Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Poetry by Terrance Tucker

At Night
By Terrance Tucker

At night we hung beneath
fluorescent lights;
shining like slum jewelry,
drinking Thunderbird, trying to fly.

At night when dreams collided
with reality, we popped pain pills
to sleep through poverty
and some never woke up.

At night morals are bartered
and sex is traded.
When ice boxes are empty,
and access cards don’t swipe.

At night eyes glow,
people change, and fangs show.
Agendas are enforced by
the howl of gunshots that highlight
corners like conflict diamonds.

At night brown faces surround yellow
caution tape, and
red and blue lights ricochet
off worn white walls.

At night after souls vanish,
teddy bears and candles cover
blood stained concrete.

At night my knees, palms,
feet, and face touch
the floor, as I pray
to see another day.

By Terrance Tucker

When she walk, I watch,
and I wonder if
she wore books
on her head.
Her strides accurate,
each foot placed
perfectly in front
of the other.
Her tight hips
sway, seductively
clothes cling
to her uncovered
Eyes widen, necks
roll, and scour her
petite frame.
Captivated by the
bounce of her breast,
the rhythm in
her thighs, and
the beat of
her backside.

When she stop, I stare,
and I wonder if
her skin is
soft. She’s dark,
shiny and smooth,
like uncut coffee.
Her complexion rich,
like her personality.
No blemishes.
I think of Folgers.
She keeps me on my toes:

When she talk, I listen,
and I wonder if
her moans are
Her teeth gleam
like sugar, enhancing
my urge, my addiction.
Her tongue ring,
alluring, hypnotized.
I lust.
Her glossed lips
move as foul
unfiltered words
spill bitter jaw-
tightening truths.
Hard to swallow,
yet needed to
keep you woke.

When she touch me, I rise,
and I wonder if
her shot is
strong and steamy –
that up-all-night
motivating kick,
or is it
cold, detached, lazy,
ineffective like chow-
hall coffee that
reminds me of tea?

When she’s not around, I worry,
and I wonder if
my love, my
faith, my insecurities,
will be the
cream that dilutes
her flavor.
Her kick weakened,
her affect calming.
Her tongue ring-less,
my lust annulled.
She becomes concentrated,
feeble like cappuccino;
fancy and filtered.
I wonder…

Sound of Love
By Terrance Tucker

I remember the sound of love,
as I squint to see
the brightness
of your pupil.
Piercing touch
that dilutes, and
deceives ordinary vision.
I remember the sound of love,
as my jaw tightens
and bitterness beats down
on my drums, enticing
all ill-notions.
I remember the sound of love,
as eyelashes lengthen
the distance, and
time serenades, softly
caressing the jagged-
edges of my taste buds.
I remember the sound of love,
as liquor sobers my drunk
heart that hangs over
my throbbing head, and
broken fences fail to
whiten my life.
I remember the sound of love,
as leaves fall, littering space
where nowhere begins and
hope is disparaged.
I remember the sound of love,
as lies lay beneath ever-
green trees, and alternative
facts dance and dangle,

like puppets lynching decorum.

Restricted Housing Unit
By Terrance Tucker

I stood still
By blue steel and
White concrete walls
He watched
Through plexi-glass
I pass my shorts, socks
And t-shirt
Through a slot.
I show my hands
Peel back my ears
Open my mouth, shift
My penis and balls
I turn around spread
My cheeks and wiggle
My toes.
Robbed of more than
During a routine
Strip search
Left with only the
Dirty feeling of
Standing on a filthy
Floor barefoot, naked
Obsessing over the
Compulsion to scrub
My itchy feet.
Just like a primitive man I adapt
Growing out of my
Self-diagnosed OCD
As the hair on my
Face grows into my
Mouth, in a caveman’s
Fashion I get use to
Tasting moustache
With every bite.

Orange jump-suit
Resembling a ball
of fire
handcuffed, escorted on a
leash feeling like
a beast. Wanting
howl, scream and behave
as if I lack intellect
 Giving into my
Animalistic desires.
I began to look forward
To yard in a cage
A few feet bigger
Than a cell, that
Made me think of
A baby calf and
I remembered why I
Stopped eating veal
Long before I stopped
eating red meat.
It’s torture. The
Torture I feel is
real, every time I
get cuffed in this
small cage of rage
I feel like veal.
A piece of meat
Intended to stay
Tender, so I move
In place.
Moustache over my lip,
Beard growing into
My eyes, hair racing
Down my neck.
I run wild
Refusing to allow
My meat to spoil
In this hell on
©Terrance Tucker 2014
The Bus Ride
By Terrance Tucker
I sat shackled, handcuffed
Right hand over left hand
Attached to another man’s
Right hand who I didn’t know
We didn’t exchange names
Alicia Keys boomed
On this bumpy ride
I knew her name
Wish she knew mine.
I stared out the window
Watching people waiting
For the bus
Instead of being loaded
onto one.
I wished I was one
Of them. Out in the
Chill, exhaling thick cold
Air that you could see.
They wore uniforms
Nurses, Janitors and Mechanics.
Name tags adorned their shirts
I wish I wore a name tag
That wasn’t followed
by a number.
I could have been a mechanic or janitor
My life in need
Of fixing and cleaning.
The light now green
We moved on slowly
The way life does
When all your time is idle
I was facing death
Riding through Center
City—in the city
Of Brotherly love
On trial for a killing
A brother. I thought about
The liberty bell
I felt like the crack in it
The ugly part of
Something beautiful
Stories lined Market Street
Mannequins posed in windows
Wearing clothes I’d stolen
Clothes I’d sold drugs to wear
Now I wear County Blues
And State Browns.
A lady caught my attention
She moved fast in heels
Briefcase clutched
She looked like success
I imagined walking with her
Discussing business, brunch
Sex, kids and retirement.
When we turned
Into the courthouse garage
I wish we kept straight
Wish I kept straight.

©Terrance Tucker 2014

Terrance Tucker EZ7394
SCI Graterford
P.O. Box 244
Graterford, PA 19426-0244