|
|
Classic and Contemporary Poetry
WHERE I LIVE, by WANDA COLEMAN Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: At the lip of a big black vagina Last Line: Named black los angeles Alternate Author Name(s): Coleman-straus, Wanda Subject(s): Los Angeles; Night Clubs; Violence | |||
at the lip of a big black vagina birthing nappy-headed pickaninnies every hour on the hour and soul radio blasting into mindwindow bullets and blood see that helicopter up there? like god's eye looking down on his children barsandbarsandbarsandbarsandbars where i live is the gap filled mouth of polly, the old black woman up the street whose daughter's from new orleans and who abandons her every holiday leaving her to wander up and down the avenue and not even a holiday meal. she collects the neighborhood trash and begs kindness in doorways/always in the same browns purples and blues of her loneliness - a dress that never fades or wears thin where i live is the juke on the corner - hamburgerfishchilli smells drawing hungry niggahs off the street and pimpmobiles cluttering the asphalt parking lot. pool tables in the back where much gambling and shit take place and many niggahs fall to the knife of the violent surgeon. one night me and cowboy were almost killed by a stray bullet from some renegade low riders and me and kathy used to go down and drop quarters and listen to al green, and the dudes would hate my 'sditty ways and call me a dyke cause i wouldn't sell pussy where i live is the night club working one to six in the morning. cigarette burn holes in my stockings and wig full of cigarette smoke. flesh bruised from niggahs pinching my meat and feeling my thighs, ears full of spit from whispers and obscene suggestions and mind full of sleep's spiders building a hazy nest - eyes full of rainbows looking forward to the day i leave this hell where i live avoiding the landlord on the first and fifteenth when he comes around to collect the rent. i'm four months behind and wish i had a niggah to take care of me for a change instead of taking me through changes. this building which keeps chewing hunks out of the sides of people's cars and the insane old bitch next door beating on the wall, scaring the kids and telling me to shut up. every other day she calls the cops out here and i hope they don't run a make on me and find all them warrants where i live the little gangsters diddy-bop through and pick up young bitches and flirt with old ones, looking to snatch somebody's purse or find their way into somebody's snatch 'cause mama don't want them at home and papa is a figment and them farms them farms them farms they call schools. and mudflapped bushy-headed entities swoop the avenues seeking death it's the only thrill left where i live at the lip of a big black vagina birthing nappy-headed pickaninnies every hour on the hour the county is her pimp and she can turn a trick swifter than any bitch ever graced this earth she's the baddest piece of ass on the west coast named black los angeles | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNYIELDINGLY PRESENT by LAWRENCE JOSEPH LOOKING FOR OMAR by E. ETHELBERT MILLER IN HIS OWN IMAGE by EAVAN BOLAND LEEK STREET by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR THE MACHINATIONS OF THE MIND by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR THE PALLOR OF SURVIVAL by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR 100 NOTES ON VIOLEBCE: 59 by JULIE CARR THE CAMPS; FOR MARILYN HACKER by HAYDEN CARRUTH |
| |