On the collaboration poem: "This was really, really a treat in itself to work with my twin.... "the twilight raven"  being that I write and she follows so well; and of course the comparisons to each other...  I decided to give the public what was necessary and that was [this] collab." - Walter Anderson

 

Taboo & The Doctor

(yes dear. Yes!)

Chronicle brothels
Scenery burlesque matinee
Ricochet heist innocence
Sexuality’s enquiry prestigious ointment
Signature preservation ornament
Phoenix gloved Lazarus invite need
Capitalized by therapist talk

doth thy talk of old man?, old lady as the quencher
of your thirst? this thirst of yours for a solid soliloquy
with she that you doth love in deed? that you doth
need for the perseverance factor of this race called humanity?

Kitten handle nurture amnesty
Needle potent then heroine consistency heighten
Artifact <b>[Censored]</b> sketch
Hand flinched wrist onto ink

yes! sublime! pour your soul into this truth session; this lesson
we shall feline together. let the words caress your hidden
anxiety about this thing called ecstasy, let
your emotion come forth, pour forth like mountain waters.
vent, storm, stroke life… mend, form, choke strife
let go your reign… sex chord your game?….
the flame of turmoil shall fade like incense: smoke

Exploitation of self
By admittance to your cursive speed
Penmanship analyze me
Explicit content robe within paper rows
Counter advisory stroll
Prescribe what, thesis edition answer addiction

but must your addicted personality melt within the realm
of lust? let go maniacal charm possessed of black,
caressing my analytical sense of worth… charm me you –
for this…. for this absinthe of proportionate truth;
for the emancipation of Achilles heel for God’s sake.
this bitter pill can be that which awakens you…

Nympho concern release touching crease chemistry
Beneath panty song positional thong
Does ability entice
Admittance scorn delight involvement with patient

yes and the clock – he ticks, setting the vibration mood
for this song. the moon high and the light of sunrise
glory on the horizon and we meet on terms that have
endured well beyond endearment: my patience…

Anti-piracy these labeled sessions
Raindrop sanctuary climax premise certainly

yes dear, don’t plagiarize our contract
climax better than my dream of anthrax
and rural domination!

Anti-piracy these labeled sessions
Raindrop sanctuary climax premise certainly

yes dear. Yes!

Copyright © 2005 Jacquii Cooke & Walter Anderson

(Jacquii's words are in italic)

Mr. Labu is an Afro-Cubano freelancer and part-time student at S.F. State majoring in Liberal Arts & English with an emphasis in theatre.  His picture spellings have appeared in Drumvoices Review, Obsidian III, Xaiver Review, SN&R, Poetry Depth Quarterly, Peck Rd. Magazine, Susuruss. He also has work slated to appear in African Voices, LSR & Poetry Motel.

 

Borrowing Dead

(Florencia Matthews)

She never looked so fragile, so frail
pale beige, spirit like complexion
drowned in frame of pasty curtains
albino floors
& nude walls with imitation Van Gouges.
Her limbs, iron coat hangers
draped in a burgundy polka-dot apron,
chest heaving like dehydration
on emergency respirators,
eyes sealed mute half paralyzed waste down.

Momma simply told us
you were in deep dreams
thinking on Grandpa or Cuba-
i took you for borrowed away.
Had only been four months
since your release from Thomas General.
i wore my gray
pin- stripped church get up
that Saturday afternoon
we settled you back in.
Half your memory & speech eroded
consciously- couldn’t recall
trips to the park,
heritage dishes, family or friends
faces hung the walls-
tucked in heritage albums,
noon for night.

Dr. Shortz promised
if we strictly following directions
to let your body get proper rest,
making sure you
consumed the double- doses of chemo
prescriptions issued
you’d gain a few solid pounds
& years back. Would
clear any bacteria eating
at your liver
which migrated left breast;
then finally a legacy virus
snuck into the back door
your heart.

