This Place

Let us meet in this place,
Let us travel from
Here and there and
Meet in this place where
The light always seem to shine,
Where another dollar is there
To be made.

Let us meet in this place
Where we shrug off our home towns,
Home countries, home continents,
As though they were worn jackets
Being replaced with more
Fashionable ones, more fitting
For this place.

Let us meet in this place,
Perhaps in some obscure corner,
In a book store or buying groceries,
Wondering when or if to leave
This place. Then we meet and
This place shows promise again.

Let us meet in this place,
Me from here and
You from there and
Somehow we find each other
In the multitude of people,
Somehow we find the hand
That fits perfectly in ours.

Let us meet in this place,
But I left too soon, sinking
Into the azure waters, letting
The sun toast my brown skin
Black. I left before
I even came close to meeting
You.

Let us meet in this place
Becasue it was the only place
We were ever true to who
We are, to who we could be,
Where our masks were crushed
Under foot, leaving vulnerable
Beings trying to find the person
We could love, the person
Within our
selves.

Let us meet in this place
Because we could never
Meet in another.

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A Poet Died In Brooklyn

A poet died in Brooklyn today,
Her body found in an alley.
A single gunshot round
To the heart.
Her purse still clenched
To her side.

In the news,
The said a woman died,
Not mentioning
How her words
Flowed on the lines
Of her steno pad
Or how those same words
Would curl and twist
Into the audience,
Bringing them into her world.
All they said was
A woman died in Brooklyn.

Brooklyn,
New York City and yet not NYC,
Urban yet suburban,
Long Island and yet not LI.
Safe and yet unsafe.
Brooklyn was just right for her.

A poet died in Brooklyn,
A bullet to her heart,
A lover not to be found.
A lover not wanting to be found.

He had a history,
A history of splitting lips
Of black eyes
And broken ribs,
All of which were
Found on the poet.

The poet was not made
Of the stock
That allowed this abuse.
Without a paragraph,
A sentence,
A word,
She left him in Los Angeles.

From there she found homes
In Las Vegas, Chicago
And every city
She could could lose herself.
Every time he would find her.

That day in Brooklyn,
He found the poet.
He shot the poet.
He left the poet
In an alley to die.

Days passed,
Her words were found,
Her story told.
He was found,
A noose tied tightly
Around his neck.
An abuser died in Brooklyn.
The final word was written.

(Pic: Soul Spectrum)