4/30 6:01 P.M., April 4th, 1968


they say that before the doors were opened
to the church before the home-going for brother Martin,
that there was concern
over the lump of clay left upon his face
and the mortician stated it was all he could do
since his jaw was blown off

but his words still persist

fifty years from an April afternoon and America
is still searching for its soul like old men
reliving past glories to distract from empty walls and cupboards
subsisting only on the junk food of jingoism, drinking oil like water
choking their arteries with the racism’s raw meat

but his words still persist

“tell the truth and shame the devil”
only works if the devils are willing to admit shame
and that day they decided to take brother Martin’s life to hide theirs
since heĀ made broken pieces of the American dream
into an eternal mirror filling their palatial estates and condos

and his words still persist

fifty years later
and we remember brother Martin like all who gave their lives for us
as radical, reverent and renewal
his voice still reverberates louder than the lies
and soars higher than balconies and rooftops

and his words still persist

even as tyrants stroll in the capital
even as the cruel in suits and ties snatch lives and crumbs
they as the powers that be look on this day
and see the people swelling up to meet evil with love and anger
quoting his voice despite the death and fear dealt out

bullets in certain cases
can and have been



grey morning over caguas


(note: this goes out to those who are dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane
Maria in Puerto Rico, The Virgin Islands, Dominica and elsewhere. PleaseĀ 
do what you can to help them.)


the dry bones of the forests behind my house
stare back at those looking for answers
there’s no more barking
the neighbor’s cow
pierced by the tops of branches
down the road
where the gas station sees a crowd
praying with old gas cans and new tears
as if
there hadn’t been enough water
as if
there hadn’t been enough water
the air brings hints of death
it brings the rising song of flies who aim to feast
this is a time – perhaps one of the few times
when prayers and curses are wed together
and the morning
gray as it is, clear as it is
seems like a winding sheet
that one hopes can be a sail once again


Hey there good folks, I know many are taking this day to relax,
let the food and emotions digest from yesterday. But I want those
of you to know that right until next Tuesday, November 29th, there
is a sale on ALL my books of poetry.

That’s right, three titles all for sale. Need another copy for gifts to
friends, family, lovers and others? Step right up and check them
all out right at this link here.

If you’ve already honored me by purchasing one of these books,
I humbly thank you and trust that you will spread the word or
possibly make a purchase for the holiday gifting season!!

Thanks for checking this site out, and have a great weekend!!

the standing eight count


the eyes
can’t make the lines sharp
you feel your blood trying to speak certain words
that you can’t at the moment
a frantic conversation that makes your heart
an interpreter who’s about to lose their sense of speech

the blow
comes to your abdomen
frenzied but deliberate; the skin snaps
you gasp and find your legs have become blades of grass
in the midst of a sudden breeze
and it is all you can do to not fall

that was the dark hours of Tuesday
that was the hours of government gone reality show
that was the uppercut
they waited for for eight years
and so we are here
bruised battered and listing

the standing eight count
is the time where one either fights like hell
or sleeps and comes out of the other side
not the same – maybe never
the standing eight count
is blood for the ravenous

the standing eight count
is where the only refuge
is the corner or through your opponent
and it is where one has to say
to tyranny, bigotry, and all of the other demons
“you can’t hit for shit.”

head rush at 2:45 a.m.


asking what composes
the music of my post-midnight madness has been
the past week and a half
is akin to attempting to play a trumpet

i suppose
it’s all the times that i should’ve listened
to my fears in the past
walking back and gripping my shoulders
like relatives who’ve traveled many miles

the blood is sensitive
singing underneath my skin
like altos in Sunday choirs with no fans
and you wonder where sleep is to be found
as minutes drag the sunrise from its bed

asking what anxiety
comes before one sleeps
is to shine a mirror into the corners of your spirit
hoping that you can meet the gaze

appearing LIVE on Poetically Spoken’s Open Mic Night Radio Show TONIGHT!!

good morning folks!!! i’m happy to tell you that i’m going
to be interviewed TONIGHT on the Open Mic Night’s ‘Poet
Appreciation Series’ hosted by Poetically Spoken!! it is a
treat and an honor to do the show. it runs from 11 PM to
3 AM EST, i’m slated to be on in the first hour. so listen
in, and you’ll even get a chance to hear me perform live!!!
the link is directly below!!!