Latitude vs. birds without wings,
I couldn’t even explain what she has been for my dreams.
I describe her from my first day grade books,
old pages of torn wounds that are bandaged
with World War II duct tape; and markers
that crosses out broken signatures left from past readers.
Can I describe her mind?
She's an old windup toy that rises up in time,
shapes of a faces that you can never misplace;
she's like an old bottle of wine past down from father to son, to mother to daughter.
A shadow walker that was define as her skin tone,
I never lied about her brown eyes she always kept in disguise.
Well let's skip the unfortunate things that we sing,
a folktale changed from A to Z reversed inside out its curse for you to see.
Backside words that openingly misguide the connect of sounds that I use to say,
those dyslexic shattered days of shaken hands and words on pages beginning to blurr.
I use to flip the book upside down letting the words run around,
but see I'm no clown cause the words drowned into a fountain of sound.
Sketch in my mind I got a little peek of her signs,
she was a real first grade hero on school books.
But when it came to my time I cried.
Words I that couldn't grasp the shape of there mass,
I blamed the syllables that wouldn't let me touch them;
the pronunciation loosens my lips I tried to twist my tongue but I utter the word bitch!!!
What should I say?
Broken noses and damaged bones,
a voodoo doctor could replay my image with runes;
as old as Kings and the ancestors to the England's Queen
Reenacting the massacres of six to one,
yet this wasn't Michelangelo's sixteen chapels;
but he painted me as well as he could.
You could play the flute with the left side of my esophagus,
play jazz with Humerus bones connected to
my tissue with my wrist attached to my Achilles,
and dress me with your grace shall you play my bass with my pelvis bone;
attached to my calf muscles and trapped in
bags with my veins bonded to my fingertips,
I hope you play me nice like a violin and gently rub me like clarinet players so often does.
Once things a child had knew gravity sucking components
with dust particle sinking into the crevices of my spine,
I hold tight as I choke on the over feeding;
my soul can't handle the music you devour ever evening.
It was business not personal,
the clinch of thirst that dried the valleys vast in size
I held tight together, reminded me of lips.
The series of overlapped of hips,
as a kangaroo jabbed statuses I call tattoos into my thick tights I call bricks.
The dirty fermented aroma left behind from the tireless stench of curfews,
I used to hear her call; a motherless voice that use to pause.
The church bells tearing up my wishing wells,
I used to hear the courage in my lion but the Romans killed her in hell.
OK, I had my fun but it's time for me to get back to the script.
I remembered her faces from the days of pages,
those fallen letters spelling out ayam revered backward.
And a upside-down actress often played in crossword puzzles,
she shook the little boys, who used to beat me until I made noise.
They liked the sound of their windup toy they use to adore,
I was a different type of music instrument that day; I guess I was a whore.
Saved me the pain that memories seem to bring,
what made me into the person you see before you; they call us men.
She showed me what a mother’s love looked like.
A sorrowing bird in the clouds with golden tip feathers,
she showed me how to be a brother.
She taught me how my father the philosopher and nature raised me,
but she taught me my own distinct abilities to
make my own poems of different statures.
So I was asked what has Maya Angelou done for me?
She re-birthed me into a skin I could call a home.