soon the day will return, waking us from sleep again & we will perhaps catch

  a moment of beauty when we open our windows to the light

  spilling its radiance into our rooms fresh with songs of birds, perhaps

  the new day will bless me with a gift of an original poem

  & fecund ideas to compose many others

  A VEIL OF TRANSPARENT RAIN

  a veil of transparent rain advances toward shore

  from the aqua green water carrying a rainbow

  extending up top to bottom, swirls of mist

  wrap themselves around the dazzling arching colors

  as two sailboats enter the miraculous mix

  the wind picks up everything, seems so deliciously magical,

  mysterious as secrets, when salt water of a pulsating caribbean sea

  off the coast of goyave, guadeloupe, changes color from aqua green

  to a wet slate gray mirroring fast-moving clouds above,

  motoring toward the northwest where the sun is setting

  at this moment eye remember a few days before

  a french plane fell like a stone from the sky,

  dropped into the middle of the atlantic ocean, due east

  from where eye now sit—they found two bloated bodies floating

  on this day when this poem is coming to life, two days after president obama

  delivered his historic speech in cairo, egypt

  dealing with the middle east, on the same day he spoke

  of d-day in france, one day after celebrating

  the jewish holocaust at buchenwald,

  a day after mexican children were roasted in a car

  somewhere in another preventable tragedy—

  out there another preventable disaster of death is lurking

  to cause 9/11 fear beyond the uncaring selfish gaze of so many people

  greedy beyond measure is what eye am thinking

  as this veil of transparent rain advances softly

  as luminous green leaves of my mango tree wave hello hello

  they shimmy dance on tongues of winds over french-tonguing

  words, probing, in the distance, caressing in goyave sweet

  as murmuring showers sweep in, bringing the beginning of darkness

  now the sun settles down behind blooming mountains in the west,

  nightfall inches in as secrets nourishing winds push the clouds

  further north, past the looming shadows clearing the sky

  for the moon to climb bright into a night sky full of stars—

  eminding me of pearls or diamonds plopped down

  on the black suede rug in a new york jeweler’s shop

  it is magically mysterious & eye ask myself once again

  how do these things always happen every day

  in this world filled with miracles & horrors—

  seemingly coming suddenly as that rainbow a few hours ago—

  coming during moments we least expect, bringing surprise,

  as now, when stars flash bright in a clear dark sky

  HAITI HAIKU

  nothing like an earth-

  quake, to level the playing

  field, for rich & poor

  EARTHQUAKE: HAITI

  for Monique Clesca, Patrick Delatour & Daddy George

  it struck as always without notice or warning,

  struck at 4:53 p.m., January 12, 2010,

  the sun was smiling down on countless

  people bustling home in rush-hour

  port au prince traffic, everywhere crowded streets

  pulsated humanity when the earth started shaking violently

  for thirty-five seconds it shook, rumbled,

  then a yellow-white cloud of dust rose up—

  & if you were high up in the mountains looking down

  you would have thought perhaps you were above

  hurricane storm clouds roiling with fury—

  thirty-five seconds the earth was an undulating rollercoaster,

  thirty-five seconds devotees called upon Voodoo gods,

  Christian gods for mercy, forgiveness,

  thirty-five seconds of fear wrestled inside frazzled brains

  someone on a balcony filming the scene below said,

  “the world is coming to an end,” just as wailing rose,

  just as the sound of dirt and rock cracked apart

  underneath the earth, grinding plates screamed from tension, broke,

  one sliding underneath the other, creating fissures up above

  as the ground split apart, riven, multiplied into snaking fingers

  that couldn’t strangle the many voices that rose

  from everywhere, unimaginable horror spoke—

  the montana hotel where eye wrote half of Miles:

  The Autobiography with Miles Davis,

  collapsed, pancaked floor by floor into a pile

  of rubble, killing hundreds as it went down—then pain

  exploded through countless brains, skulls, bodies, arms, limbs,

  as concrete walls caved in on them

  thirty-five seconds seemed like thirty-five slow-moving lifetimes,

  thirty-five seconds collapsed edifices of religion, power, privilege,

  thirty-five seconds sucked poor people even deeper

  down into whirlpools of choking poverty

  the end of the world as haitians knew it came suddenly,

  entered their eyes as a revelation,

  shocked, that a day so beautiful

  could turn so wicked in thirty-five-second blinks of an eye,

  thirty-five seconds of violent eruptions (perhaps more heinous than the rule

  of savage dictators like papa doc duvalier

  who slaughtered tens of thousands like joe gaetjens, the hero

  soccer player, who scored the only goal for america when

  they beat the english team back in 1950)

