The singer

There is a moment
between her appearance on stage
and the audience wanting to
take possession of her
where she dismisses their
expectations
and causes me
and everyone else
to consider her carefully.

In that emptiness I listen
with an aching discernment
and cruel appreciation
for the truth of her beauty
and the beauty of her truth:

that she is the last glass
of a liquor I will never taste again.

Her essence
so fragile
is untouchable
though the molestings she has suffered
have tuned her perfectly.

That stark sobriety
is the perfect canvas
for a soul poured out,
drunk with daydreams,
secreting the purest of nectar
with the most intoxicating scent,
desperately tugging away from the loneliness
and missing the moon

to fall upon my undeserving ears;
casting a terrible spell
of inconsolable longing
upon my heart's imagination

©02.24.2017 ebn

Dressed to kill

I hated how much time you would spend in the mirror
Perfecting the image you wanted to share
Every morning a make-up artist extraordinaire
And a top-rated stylist beyond compare
No one can hold a candle to you
When it comes to wearing the mask

And I’ve had to consider that I too am to blame
Part of reason for some of your pain
The sadness that weighs down the skin of your face
The frustration you feel when I can’t find my place
The anger and weariness that come with the fight
From being on the front lines every day and night
While commercials and ads won’t let your mind rest
Barking prescriptions for beauty and happiness

It's no wonder your armor has become your costume
Why you parade through the shade and stand out in a room
Wearing your best combat boots to the ball
Stunning, defiant, and ready to brawl

And having been in this with you from the grind
And seeing you dressed up for war all the time
I honestly can’t remember the last time you smiled
Or the last time I caught a glimpse of your inner child
I see in every photograph the subtlest of hints
Teeth clenched in control, and a fire so intense

And as I look at what this world has done to you
How, in some ways, it’s robbed me of the best of you

I buckle

And check what I’ve got left in my mag
And with a hard look of knowing
Come straight out of my bag
Inspired and ashamed by the strength you have shown
Determined to carve out of this madness, a home
Where at last you can wake up each morning relaxed
With no need to cover your face with that wax
And I can look onto your softness at last
And love you in peace

And love you in peace

©02.24.2017 ebn

A bad negro

Three brothas from another mother
Doin’ they thing
Young, handsome, and intelligent
And no one had strings.

These cats had ladies wailing
(If you know what I mean)
Blessed to handle business
Forged in fire, always clean.

Got jobs straight out of college
Working for the same firm
Crushing competition
Always ready to learn.

Promotions came like weekends
That’s how tight their game was
One hundred percent dedicated
To whatever their cause.

One day it came from up top
There would be some changes
In how the company did business
And other arrangements.

A merger had occurred
And everyone was uptight.
Their livelihoods were on the line
And budgets were tight.

But the three amigos
Wadn’t worried at all
However things shook out
They made a pact to stand tall.

They knew where one door closes
Another opens ahead,
So they took everything in stride
And kept the stress out their heads.

The new boss lit his fat cigar
And with his people in tow
Visited each department
To get a feel for how things go.

The underlings were scrambling
Hustling for their lives
Determined not to look like
Dead weight killing the hive.

The boss was quite amused
And pleased with what he observed.
His presence inspired industry
The fruit he deserved.

Now the brothas had a routine:
Meditation before movement.
Visualizing everything
Before beginning improvement.

It helped them steel their focus
And efficiently use their time.
The proof was in the pudding
No one could match their climb.

But the boss wasn’t familiar
With what looked like laziness
And interrupted one such session
Viewed as an insult to his business.

One brotha met him at the door
Shushed him and shooed him away
And closed the door, irritated
By the intrusion into their space.

Dumbfounded, the boss looked around
And before anyone could explain
The door opened, and the brothas emerged
Like they had popped a bottle of champagne.

The office was cowed by the boss’s red face
When he asked if they knew what was at stake.
The brothas, oblivious, replied
That they were taking a break.

The boss turned on his heels and left
Smoke coming out of his head
And had his assistant subpoena the brothas
On official letterhead.

Being summoned to the Lion’s den
Would make anyone else lose heart.
But the brothas went in, confident
They would not fall apart.

The boss spoke very softly
A gold pen tapping his mind.
On the table in front of him
Three contracts for them to sign.

In honor of the work they’d done
They’d be allowed to keep their positions
Provided they meet the demands
Of a new project he commissioned.

