Wednesday pt. 1

your father sends you a
text saying that he no longer
wants to share the eggs.
that you must buy your own.
What is the right thought for this?
you eventually remember
the couch you’ve been sleeping on.
that you’re 26.
yes, 26! and cannot afford
a New York room let alone
an apartment bill
and he is doing a lot
by letting you stay here.
you do not have a degree
and you are failing at
living well despite that
because the job you’ve had
for 6 years still pays you the same
and you’re pretty sure you could have
left for something better but you were
so busy being lazy and now
you have to stay with your Dad
who doesn’t really hug you or encourage you,
but manages to find time to nit pick everything
including how he no longer wants to share eggs.
the same way he asked you not to use his plates.
the same way he only brings food home for your
younger brother whenever he is around…
But your are 26.
You are not the 10,11,12,13 year old
girl looking for attention through the
thin lens of “not good enough”
So do not feel sorry for yourself.
Do not be hurt.
Be determined even now more than ever
to live on your own so that no one can hover
their charity against you
Though the no one isn’t just anyone
it’s your father
and the charity should be love
but doesn’t feel like it
when eggs and plates
are being rationed and shared
like the great depression.
It is a great depression
when your father does not want
to share eggs with you.
it’s not a requirement of fatherhood.
but it says a lot.
it says that you haven’t hugged him
in for real in years and that
he probably doesn’t notice.
it says that his love is limited
and you should not make a home there.
Do not feel sorry for yourself.
Do not be hurt.
Things will get better.
Fight for that.
(c) R W 2014


My family
is a sentence I do not know how to finish.
there aren’t enough periods to complete us.
they aren’t enough words
to fill in the spaces left out.
no phone calls.
no I love you’s
we sit in the silence.
and we mean it.
they are like celebrities.
they look great from afar.
and it’d be real nice to know them.
But I am okay if I do not 
As okay as a man who
discovers he is allergic to
eggs I suppose.
It may hurt in the morning…
but life goes on.
(c) R W 2014

This Morning

Two black boys
Are looking through a train window
They are laughing and beautiful and young.
Too young to accept
What America already thinks if them
Already taking away their freedom to become.
Already making them guilty and nigga.

I’d like to say I have not accepted that.
But nowadays I only roll my eyes when hearing another brown skin
be made victim to hate.
I’ve stopped turning in my sleep.
my eyes no longer tear.
Though a heavy want still rests in the back of my throat.
There is little dream of freedom and therefore no fight.
Deep down I believe this is how it is and
I’ve thought little of how this can change.

But these two boys do not know yet.
They are a revolution.
Brown bodied and brilliant
They are laughing and beautiful and young
They are looking out of the train window and this is normal for them.
No gunshots or stab wounds
No white standard telling them they’re less than.
No cop’s standing over beaten black bodies like ritual
They are here, they are possible.
Their brown legs look like exclamation points
And their eyes are saying “I want to be”

What a wild and rambunctious declaration!
One that overrides all expectation of them
One that is imperative, just because…
they were fashioned from God
And I agree!
And I want to fight,
And I want to dream this life into truth.
And I want to be this truth..

Yes children….be…
Be unbound
Be black and bountiful
Be unburdened…

I will unroll my eyes…
I will cry tears…
I will turn in my sleep
I will cough up the heavy in my throat
so that you may have the freedom
to become.

R Wilson (c) 2014

Cross Roads

I’ve been running so long
don’t know where I’ve gone
think I’m lost and
I wanna come back to you 2x

I’m at a cross roads
cross roads
this is what it feels like
when every door’s closed 2x

when I was a child I believed
I would become whatever I wanted to be.
now I am 26 and the only truth evident.
is that I have not yet become.
I am always undone
moving in circles
back into the back of myself
big and clumsy and beautiful
but what else?
the sunset finds me still asking this question
I am still a child believing that I can be more.
But my hands cannot create in the silence.
Dear God
I must choose between myself and you
you hold all of me together.
and me…well I’m a figment of my ego
too bruised to kiss my own soars.
too unknowing to know how to move
i am undone.
Lord give me your dreams.
Mine are stale and insignificant
and you are my starlight home.

Help me Lord to find my way
I know you can hear me
But I haven’t been saying much lately
or Listening.
don’t know how to express myself to you
Not sure who I am that I’m bringing to you

Can’t even look in the mirror for very long
I’m a stranger to my own soul
I’m a stranger to my own soul

But you are my way home
You are my way home


We were the universe together.

a river both beginning and 

becoming itself

and we stretched out so far past every sky

we did not notice



passed ourselves.

our backs

saw each other

for the first time.

we were too much of not ready.

too much of fools.

bargaining love for

all the things that looked like


And we were still love, but not enough. like stars,

bright and beautiful

but inevitably destroyed

We passed each other by.

Though we did not realize our choice.

Our universe

now a backwards spindle

unraveled us into a quiet


(c) 2014 R Wilson


Black boy
Black girl
you can take over the world.
no matter what they tell you
it’s true
the possibilities are ever before you.

you are more
than a stereotype
more than a hoe
or a criminal
you are beautiful

you are more than
a stereotype
you are what God made you
and that is

don’t lose your way child
there’s so many ways to go
but don’t forget who holds your
come what may
God will keep you in the end.
He’ll keep you in the end.

