BET Uncut
Who knew what it was,
but it was brown & slick geysers
of water, stickier than water but brown like
Momma, who Daddy said was “fine”.
or the girls who bruised their
knees at recess, beating us at foot races
not like them their sisters, maybe,
their mothers, maybe.
Naked, I think.
Strings, I think.
Who knew hair like
like
frost
and back dimples
that worked long after the next video ended.
Who knew what it was.
Still Tippin’
Tip Drill
Pussy Poppin’
My Neck, My Back
I hadn’t spelled breast yet,
or nipples, shoulders that had other purposes than sports.
Teeth without braces & smiles that had fewer gaps
than the girl whose sister
pummeled me for pulling on her pigtails
after the lunch hour.
Who knew about money showers
and silver poles, tires the size of nothing we owned.
I never asked Momma if Daddy fed her dollar bills like that.
(seemed to be the diet of “fine” women on TV)
Who knew what it was to be a man in a boy body,
under the blankets, one hand on my penis
and another on the back button of the remote control.
The most extreme sport.
(I could never remember the score of what weighed more — my penis or the trembling stick)
I risked my life for every slowed craving in my
flushed cheeks and legs,
for all the parts
Momma told me were secrets for little girls to keep,
only for their mothers and then for Jesus.
Maybe she knew where to find Christ
in the Firemen’s Azz Dance.
(she seemed to call out for the man quite often from the other side of their bedroom door)
Maybe on the floor where it seemed
all the fun was being had.
I think I grew a crush on Melyssa Ford.
dogfart network
after Black Machismo by Essex Hemphill
king kong a’int got shit
on the way i beat my meat on a talking drum
making the ground swell like a dick print in
the last high yellow bone i
bum
bum
barumbum
drum
had her stretched wide
wide like a cow fetus on the body
of an instrument to receive my war pouring
on her drum head
punchin’ through her membrane
signlin’ 1000 arrows to accompany
my precum
who said
niggas didn’t have superpowers
CUT
am i still in character
fragile
bent
my dick bends in the direction
that the director follows me
he holds my shit when i pee
i told him again that i wasn’t
a drum stick
so give me better lines
i almost got fired when he heard me try on
lucille clifton’s god in wardrobe
she said, “he is heavy and hard from creation”
I assured him it wasn’t a rewrite
but was my way out of this cock cage
I’d say penis prison but that might be too on the nose
in the noose
on the nose
no, that’s right
ACTION
king kong a’int got shit
on my swollen balls
cruisin’ up ahead
like a death star
diamond in the back
sun roof
close shave for a few more inches
leave it in
while you worship me
varicose veins in a fat dick
stroke
left stroke
right stroke
kendrick lamar gave me permission
to occupy a mud hut with my eiffel tower eye sore
CUT
who were the hands
that led me out of
master’s house
the first time
by my semen leaking
lead me
through the tool shed
on top of lover’s lake hideaway
i smell like sweet-hay
frolic
hard from creation
i cover me shy
my legs is delicate
rose pink
blush brave
in my arch
and aching
find me
& lead me to the the generosity of fingers that
have no owners
but give my mouth sovereignty
i can no longer pretend
ACTION
i can no longer pretend
take me limp
i cover me shy
soft
the director threatens to fire me
holding my dick
while i die inside the high yellow sistah
tossing up her fist and taking off the lips they gave her
talkin’ bout
fight the power
fuck her tender
till her run off is actually wet
arousal is the first night knock to fugitivity
bum bum
barumbum
the edge
i see the edge
past snake skin black mask
drum barrel
i was so heavy, wasn’t i
king kong did compromise for a little dick
word around town was that a Black man volunteered
to wear that suit on set just for the free parking space
a Black man wearing a little dick
a’int it something
It’s true king kong a’int got shit on me
king kong only stopped at the tip
i took it down to the base and balls
reciting lucille clifton
while the producer cut my last check
Donnie Moreland is a Houston-based poet. Donnie has contributed to Black Youth Project, ColorBloc Magazine, FIYAH Literary Magazine, A Gathering of the Tribes, Scalawag, Seventh Wave, Pangyrus, Poda-Poda Literary Journal, RawHead Literary Journal, and more. Donnie is the co-founder of Fellowship of the Griots—an ecosystem of BIPOC voices working to amplify underserved narratives, while creating opportunities for professional success through creative programming and community building. Donnie is also the author of the poetry collection, my daddy never taught me how to write a love song (Genre Urban Arts).