trying to find some words

when im in a weird mood, i write. so here- some works in progress, maybe i'll edit them later, who knows.

what to tell you about london (for c.jarelle):

i am pretty sure that the squirrels are fatter here.
they sit on their hind legs slovenly, daring young schoolchildren to get close,
waiting till the last moment to scurry away from their cautious advances.

most students here look like balls of hair growing from toothpick sticks.
skinny hipster legs accentuated by bone-tight jeans or lackofpants
curly mops cut in strange, asymmetrical patterns, usually with
a buzzed patch on one side, or in the back, the rest
spiked curled gelled dyed (mostly a bright burgundy red, the kind of
kool-aid color everyone went for in 10th grade to prove that they were
red-blooded rebels).

people rarely touch here. i think this
is what bothers me the most. there is an
unspoken rule- there is never to be any touching.
not even amongst friends, not even accidentally,
maybe if you are dating, but even that is looked down upon
with a silent disdain. touching is only for new, inexperienced lovers
who don't know better yet.

here, the wind is indecisive.
there are some november mornings that feel just like
early spring. the sun shines and birds peep, and it is always enough
to convince me to leave my house with very little. by three,
the sun begins to set and so does the cold. the wind blows hard
and unforgivingly, like a bitter woman out for blood.
her stage whispers turn to screams of agonizing loneliness,
and the truth of this is what chills my bones the most.


----

"yes, you are a lion, but there is some judas in you, too"

how do i greet the natty dread who hangs around the
front of my favorite jamaican restaurant?
he greets me with a slight nod, but the
look in his eyes betray the gloss of unfamiliarity.
i know the words but they stick in my throat.
jah bless, breddrin.
i wonder if he would be surprised, the greeting stumbling clumsily
out of my mouth, old accent of my youth peeking through my front teeth.
or maybe he would laugh at this strange, awkward bodied boygrrl thing,
who gave up their crown of dreads for oversized button-downs and some
strange longing for wimpyboi androgyny.

[...]

don't be like your sister when you grow up, my mother warns him.
the way she's headed, she's only asking for trouble.