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My Hair, My Life By Ralvell Rogers II

Yo reaction to my hair

is my reaction to my strife.

How big it got is like the bigots

constant in my life.

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Two Poems by Evany Martinez

Black Woman 

How do you tell her she’s too loud when you’ve silenced her for Centuries?
Too strong, when she has to work light years ahead of you just to catch up?
Too violent, with your scars etched Into her back?
Too dark, when your spirit is composed of ashes from her ancestors?
Too wild. Too real. Too raw.
That must be why you can only rise if she falls.

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Tales from Retail Hell

Hear my tale of a hell hopeless as it is dirty. All who enter lose their wills, their souls and walk among the dead. This retail establishment exceeded all expectations or rather disappointed them. Caked in dust, the floors and ceiling fans are grey and decaying from the lack of cleaning going on. Despite cleaners come in twice a week, the store remains covered in layers of grey snow, you should never eat. Years and years of disgust linger in the air, possibly because of the used items hung on racks like paper ghosts on Halloween. Only these ghosts contain the remnants of their last owners, almost bound to them until a new master claims them, well demons.

These monsters have terrible wrath, ready to act upon any unfortunate soul in their vicinity. They bicker amongst each other, steal and shout, scrutinize with beady eyes, devoid of humanity. Other demons, the more lax, wander about, caught in the ghosts saunter, unaware of the passing souls gathering and maintaining their precious ghosts. They believe in entitlement and impede us from working, they only serve as obstacles, inanimate objects taking up space. You can try to call or warn them of your approach, but they hardly listen, their ears glued shut by dry wax, oozing out their ears. Although some are good, agreeable, respectful, most are dreaded devils ready to sink their claws into your back.

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Whore House Chic


Hues kiss

& accentuate decor

Linens pleadingly invite

a take of rest

in comfort

tufts of fragrant

wisps sensually caress

aura enrapturing


Similarly, so is she.

Until your gaze

lays upon her

critically piercing


your own humanity



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It’s not too late


I saw her

at an open mic night in Harlem.

I could tell it was her first time performing spoken word.

Sweat trickled down her forehead as the words escaped her mouth.


I saw her

stumbling outside a bar in Brooklyn, kissing dragon’s breath.

She lit a joint like It was a cigarette and watched lovers quarrel, pretending

to be the source of their troubles. She was fascinated by people in love,

Choosing someone over solitude was a foreign concept.


I saw her

holding hands with a man at Echo Park and it caught me off guard.

The only thing she hated more than Los Angeles was men.


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