The three advanced to review the plans
And the knees of two of them buckled.
Outlined on paper was their demise
But the third brotha just kind of chuckled.

“Take it or leave it, it’s up to you.”
The boss said with a dismissive air.
The brotha that chuckled requested the pen
And signed like he didn’t care.

The other two signed when he gave them a look
And the boss leaned his chair back, amused.
“If you don’t meet the conditions as stated, you’re fired.
I don’t want you to be confused.”

The confident brotha just shrugged and said, “Bet.
You ain’t said nothing but a word.”
The boss chuckled back, in a dry kind of way
Considering their posturing absurd.

When they were out of the office, and the door shut behind them
One brotha nearly broke down and cried,
“How are we supposed to get this shit done?
It’s impossible! Professional suicide!”

But the strong brotha chided him, “Shake that shit off!
Ain’t nothing we can’t accomplish together!
In our blood is the spirit the brawn and the mind
Of the original creator!”

“So, come on my brothas, we’ve been here before
and still standing, a testament to our power.
Let’s pull it together and meet this challenge
The same way we do any other!”

The three locked their arms around each other’s shoulders
And joined their minds to focus on the business.
Like the sons of God they were, they made miracles happen
And when the boss arrived, he shouted, “What is this?!”

“How did you manage to pull this shit off?!”
He demanded, assured they would fail.
The confident brother looked him in the eye
And told him that they grew up in hell

Nothing that’s ever been thrown at them
Deterred them from success.
They’ve always had each other’s back
And that’s all they needed for any test.

The boss man looked them over
And asked their names, so he could know.
The strong one said, “That’s Shadrach, Meshach,
And they call me a bad negro.”

©02.19.2017 ebn

Idol worship

The blacker the berry
the sweeter the juice
is what the old folk said
and the young folk used

to think had something to do
with the color of pride
trying to flip the script on skin
that had them preoccupied

but the colonial gun
effectively blew their minds
brainwashing their identity
while leaving behind

their abilities and talents
which they sold on the street
like common prostitutes
undressing so they can eat

and in this brand new world
heralded by Goodship's face
they forgot what god looked like
and sat a dog in his place

and in the image of the beast
they bleached themselves in the mirror
to make sure that the world would see
who they belonged to was clear

trading in their birthright
for their new master’s grace
children ignorant
of their natural place

they once were human beings
and their God lived within
but idol worship stained their souls
and fools they have been

©02.17.17 ebn

Communion

The blacker the berry
the sweeter the juice
is what the old folk said
and the young folk used
to think had something to do
with the color of pride
trying to flip the script on skin
that had them preoccupied
but the colonial gun
effectively blew their minds
brainwashing their identity
while leaving behind
their abilities and talents
which they sold on the street
like common prostitutes
undressing so they can eat
and in this brand new world
heralded by Goodship's face
they forgot what god looked like
and sat a dog in his place
and in the image of the beast
they bleached themselves in the mirror
to make sure that the world would see
who they belonged to was clear
trading in their birthright
for their new master’s grace
children ignorant
of their natural place
they once were human beings
and their God lived within
but idol worship stained their souls
and fools they have been

©02.17.17 ebn

Can't sleep

Tossing and turning cuz I just can’t sleep
Clock in my head while I’m counting sheep
I can feel the sun coming, but it ain’t here yet
And I’m afraid that the morning will reveal my debt

My thoughts bully dreams to the back of my head
Anxieties and worries beat up hope ‘til its dead
But even in the valley of the shadow of death
I know I can’t give up as long as I still have breath

A tiny voice inside me whispers, like a small flame
Refusing to go out, and keeping me in the game
I don’t know if it’s real or not, but it knows my name
And that acknowledgment helps me endure all the pain

So I press on and a song begins to play in my head
Welcoming the sunrise as I rise from my bed
And throwing off the blankets, I feel a weight fall away
And tired or not, I’m ready for this brand new day

Another chance to get it right by being true to myself
To grab those dusty dreams and get them off of the shelf
Blow life into them, put them on, and wear them with pride
Making up my mind I’m going to enjoy this ride

No more distractions, no more doubts, no looking back, here I go
Running to the light, with teary eyes, in my flow.

©02.11.2017 ebn

A moment

Go back and listen
to what escaped your notice
in the rush of life.
Find your hindsight
and, with the paintbrush of time,
paint your guilt or irrelevance
in the colors of a backward mind.