  thirty-five seconds of shaking madness & death down

  on this first day of suffering—before stench of rotting bodies

  shocked nostrils & the imagination after a few days—

  then on the second day a miracle happened

  when homeless people began to sing, chant, dance & pray

  under the moonlight and stars

  then what eye always knew to be true popped into my mind

  that the haitians are a remarkable people,

  spiritual, beautiful, creative, strong, resilient—eye knew

  they would bounce back from this over time—

  they always have in the past, they will do so now—

  though this time good news will be a long time coming

  HURRICANES

  for Monique Clesca, Patrick Delatour & Daddy George

  first eye am dreaming of blue skies followed by slight murmurs

  resembling lisps of people speaking, trembling through silence

  (like lovers whispering in bedrooms or gatherings of friends)

  followed by fluffs of small white clouds soft as cotton candy

  (they remind me of scouts of an advancing army searching for clues

  to take back, information that what is coming behind them is a menace)

  still eye am inside my imagination dreaming of the golden eye

  of the sun warming my day with its beauty & healing power

  but out in space seeking a way to cross warm sea waves tossing

  turning down below is a growing cluster of whirling cumulus clouds

  gathering around a vortex of swirling air rising up as errançities

  hissing with salted white spray starting to speak in tongues

  as it coalesces around an engine of wind giving commands now

  (the engine that sent the cloud scouts out searching for clues)

