
rip free of my straight jacket sleeves
of my self committed soul.

Cuz I'm half-black and shameful
of not striving to be the best.
Now begins the real life
where I finally take the test.