Rewrite yesterday
in the dead language of hypotheticals,
and let your weeping nourish the roots
you would plant there;
even while the sun runs across the sky.

Her first and last breath
are nothing but echoes of whispers -
fallen flowers under the stampede of the present
pushing forward,
leaving in its wake
the sights sounds and smells
of silk cocoons
to be enjoyed by those left behind.

For the record
stars long gone
can still be seen
from far, far away.

©02.11.2017 ebn

On the other side of town

On the other side of town there's a city impound
where cars wait on death row
abandoned to the elements
untried, their crimes unknown

their lot in life to be run down
and driven hard into the ground
sometimes auctioned off to creeps
with jewish eyes and minds that cheat

evidence of departed souls
who just gave up or lost their hold
for whom previous memories
are fading sentimental dreams

©02.10.2017 Eric Nunnally

Harriet

floorboards creak
under the soles of her feet
out the door, off the porch
to the cool, soft dirt

morning sun has washed the night away
insects and birds are already awake
wind in the grass
an invisible snake

water bucket sloshes
dogs bark full of hope
firewood smells sweet
outhouse has no floor

time is an old baby
sucking bones sore
she sighs, getting up
studying pain no more

water, milk, and blood have been spilt
day just goes on unfettered by guilt
like tires on a road
done with where they been

on occasion road kill flares the eyes and the nose
everything slaughtered ain't meant for meat
butchers tell jokes while slitting throats
what people pay for they don't always eat

those left behind cry out from the woods
sometimes they laugh, teasing her mood
God hides his face to allow her the room
to bear the deep grief of the work she’s assumed

and this godawful pistol
in the pocket of her dress
takes the bullets she's fingered all night
loaded debt

when spent, surprised eyes won’t see the north star
but the driver, the shepherd, the puma, and wolf
her mother, her father, her husband and child
the pastor, the angel, the horrible truth

©02.09.17 ebn

More than a woman?

mind spinning like a dryer that won't get hot
claiming she be banging cuz her engine knock
wishing she was dishing but she really not
stuffin muffins with somebody else’s dirty sock

its like watching a talent show in the insane asylum
at the end of every act, you stand and clap, just lying
clapping harder than the rest while inside, you're dying
cuz this shit don’t make no sense, even though she trying

is she crazy cuz some bleeding heart encouraged this mess
clouding her mind with cheap ass wine to tell her how to dress
using her as a canvas for they brokenness
and displaying they work of art as an S.O.S.?

ain’t it obvious that this “bitch” has been traumatized
a stray whose pain and suffering have been glamorized
broken and made over for reciting lies
to infect other rejects and steal their souls and eyes

the ugliness be dodging you until you remember
she was once a newborn baby with her whole life before her
and that somewhere long the way the world snuck in and abused her
violating her innocence cuz no one was there to protect her

and over time she lost her mind, though she is functionally insane
the grooves and knicks of her experience keeping her guttered in pain
unable to knock down her problems cuz she can’t stay in her lane
giving the finger to her failure she reinvented the game

so while you listen to her posture and profess her truth
just remember someone’s daughter lost her baby tooth
when a pedophile’s fist broke the jaw of her youth
and the concussion that she suffered makes her act the fool.

©02.09.2017 ebn

You don't see me

You don’t see me
cuz
you don’t see you
you don’t see me
cuz
you don’t want to

no shame in your game
when you look away
preferring artificial light
to the light of day

make up caked up
you are buried alive
taking pleasure in your
suffocated suicide

blinded by fake eyelashes
your vision in jail
a pity looking pretty
ain’t uncommon in hell

a blind man or woman
standing in a broken mirror
is disconnected from reflected
truths s/he cannot bear

you don’t see the trees
seas, bees, or me
having forgotten who you are
and who you’re meant to be.

©02.04.2017 ebn

Dance of the Lost Daughter

In front of everybody
Dressed in a smear of blood
You convulse, excited by strangers
Their noses and tongues begging
To explore your self inflicted wounds
The present of yourself
Shameless
Giving in to the whispers
And regurgitated flatteries
Of scavengers
Drawn to the edge of the flame
Ears kissed by moans of your pain
And salivating, having caught the scent
Of your insanity

©02.02.17 ebn