Crazy Lady’s Baby

crazy lady

She drags herself around with a confused mane of knotted clumps upon clumps of curls on her head with white hair in splotches. Her eyes are blood-shot red. Her clothes hang from her body on the last strings that hold them together. Her breasts sometimes swing into view from behind these meager clothes that manage to stay on her body. She slides her feet forward, a boulder on her back. Sometimes she stops and speaks to no one in particular, a distant look in her eyes.

Homeless – a virtual impossibility here. Where does she sleep at night? Who takes her in? Who talks to her? In her condition, no one I presume. Sometimes I see her with scraps of food. Do people give her things? She is very much a stranded individual yet somehow, through all her vivid haze, beyond all the piercing alienation, she finds herself pregnant.

Has she made love to the invisible person we always see her mumbling to and sometimes arguing with? Whoever has done this to her has taken advantage. It is safe to conclude that she has been raped and in spite of her condition, in spite of her mental state, in spite of not having food on a regular basis, in spite of being susceptible to sudden and seemingly unprovoked fits of anger, crazy lady is a full house.

She is ready and able to deliver and has not been to the hospital for any vaccinations or quarterly check-ups. What does she think to herself? Does she know that she is pregnant? Does she feel the kicks in her stomach? What has made her go crazy or is she crazy at all if she can carry to term? Has she thought of a name? Does she wonder if it is a boy or a girl? She is a much older woman. Fifty-years-old at least but she is still muscular so she knows work.

Crazy has a source. I don’t assume to know homeless people. Maybe he is always raping her. Maybe they. Yeh…maybe they made her crazy.

God is.

God is.

I don’t hate religion but
religious people scare me.
is it natural
grabbing at
God so much?
religion –
is what I breathe every day.
every day is
what God is. . . . .
everything is.
God is.
I don’t displace him
merely by my thoughts.
I don’t discover him
merely by my words.
I don’t feel him
merely by my touch.
religious people scare me
grabbing at God so much.


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Sweet, buttery sounds penetrated her ears as she stretched and pulled in preparation for her morning journey. Miles was her man this morning. He tickled and teased her with notes as colorful as the sunbeams transformed into rainbows as they burst through her wall of windows. Her legs were stradled on the carpet which soaked up the rainbow beams. She allowed her hands to slide down her leg from her thigh to her ankle; loosening the sinews in her quadriceps and arching her back to create the love embrace that her leg received from her breasts. She repeated this same embrace as she switched to her left leg. Then, she streamlined down the middle with her hands facing each other and both legs now making 30 degree angles with the rest of her body.

When she stepped out and into the morning dew that bathed her bare feet, she was met by a warm breeze that coated her hairless scalp with its thickness. She learned to live without it after having to pick up clumps of hair that clogged the drain in the bottom of the bathtub after every shower and after mornings of finding hair on the other side of her pillow.

She disguised her fears by proclaiming, “Maybe I should have my own talk show. I look better than Montel Williams.”

This morning she planned to run away – at least for the next hour. An hour of thousands of kisses between her feet and the pavement would be her escape. Once she travelled down Strawberry Street she took a smooth left and eased onto Mulberry Avenue. From there, her feet did the thinking and she let her strong limbs steal her away down the road strewn with October’s leaves that covered every color that exists on every face in the human race.

The trouble began on her nose then, spread out on her forehead and slid from her temples down her cheeks to end up dangling from her chin. She tasted the warm, sour salt on her lips and what escaped into her eyes, stinged. But although she was oozing of sweat, it was a good salty taste and the sting that made her eyelids flutter to protect her eyes from the sea potient was a good type of sting.

The oceans of sweat that bathed her in between her legs, that slid down the middle of her back, and that clung underneath her breasts mollified her.

Learn How to Smile

If I was from Africa

I would smile

If I was from Africa

I would be rich

If I was from Africa

I would do everything

If I was from Africa

I would dance

Africa is the richest continent in the world

We are all from there

Learn how to smile



my soul is stained on the pen
that wrote this verse
jammed by a substance
that prevents me from song
but when will song
from me
prevent that?
I am not a cat in a hat
or a violet that’s blue
I am feeling rivulets of sound
that crash up against my insides
from the outside
that paint my ears red
like air does to blood
that paint my eyes red
when I shift my head to catch a glimpse
of the sweetness clouds make
I’m open to concave, reflecting,
digesting parts of time
whose rhythm does not acknowledge
that of the tick-tock
My words flood my brain
like my blood
like the rain
no breaths to complement the pulse they make
unless they breathe when they evaporate
like cotton candy which is never sweet
unless first you eat
the air around it
If I poured the ink from this pen on my tongue
could I tell if my words were sweet?