Because his love
it’s everlasting
will surpass the pain
you experience here
his love is so amazing
he sees you for who you are

[hi my name is hope
i am brown skin
and black eyed
and filled
with opportunity
see my fingers
they are rough
from clawing the
dirt out
of the keyhole
I will open doors
no matter how closed
i will surpass each
passage way
no matter how far
the road lay
what is mine
will be mine]


Black girl
black boy
you can have all of His joy
no matter how they rob you
try to
break your spirit
it’s solid gold and double fold

You are more
than a stereotype
more than a hoe
or a criminal
you are beautiful

you are more
than a stereotype
you are what God made you
and that is beautiful

don’t mind the tv
or the magazine
when they say
that you are
second rate
who is supreme
and in him
children you can
become anything

[I am an upstream river
I am an a dripping sky
I am purpose overflowing
in every direction
talent spilling out of
tongue and eye
and smile
a new day has come
and it is all mine.
it is all mine.]

black girl
black boy
black girl
black boy

you are beautiful
you are beautiful

R W (c) 2014

"but there are people walking without them"

"but there are people walking without them"

is the thought that came to mind

while watching one of those fabulous shoe website commercials

the ones where some woman is drooling…

literally drooling buckets of saliva

or making orgasmic sounds

or breakdancing on the kitchen table.

for a bunch of shoes.

I mean it’s a bunch of shoes that only cost $39.99 each

and you will be the envy of all your friends

and you will drive your husband/boyfriend/some random guy insane

because you’ll eventually have closets and closets of heels for every


and everyone will love you and want to be you

and there are people walking around without shoes.

in the millions

feeling each cobblestone and sanded floor

swallowing glass and puddle between their toes

still walking

and moving

and becoming whatever magic they’re destined for… and they would find

joy in just one pair.

just one pair of shoes…

would satisfy the quench in their spirits even without the envious friends

or the closet space.

(c) 2014 RW

Tuesday for Mike. (RANT. Not really a poem)

Miles Davis’
"So What"
is playing in my background.
And I’m thinking…

I don’t know any sad jazz songs
to blanket these feelings I have.

So I google:”Angry Jazz Song That Will Comfort A Strange Heart Grieving A Boy Lost to Systemic Racism”

I google:”Song that will soothe the painful aches that hit the back of my throat oh so familiar when I don’t know what to say”

I google:
Song that will help me to feel. One that will remind me that feeling is not enough.

This is not our first time crossing these cotton fields
We have fought off more…and the scars on our backs from their footsteps prove it…
and we have a right for justice
our ancestors left enough trail mix to find it and claim it as home
but home…looks more graveyard than place mat.
and another young boy found his face on the pavement.
and his dreams were second place
and this is how it always goes.
and no black boy is safe…
and no black mind can rest.

Google never answers my questions.
Leaves my screen blank as though in a disarray as to why I would assume its help

I am an in disarray still…wondering where to go from here.
Me a black child on the other side of the states…wants to weep for Mike Brown…but knows the salt in my tears cannot flavor the taste of this evil.

it cannot make this less normal. After Diallo…I stopped believing in existence being anymore screwed than this.

Miles davis takes one last blow of he horn
The “so what” piece fades to black…

the so what piece fades to black
And i fight not to do the same.


on a night that stretched

round the earth twice

like Scotch.

my heart was

sticking all over the dance floor

trying to hiccup love

out of every song

like it would be enough

to quench the thirst

of want tickling

the rib of mine that

used to lean

against him

as though it were his own.

My hips swung

back and forth

as if the beat

were my freedom

as if the beat said…

"forget him"

as if it said

"you will be okay

one day”

and that would be enough.

But lonely is one hell

of a drug.

eventually left me in a corner

watching the flickering

lights and the bodies

that swayed together

while I drenched

in a dark that had no on switch.

(c) 2014 RW

Dear Summer

I almost kissed another lover.
Almost fell into an ocean’s chest
carrying all of the love letters
and disappointment on my back
with my fingers clawing at the wind
because my true love is not true
and it’s everyone’s
fault why I’m
here alone.

And don’t nobody want to be alone
when it’s hot.

We want popsicles
and tube tops
and long kisses
and sticky hands
holding together til the sweat
lay a covenant of body and
beach sand
and we are in more
ways than one—

We want love that
makes sunsets out of our
tongues…pulling words
out of our mouths
like grapes from
a vine…
spilling all over our
shirts in excess

Even if it’s not love and
we don’t call it that—we call it that…
Making laughter and skin so necessary to
touch even if by accident.

And I accidently almost tripped into a firmament of my tears
arms still holding all the memory of marriage and children and xxx rendezvous
I mean thoughts…
I mean thoughts become memory when you believe them…
but anyway
they weren’t mine to believe and I shouldn’t have thought so…
and it felt like everyone’s fault why I didn’t realize

and I may never realize it

But you, summer, are a thousand smiles…
and my heart, a creaking door…
could not close fast enough before
your sun-rays sent my brown legs
running into the arms
of a beautiful day.

(c) 2014 R W