  to explode upward into angry vapor obliterating its cousins

  soft as cotton candy it begins to move forward gaining speed

  these new vexed vapors wrap themselves around the vortex—

  like whirlpools of shouting hissing political voices disagreeing

  throughout congresses all over the world every waking day—

  soon some have purple eyes—category fives of evil—

  threats to everything around them they will hurl themselves

  boiling into our consciousness after acquiring names like hugo

  katrina rita dean will raise fear of catastrophic judgment days

  as they advance with howling voices of apocalyptic errançities

  churning every-which-way full of violent linguistic maelstroms

  swirling masses of cumulus advancing over warm sea water

  imitating whirlpools spinning into fives massive human militias—

  destined to destroy everything they touch when they approach

  LUSTING AFTER MANGOES

  for Margaret

  eye get up before the sun imitates a burst of fire,

  igniting a huge explosion as light

  sweeps all shadows into secret corners everywhere,

  it must be—as miles davis once told me—

  about timing,

  eye must arrive precisely behind

  my house in the yard, under the tree full of mangoes,

  a split second before the rooster comes leading

  his posse of hens, cute little voracious chickadees

  right after the rats have abandoned the eating field—

  which is my abundant, sprawling, tropical backyard—

  where fresh mangoes fall in season, ripe beyond belief—

  like tender breasts—sweeter than a luscious kiss—

  succor from someone you love, you must be there on time,

  as the prince of darkness told me, to gather that saccharine

  taste those luscious sweet mangoes where they fell

  when the sun burst through yawning hours of the dawn sky,

  opening it up with its cutting rays as would a can opener

  a tin of candy treats you tasted once & everything

  seemed new, as when you wake up, find your lover there

  breathing softly at your side, succulent as a mango

  SEARCH FOR MANGOES: SECOND TAKE

  for Margaret also

  it’s a race against time in our backyard

  in goyave, trying to beat field rats,

  ants & chickens to the sweet prizes—

  delectable griffy mangoes falling from our two trees—

  it’s a race against sharp tiny teeth & beaks

  penetrating the hard green skins brushed with rose,

  yellow blush, once they’ve nestled on the ground

  before the rats take healthy bites, the chickens peck

  holes in the skin, the ants stream through the flesh en masse,

  wherever they find openings they swarm all over

  the sweet nectar flesh, gobble up all the tissue,

  leave behind, over time, dried-up

  leather-brown corpses

  they remind me of slain soldiers on a battlefield

  littered underneath umbrellas

  of our twin trees,

  where the rats prowl only at night,

  the chickens only during moments of sunlight when it is safe—

  they fear attacks from packs of always-hungry rodents—

  the ants come whenever they choose

  & eye only during hours when the sun is smiling

  it is a race against some odds, too—who knows when

  a strong wind will come, blowing through all those

  overloaded tree branches, shake loose those sweet mangoes,

  send them plunging toward an unwelcoming earth

  so the trick for me is to arrive first at daybreak,

  right after the rats have eaten their fill, abandoned the field,

  before the chickens come out of their sleep to peck holes—

  the ants are always there but need chicken holes

  to stream through—just when the new mangoes have plopped

  down on the ground, ready for my harvest

  it’s all about timing

  as miles davis once said, who gets there first

  enjoys the fruits of their labor,

  the sweet golden nectar of a mango’s ripe flesh,

  succulent, luscious beyond description

  LISTENING TO BLACKBIRDS

  eye listen to a flock of black birds jamboreeing high up

  in the large mango tree in my backyard in guadeloupe,

  wonder what they are jabbering about hidden

  within lengthening shadows of twilight approaching darkness

  spreading its wings like these birds when they take flight

  their jabbering reminds me of black people gathered on corners

  underneath my window in harlem during summers running down

  whatever game their jazzy, jambalaya language offers up

  as food for thought—the loud insistent slap of dominoes hitting tables,

  spiced with boasts of men—women, too—who have mastered

  the sarcastic lingo of tongue-in-cheek put-downs mixed

  with salt & pepper wisdom saucing up air around the game

  eye have always loved listening to language like this improvising

  solos spit from lips—or beaks when talking about black birds—dripping

  syllables popping through firecracker sentences dropping neologic words,

  sounds into everyday lexicon of hip oral speech—language

  has always been the fuel driving duende/music of my poetry

  but these black birds are a special case since eye can’t enter

  the meaning of their language—are they happy or mad, hungry

  or sad, making fun of humans like me listening to them perplexed,

  trying to decipher—translate—their intricate jabbering music

  packed with jackhammer rhythms—a language so high-pitched,

  so insistent it seems close to frenzy, as if they were discussing

  important topics to themselves, relevant to survival of the globe,

  perhaps what they are jabbering about is crucial for us, too,

  though how would we humans know since few of us listen,

  or even hear anything we say to each other

  when it comes to important matters

  like, for instance, the waging of eternal war

  pollution of the planet with oil—what about the gulf of mexico, alaska—

  the politics of corruption by outright bribery, runaway, rampant greed—

  the list of human deafness goes on & on, dominates the sordid,

  sad history throughout the blindness of the world

  so why would one think anyone would pause to listen to black birds

  jamboreeing high up in a mango tree in guadeloupe,

  jabbering away about whatever in their jackhammer rhythms,

  in a high-pitched language so insistent it seems close to frenzy

  perhaps a poet like me—or you—would listen to that language

  possibly holding mystery, magic, beauty, if only for clues

  we may decipher from secrets these black birds might know—

  the boasts of men—women, too—who are masters of the sarcastic

  lingo of tongue-in-cheek put-downs, the wisdom saucing the air

  surrounding the insistent slap of dominoes smacking tables—

  what the language could offer up for me or you—if you are

  out there—perhaps, is a thread, a possible connection, where

  we might locate our spirits in a common, fertile space, where words

  language might be the glue holding communities together in place

  HAIKU SONG

  the sound of the wind

  becomes the tongue of the voice

  sung through poetry

  A VISION

  the star speeding across a midnight sky

  is a voice in the shape of a glittering comet,

  a bird burning as if it were pulsating

  with a need of sex, as are these words carrying

  a primal scream, hot & dripping with longing

  the star speeding across a midnight sky

  is a voice in the shape of a glittering

  bird burning as if it were a comet,

  pulsating with the need to explode

  VI.

  SEVEN/ELEVENS*

  UNTITLED 1

  words are dice thrown across floors,

  gambling tables, where language circumvents who

  won or lost, comes down to bets

  lost in chips when snake-eyes dooms your first throw, though

  turn a seven, eleven

  after bones stop rolling you dance as though great

  music, love, entered your soul

  UNTITLED 2

  living in the world is mostly about chance,

  the draw of straws, or cards dealt

  in a game of poker, it’s all about nerves,

  how your eyes react in tight,

  cold-blooded moments of chicken, will you fold,

  cave in to raw fear, pressure,

  will you become an improviser with chance,

  probability living

  inside this new moment offered you singing

  as solo, the notion fresh

  thoughts can carry art to new, profound plateaus

  UNTITLED 3

  walking beside a building

  offers possibility of a falling

  brick cracking your skull with death

  coming in the blink of an eye, a dice throw

  unfavorable to you

  in that moment, the fickleness of chance,

  odds, is an opaque, feckless risk

  TOMAS

  tomas came whipping in suddenly, winds howled

  through wet morning darkness, wings

  of cold rain, drenching voices swirling anger

  from a roiling, angry sea,

  tree branches kneeled down as if they were blessing

  snapped sugar cane stalks, whirlwinds

  tossing leaves, switchbacking currents, closed hands held

  tight together as in prayer,

  benedictions raised up to God to spare us

  holy terror like this one

  whipping hurricane winds in from Africa

  UNTITLED 4

  eye hear cold voices whipping

  my language of poetry wet with snapping

  syllables, flying off white

  pages full of dreaming, whirlwinds of rhythms