Needles

I was telling my sister,
I think I am addicted to tattoos.
The angry growl of the needle
as it rips my skin apart, spitting ink
deep within me. Coloring me,
being careful to stay inside the lines.
I want to put one on the nape
of my neck, since if on my sole
it would fade. In cursive letters.
“GOD ‘82”
footnotes underneath.
“Amendments – R.G.” with a space
for every year of my life.
It hurts like hell,
but nowhere else can I take
a little ownership of myself.

2005

Tuesday Love Poem

Screaming gulls pick at vomit on the bricked sidewalks,
frozen hard between the rock and grit spit up by the crashing surf.
Both the gravel and the vomit are days old
The water has retreated reservedly
and fangs have been sheathed.

In the past when the sea got angry
it would grind the bones of dead slaves and sailors into soup
and froth at a rabies-filled mouth
to wake all who lived near and seduce all who would listen.
And now the son sets above it staring at his reflection.

The gulls came every day; and then it was too cold for vomit.
Black and grey stone stretch on this beach
and are never warm to touch

Until cold water pushes itself
past nostrils, mouths, eyes, ears.
past throats and windpipes
resting only when the last door is opened
And all is filled cold.


2005

Leslie

Between the beer bottles and half-filled tumblers of rum or whiskey;
Before I could appreciate these dark and sunny weekday afternoons,
He had me seeing things. German soldiers with funny shaped helmets,
Winston Churchill escaping during The Boer Wars, cowboys.
After a game of cricket and enough trees had been climbed
I bounded home as Hanuman with dusty knees and vision.
A julie-mango if I was lucky – if late, lentil soup or worse.
I would spend hours looking for the turtle in the backyard.

Even after he stopped, his gums and lungs had grown black from exhale
I forgot how his voice moved in the air, I would forget altogether
When they pulled each tooth out and I sat with him and his pillow.
What little he had to say was muted by the needles now.
He used to stand in our yard when I came home from school
The slightest embrace before the two of us sat silent reading.
Nowhere near ten now, we both sat silent breathing.
I don’t remember ever finding the turtle in the backyard.

On the night he died, we turned the television off.
He prayed with us to a God I had never seen him acknowledge
Until he relaxed on the same pillow; without dentures.
The mango tree he had saw people throw stones to taste it.
But they never saw the backyard
-the cherries, lemongrass, pawpaw and dasheen.
Some turtles travel thousands of miles,
But I was sure he was still somewhere in the backyard.

2005

Twitter is Not for Teens

Morgan Stanley get a 15 year old intern to do some market research.
Twitter is Not for Teens by Julia Kollewe for the Guardian

Why Google Is Stealing Apple's Ideas

Short answer: because they're good. Long answer: because Google has none of its own.

By Brian Caulfield at Forbes.com

Self Portrait

2009

Took ten minutes this afternoon to sketch myself. Eventually, I will warm up again for drawing.

Blow Flies

Flies never feel the need to tell the maggots
what they are eating.

They have been born and provided for.

When they are fat from death, they crawl out
to another damp rot to hide from the light.

2005

Richmond, Virginia

Photos from a trip last week.