World
The Barbershop oozes smoke mirrors and niggas--
smoke mirrors and niggas.
A nigga’s cat eye catches mine. He’s getting
An AK47 etched in his head. My tongue travels
To the valley of death between his legs
then to his amber eyes.
If I linger too long in his soul’s windows
will he kiss me or kill me?
Jeri’s Hair Tonic and Wild Root
Mask the scent of sex between legs and men.
Deep voices rumble about the Lakers, Rockets, and
girl’s big asses passing the window.
Balls bounce between thighs.
Dusted off and oiled, I pay the price of the ticket and tip
For the service of human touch.
The cat eyes occupy a corner
By the red, white, and blue lamp post
Should I, should I should I
I ask myself three times
Before denying brown skin Christ.
c Harvey
Red fire rages
Way down below
In our bellies.
Watch us consume
Ourselves with deception.
Our black smoke
Hides our truth
HYPOCRISY
A misguided soul said to me,
“AIDS cures fags.”
I whispered softly into his ear
with my flickering tongue,
“You’ve been misinformed, My Sweetness,
AIDS cures hypocrisy.
It brought to light all of your afflictions.
I’ve seen you circling the weed choked corners
picking from the crop of tattered boys
in the fields littered with pieces of red glass
and oxtail bones. I peeped you
on your knees in the dark underbelly of
‘STUDZ 24 HOURS’ and you were not praying
to one god, but to three gods who towered over you
with pants twisted around slender ankles as
their future generations oozed down your chin.
On Blue Monday, me and the sun caught you
tipping out the wounded red side door
of the Men’s Health Clinic.
Your dark shades did not obscure my eyes
or the sparkling iridescent pills in your glass vessels.
Now you’re cruising cemeteries
looking for a resting place.
Had you told yourself the truth at twenty,
you would not be dying from hypocrisy at thirty.
c harvey
It’s Christmas in America
Jingo bells, jingo bells, jingo all the way
The cross burns brightly under the north star
The wise men in Klan suits--
A baker’s dozen of red hateful santas
Bring gifts to the nigga babe--
Kerosene, rope, and, dry brush.
He’s only nineteen but suffers for
The sins of the world
And it ain’t even Easter.
c harvey
under copyright protection in the
name of
Charles W. Harvey