Poetry Thursday:Cosby Kid Wisdom

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It is rare that I ever give an introduction to a Poetry Thursday post, however, last time and this time, the spirit moved me.

This time, i read the assignment and I knew immediately what I wanted to write about. Right now, I am going through a fasting detoxification, and it’s doing strange things to my body and my mind. And so I sat down to write a poem about that, but for perhaps the first time ever, or at least in so long that I don’t rememeber its occurence, I was guided by my hand in such a way that the poem I wanted to write came out as something completely different. And I am thrilled with the results of this definite intervention. Please be aware, this poem is a little heavy.

Happy Poetry Thursday!!

Cosby Kid Wisdom

that dr. huxtable was a damn saint!
taught rudy, me and my thick pony-tailed kin
about parasites and germs and animals
disguised as species with genitalia who
threw parties inside our bodies, who
would excavate our dark, pretty little caves
if given the chance, and leave us segmented
like the remnants of sierra leone. they have
a grand time feeding off the crap we never chose
to give them. the damn buggers must be
doing a jig in this [körper, cuerpo, corpo, corps]
of mine, words separated from the real thing
by a thin white sheet and a flyer on the nearest
bus stop asking working folks and crackheads
with four teeth, and a habit of talking to the air,
“have you seen this poor, stupid ass, little girl?”
cadaverous words scramble her lifeless body
found near the freeway alone with only
a purple scarf tied around a thick braid,
prismatic flesh embedded in nails which had tried
to claw their way to yesterday, to grade school
where you could always kick again if they
tagged you out, and a break up only lasted through
one peanut butter and jelly. i have stood on the side
of that road, day after day, watching the girls pulled
from ditches, and dreams and damn good dick
so that they could take their hot little asses home,
a word meant loosely to describe the place most
appropriate for one to reside when the fantasy is over.
and there isn’t always a difference between
the morgue and 124 w. humboldt avenue.
coroner’s report may list coffee, abortions,
loneliness, a sorry man and burger king as the causes
of death – if they really tried. but what matters are
the sacred walls which have festered with tainted
semen or rusted bullets or certifiable documentation
all inviting those nasty germs inside or perhaps
i have been too optimistic about the whole thing.

because surely, my body knows
like when that pricking starts at the base of my spine
and travels throughout my corporeal freeway,
my body knows. like when her vagina closes up
like a feeding baby who could give two shits about
stewed peas and branded yams, just so that he or she
can never come inside, her body knows. when that
incipient spin causes one second’s hesitation
before the poison travels from the pale powder on the table
to the kill switch in her brain, her body knows.
when she reaches for her child with murder in mind,
her body knows. when he grins and touches the bulge
in his pants, the body still knows,
and well, a bit of knowledge is always a good thing.

Little olivia told dr. huxtable, I know my body, but so
how come, she followed the glowing pipe into someone’s
dark alley to have her larynx massaged by a tender
blade? and how come she lifted her skirt to a pale, stiff
monster, who introduced her to acronyms, and
meningitis and life with working fear? and how come
i know that i will get into the car with that hombre over there
who just wants to take me for a little ride, and some dear
soul will have to tell my mother goodbye for me and bless
that dancing dr. huxtable who made me laugh and put on
a damn good show, but he forgot to give his little girls a cure
for what the logical, human mind just can’t seem to face.

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