A luke day, May 3rd, 91’
i blamed cousin Alicia first,
left your in- home care provider
nodding off in hibernation all day,
dry hung from drinking & cheifin’
eight- nights- a- week strong,
fetal hugged
against couch like an overdose.
You timbered from
the wool braille recliner
chasing the doorbell.
Forgetting all reasonable capabilities
a woman her mid- sixties,
forever cancer & tissue limbs.

Pictured you squirming
like roasting worm
on noon summer pavement;
gasping in convulsions,
muscles cramping, slugging to answer
a message never heard.

i was once snotty noised
chewing like cows on cud to!
Back at Thomas,
wasn’t no flowers
or get well kites
outside kinfolk. Not even
friends half century in promise
paid no visits to
brush your rusty dandelion mane,
cradle your ginger palms
in atonement,
kiss your flushed cheeks
tell you it’s all Jesus.

Last time they
let us in critical care;
them last steps in Autumn
when your heart
beat on borrowed time,
lips moved in murmurs
whispering a Baptist sad bluez.

& not two days
following memorial
did our
family seams began to uncoil;

uncles aunties,
brothas sistas,
wars
to posses air looms
& memorabilia-
open resentments in devil tongue.

But knows if i
was to play God
onetime
would never neglect sunshine
fishing such worldly vanities;
would duplicate echoes
like Spring
cause you’d be my Lazarus.

Copyright © 2005 Ariono-jovan Labu

This poem is from the 2nd section of my poetry manuscript Obsession With Technicolor... Tennessee is a beautiful state and this is rather a memory from my childhood of "Big Orange Country" as we Volunteer fans like to call it.

 

It Ain’t My Fault

(on time)

I’m in a tambourine fantasy
in a tangerine dream
in the heart of Big Orange Country,
(my home of Tennessee)
and the church bell tolls
and ever does she ring.

It is seven in the a.m.:
is my slip showing? do
you see my panty line? is
my make-up treacherous or straight? does
my hat sit a’top my head just fine?
Why?
Why?
Why?
“Hurry, ‘fore we be late!”
(child whispers, “It ain’t my fault
Grandma Sadie.”)

I’m in a tangerine fantasy
in a tambourine dream
in the heart of Big Orange Country,
(my home of Tennessee)
and the church bell’s a’ringin’
and phshew…
we on time.
We on time.

Copyright © 2005 Jacquii Cooke

 

This untitled poem is the result of a Mr. Africa Poetry Board fun forum game called Flow With Me...OFFICIAL ONGOING POEM (a compilation of free-style poetry in motion...) This is a diff'rent style of writing for me, as it's more on the rap-lyric tip.

 

(untitled)

And thus from the Palace creeps mind talent
ways/sways/sashays & ambiguous craze
that make your mind twist right
into the infamy of my parade day.
Flags and poles, trumpets, big bands
with twirlin' girls, bagpipes, fairy dust
and fruit-laden jams for your @ss
and fruit-laden jams for your @ss

She'll spit lyrics of me and lyrics of you
have yo mind chompin at the bit, not knowing
what is true; her talent like voodoo
and you're her main focusing trick/act/treat/play

get/back/weak/trade...

Let her mellow fluids entice yo mind/fix
yo face/flexxed & ready as you become her slave

Whipped off/trick stop/clipped balls/lips dropped
Flamboyant praise for the Jesus girl
She master ceremonies, dust hurled
Tripped back/Shoddy shot/Flipped crack/Whip hot

Let her hit you with this unearthly deity ish...
Bow - Plead - Crawl - Beg "Jesus-please"

Sipped herb/smoked brew/Nipp-tucked/Fucked you
Flamboyant praise for this Jesus girl
She mastered ceremonies, dust hurled
Smiled crude/Bossed tight/Told truths/Caused fright

Let her hit you with this unearthly deity ish...
Bow B!tch, Plead/crawl - Black Jesus is the Palace yawl
with fruit-laden jams for your @ss
with fruit-laden jams for your @ss

And the church said A----------men

Copyright © 2005  8-17  Jacquii Cooke

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