Undividual Poet


January 2016


two fingers

i found it
in a four banger
with thirty miles to the gallon
on the highway
in three lines and a circle around it
found in photos from the sixties
among celtic american hippies
with nappy afros
in two fingers
rocked by rappers of substance
on screens of a country
where it doesn’t flip the bird
in the interest
of a quarter million dollar debt
giving my kids a place to lay their heads
when being grown takes their pillows
in the privacy of a light proof room
with no escape from my reflection
where i can see myself clearly
outside of mirrors



i don’t
want to be with you
i want to
a through z with you
one letter
isn’t enough

-Adrian Cheatham

mixed kid


i am the legitimate love child
of african men and native women
both loved by the unfreckled irish
i am the residual palm sweat
from the clasped hands of white men
and black men
during prayer
in a hot ass room
after a peace rally
i am the chemistry
of a right to love everyone
courting a responsibility to love everyone

nose assault

Airborn Assailant

every morning at the bus stop
i believe his breath hates my life
unmoved by windstorms
unfiltered in rain
unbound by time
undeterred by the absence of space
between the fingers blocking my face
it cuts through cigarette smoke
penetrates overweight flatulence
interrupts conversation
hurts feelings and chokes laughter
just to find me
to disturb my peace

little things

if we have driven slowly
late on a wednesday morning
have walked seven miles
with someone who makes it
feel like one
have given all cares
and zero f***s
i would say
we have carpe’d quite
a swell diem

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