Wednesday, August 17, 2011


days like this look like addiction to me
they smell like answers we never know or secrets we keep
&& ur eyes have never looked greener
as corporate America tries to convince me my pockets must be leaner
if I dare to convince u of ur worth to me
but we both know what the power of money conceives
so.....I was thinking this father's day I would write
u a poem of all the words that kite
between us over the past decades
but then I realized it takes
alot more than a pen to translate for mutes
alot more than crushed trees to draw out the truth
we are dear voiceless beings blinded by chance
&& cursed with lame hands
wondering if at time it was ever more
than an exchange of money for sex behind closed doors
more than business that occurred on a motel room bed
dressed in cheap floral spreads
that reeked of heaven with price tags
that looked like the white lines hidden in cash
yes we wonder if life was lost or formed in that sweat
or if lips will continue to not be able to recall the regret
of not being able to forget
that we can’t leave everything behind on the trip
someone has to make use of the unclaimed baggage
we can’t all come wrapped in our neat little packages
&& no matter how vivid my imagination
you will never visit me in the narration
of the dad from Crooklyn with short bread & ice cream
with tall tales & bigger dreams
no, you will never be more than a session
of genes intertwined in domination and submission
we will always be grasping hands filled with space
while I dream conversations within which u will describe the taste
of cocaine and other men
or what it was like to be held so tightly by sin
did it remind you if visiting somewhere exotic like hell?
with a get out of jail
free card tucked neatly under the bills u negotiated as her worth
do you ever look at a condom and wonder what you may have birth
were you careful not to leave behind enough to search?
hoping black women would be smart enough to know dirt belongs under rugs or in closets
in pre frontal cortexes lodging
we are memories never meant to see flesh
&& u r a superhero at best
teaching me the value of invisibility
sometimes wishing I could teach others to see me
the way you do, not at all
or only when nostalgia stalls
you as you open your wallet to pay a bill
moments when life forces you to be still
&& wonder if money ever looks like more than dead men's faces
does it ever look like children that hold traces?
 of men they'll never meet
or like question marks that treat
them all too familiar like mutes
like blind pompous smirking clues
I even wonder if I sometimes catch ur scent in money
if our fingerprints are trapped in the same dollar bill, running
back and forth betwixt us daring us to make a connection
tempting me to start writing confessions
on every note that leaves my hand
Dear John letters bordering bills to the only man
I think would care not enough to read it
probably cursing some old man who would keep it
thinking his daughter was finally ready to forgive him
we are Morse code eyelids double taking at the living
wondering if that was us
or just
another dollar bill in emperor's clothing
you know, it’s kinda funny how u got me to loathing
my origin, always been a love-hate relationship with currency
&& honestly, I currently
hate it for being so obscure
for never holding the cure
for anything I ever saw others looking for in it
including the resolve to a story never finished
or maybe I should just accept it
a dollar bill is all I’ve ever have to represent
ur role in my existence
u were a man who met a woman without resistance
wooed with promises of nirvana && took a trip
then disappeared before she could slip
out of her trance
connect with land
&& reveal ur deepest secret
u left ur souvenir at the gift shop, && she decided to keep it
©,  2011, Tiffany Shack

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