Introductory Portfolio

1) Dress-Up 

My face isn’t on, she said. I stood

chicken-legged in denim overalls, a quilted

 magenta daisy stitched on the left chest

pocket, which hid the cotton-pad adhesive,

the thin plastic sheet suctioned to nothing;

mosquito bite boobs are hardly boobs, much

less breasts—I was flat as her ass, she said. It

must have been a big-girl joke, because when

I didn’t laugh she said, you’ll understand

when your older. She forgot to tell me

how old older is, so I guessed eight—I was

seven. Never married, and never even brought

a man home, she lived with papa Craig n’ ma’mo,

her bedroom redolent of talcum and de-

hydrated rose wallpaper. In the corner, a paint-

chipped chair tucked snug under great-great-grand

mother’s vanity—my personal beauty salon, she

chimed, let’s get all gussied-up. On tiptoes

I watched as the folded bag rolled loose across the table-

top, stretching end to end; inside, toys similar to

the ones on my Christmas list: Grey chalk for eye-

lids, brown color pencils for the bank lined with lashes, a black

brush to comb lashes up and out, and something like a curling

iron for more curl. She penciled her lips midnight red, never

coloring inside the lines with the same. I liked poppy pink

best; That's just like a good little girl, she said smiling with

mocha-rose ink on her front teeth. When she finished, it was my turn.

Papa said I looked like a circus clown; ma'mo went and pulled out

her slick six-inch Sundays for me. I felt weighed down, like the time

I became a pocket-book hanger—she said a woman never leaves home

without a matching bag; or the day I sat still for a free up-do session,

who knew a jar of pins and a can of spray hurt like holding your

breath for too long, but pain is beauty. I thought if being big meant

playing every day with Aunt Tootie, I’d like it. (She only puts on curly, sand-

brown hair hat now, and I— I just ask when I can cut my hair off

too, to be big and not worry about grey hair.) One day you'll be big

enough to play big all alone, she laughed as I prissed down

the calico carpet runway of their hall. 

2) Erectile Dysfunction

There’s nothing funny about this, he said,

but that only turned my laughter into raging fits

of hysteria. A real knee-slapper, I thought. He

must’ve missed the euphemism; the playful pun: my poon

is dry and yours’ standing tall like those in East

India. Always read the fine print; eight hours in

and still hard wood. I wish I could’ve shown him how

to laugh, really cackle with head thrown back, mouth

spread wide as hollow voices dance in and out then

in again, and then out and in-out of his throat—give

him a hooker’s dance and blow, help with the pounding

pulses; the blue balls.

But he only gnashed teeth at me—music in itself,

those cannibal porcelains roughly playing

together. I wish I could have said that we need foreplay

like cat-and-mouse; hissing and squeaks under-

neath mocha flannel. A stack of erotic

visuals, or a real life house-call who smells of

cigarettes and latex might help—Maybe he would spit-

up a wail of joy… or two. Pun intended.

 I wish I could have said,

Lighten up, baby. Listen to the echoes of pleasure

my laugh brings. But I could not slow down

or steady the pace of breath’s legs, racing from

my lungs and hitting the wind pipe’s straightaway with

gasping speed, long enough to speak before he threw

off the only shelter covering the ‘rare’ side effects of

Viagra, before the arousal—the disjunction between an

erection and erectile dysfunction—could bring me down.  

3) The Humor in Disjunction 

There’s nothing funny about this, he said,

but that only turned my laughter into raging fits

of hysteria; a real knee-slapper. He must’ve missed

the euphemism; the playful pun: my poon’s

 dry and yours’ standing tall like those in East

India—always read the fine print, eight hours in

and still hard as wood. I wish I could’ve shown him how

to laugh, cackle, with head thrown back and mouth spread

wide as hollow voices dance in and out then in again,

and then out and in-out of his throat—give him a hooker’s

dance and blow, help with the pounding pulses; the blue balls.

He gnashed teeth—music in itself, hearing those cannibal

porcelains roughly playing. I wish I could have said we need

 foreplay like HBO soft porn; candles and moaning and hardly

covered oily parts. A stack of erotic visuals, or a real life house-

call who smells of cigarettes and latex might help—Maybe

he would spit-up a wail of joy… or two. Pun intended. I wish

I could have said, Lighten up, baby. Listen to the echoes of pleasure

my laugh brings. But I could not slow or steady the pace of breath’s

legs racing from my lungs; hitting the wind pipe’s straightaway with

gasping speed, I choked; he threw off the only shelter covering

the ‘rare’ side effects of Viagra. The arousal—the disjunction between

erection, erectile dysfunction—couldn’t bring us down.  

4) Domesticated Mom

Twenty-five cents, twenty-five silver

circles for twenty-five times more seeds.

Hold yur hands, she said, like a beggar

in wont. I only stared, eyeing burnt ivory

lace-trim cut from greatma’s best thanks-

giving slop-top; chalk white lines flowing down

the torrents of her wrinkled wind marks. Yur

paw n’ me fed these yellow quacks fur twenty-

five years, fur twenty cents less the whole five,

now its upta’ yew n’ Thomas, yur ma never mind,

she ain’t much more n’ Lucky, lame and not

the same color yellow, she said. Lucy,

once Lucky, not anymore Lucky, so now

Lucy was momma. Momma in the middle oiled

a different Lucky, stained in dark Lucy—

I found her. 

5) Formal Love 

It would be stomach-sick off

the mind’s trampish desires:

humping the bag boy between

Publix’s tight-fisted produce

section and the lobsters in

their sickly, unfiltered tanks

reeking of week old bloody

tampons and the Butcher’s

B.O.— still lingering close

by; of mind fucking Mr.

Square Rimmed poetry

Junkie right in the denim-worn

worm hole below his brass belt buckle.

Formal consummation never asks,

Which orgasm felt better? Don’t judge.

Remember make-up test mornings,

those hot-for-teacher squeals lipping

off Italian phrases, praises, while wild

eyes rolled back, head tilted. Another

A in Spanish. Really—hot July never

licks dew off freshly-budding tulips,

nor blisters about the stains you left

atop the flat paneled wood-oak

swivel chair in office 124.

Fantasies come and go:

as quick, as multiplied, as orgasms.