poop kultur: the antithetical verses

Hot Tamale Baby
(for Jane, on realizing Her Poet)

We are the weird ones
who march with heads
in hearts
in mouths
we dare not Amputate words
existing within each other
based upon simmering sensuality
and similarity
for it is each other
whom we long to caress
and Ourselves
with whom we are Most—


Pour down on me softly
Ease the tender pain
Of tearing up your heart
Again and again and again.

Pour down on me softly
Wash away my tears
That fall like tiny babies
Facing the world with big-eyed fears.

Pour down on me softly
Quench the thirst within
This suffering little paper soldier
Whose courage has worn thin.

Pour down on me softly
Drown me in the pleasure
That comes from things eternal
That even time can’t measure.

Pour down on me softly
Release me into bliss
That comes from always knowing
The price of a tender kiss.

(on the occasion of being a ‘nigger’)

I severed the head of the world
and little blak boys came scurrying out
screaming of what it was like
being chained to the Core
where heat caused sweat
caused burning in sores where chains had dug in,
made themselves at home.

of never having played
with their little blak sisters,
the stars,
they dreamed in the Color of salvation
self-absorbed mysteries
Who am I
Who are they
Who will we become

lived in tears of oppression
saturating the ground
with harsh memories of pain and humiliation
yet still causing ripe melons to emerge
country fresh-cut flowers to exhale
joyful aromatic melodies.

They rose
to the sistas
tickling their noses
’til momma was emancipated by the proclamated,
unleashed her hot beating rays.

This was how they lived at the core,
in dreams sweat and tears. There was
really no scent just mal odor
and there were really no smiles,
just gaping holes
where teeth used to live.

(c) 2021 Lawrence D. Benson. All rights reserved.