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Black As.

Thesaurus: Black

adj dark, inky adj hopeless adj dirty
adj angry adj evil noun african-american

as the womb knowing not the fate beyond
from which all hope will drain like the sand where light once shone
Wires black as steel shunning golden cornsilk fleece
crown her head attracting glares that scarcely set a man from beast

portly piece, cocked and locked in runty palms
by a babe without the words to spell his name or speak a psalm
And Black is the red in a suffocated valve
from the earth-caked rubber tread of The Law upon his skull

run soles of athletes poised like 12 point battle bucks
bodies greased like lotteries on which the rich will test their luck
Lil Wayne, 2 Chainz, virgin money in the game, they carved their place,
we know their names, now we're more likely to get maimed

are the dress shoes of evangelizing reverends
thumping proud the good Black book,
tangled in tongues and shaming sins

sermonizer pounds the Lord into his flock
combusting gospels, flailing wild
puncturing hymns with a sweaty crazed grin

are the memories of those serfs so sable-skinned
hands now filled with Hallelujahs that once were bound with twine
Christ your Lord, a keloid fixture, whipped the faith into your spine

as a riot bound for change, a supercell thunder gathering force
blood will burst levees and peaks will erupt
as the reigns break free from the chariot horse
Black is the gall of a land built on backs
that dares to drought and freeze, that wills to flood and crack

is the continent, deep as an anchor
irrepressible song from the drums in a chest
Resilient hue that painted the acres
and etched into caves what dreams can't be wrest

the infinite, weightless premiere
as a jagged crisp rock spirals out of it's grasp
A bubbling crust with a water-filled mouth spills forth like an infant
screaming life at long last

cells divide as our color fills in
My language grows and I'm Black as the word
Black beneath that foam of a sea
Black beneath my ashen knees

Surging forward, I'm Black as the name
And I claim the first step from which Black feet came

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Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved

Ever The Solitary Soubrette.

Classical female, filly of the fields,
black mane snapping in the heavy rope of night
Never seen, never heard, mate of hardline shadows,
progeny of thirst-filled hollows, eyes removed for sharper sight

She is Love, that which is sought, tangible flesh of the feline wrought
with yearning which maids and men devour, partaking in unholy feasts
and as she grows again her limbs, bellies empty
wrenched in clenched defeat

Launching quests, they hunt her oft, amorous arms outstretched, aflame
They snag her tail, victorious cries, drawing her in to discover they're lame

Dusky beauty sang amber longing into a grey and once indifferent moon
But for want of a captor who might stay
Her siren song is a loathsome tune

Can the ache be uncleaved
Can you grant her hiccups of reprieve

She, the featherless nesting bird
Smoke Lily sprouting in caves of desire
She the haunt, never seen, never heard
The wordsmith with her saccharine hammer

She is Love and can Love Love,
are there reserves enough in One
to fill her leaden grail

Ebbing in her broth of need
Romanticism is a noose of nails


Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved


The best way to spend an entire day is sitting around drinking and thinking from sun up to sun down.

If you're sure that your mind won't kill you.


The Power of the Fairer Sex.

So I was thinking along, yesterday after class, wandering about for a spell, allowing my mind to wander and entertain itself as it so easily does... and a thought occurred to me on my stroll.

The phenomenon of vanishing sex appeal in the aging North American woman.

We women spin through our days from birth to death being indefatigably force-fed images portraying the desirability of intertwined beauty, youth and sexuality... and we fight tooth and nail to keep the fleeting reality of something that's been created to expire in our imperceptibly wrinkling and gradually sun-spotting grip.

It's not valid to say that youth is a myth but the concept of everlasting youth (like much of the other self-obsessed drivel societies have conjured up from the darkest depths of vanity) is just as great a folly as the "I must, I must increase my bust" practice that required an absurd flapping about of female teenage chicken arms which we once believed would turn our washboard chest in a buxom Sophia Loren mountainous range of bosom complete with a perfect pair of ever-expanding peaks soaring skyward.

And so what about age. What about the fact that in our society once you turn 65 you've moved out of social productivity's line of sight. You fall off the radar (if you also happen to appear 65) and are expected to hang your sexuality up in the closet and not bother with attempting to continue to stay integrated in an ever-changing world... because 'you've put in your time' and besides, the young and active players in this absurd play have no parts left for 'your kind.'

But this musing isn't about women losing their spot in the line of life because they've tapped out for a minute to take a nap and rest their aching feet. No, this is about sexuality in older women.

Sexuality and sexual desire is inherent in men of all ages and very rarely teeters off into the sunset never to be seen again, even long after their flaccid, dessicated, drooping organs give up the game and refuse to rise to the occasion. But with women (who are complicated, bizarre creatures... the human felines of the bipedal kingdom) our sexuality ebbs and flows like the breath in our chest -punctuated with occasional asthmatic interruptions, loud yawns and sprawling sighs, all of which can be triggered, brought on, suspended or discontinued by a vast variety of environmental, emotional or psychological occurrences.

And when we start to 'look our age,' apparently a common belief is that the vivid colors of our sunset have begun to blanch and fade, leaving our femininity, our sexuality, our inviting eligibility and our relevance as virile human beings crumpled in a permanent and rayless cloak of twilight while a new rising sun crests the horizon for the freshest brood of juvenile inhabitants.

Now, I know very well that women are much, MUCH more than their sexuality and that if they focused less on their outward appearance they would become far more influential and more beneficial players in our world... but my thought also isn't about the empowerment of women (if only they just stepped away from the mirror and began looking at the world around them instead of endlessly peering in a false reflection of what they think should be).

This is just a simple observation that most every animal in our kingdom is a sexual being (for a number of different reasons). They mate until they can't, they desire to be desirable and it really doesn't matter how that desirability manifests, as long as they're not 'counted out' due to... well... anything.

As superficial as it may sound...I'm a realist and there's no denying that a woman's feminine wiles as well as her ability to effectively wield them coupled with pin-pointed calculative intelligence in the face of the only other animal on this planet she can fluently (although not effectively) communicate with (Man) is most likely one of the most powerful sources of remote control and subliminal suggestion ever to have graced this planet.

We have always and will always have it, at every age. And there isn't an 'Age of Dawn' or some time-encapsulated predictable peak or milestone moment every female reaches at the same time where she suddenly comes into her own feminine power. We get there when we get there but we're constantly aware of it from the first moment we catch a pair of eyes lingering on our girlish, spindly legs or the first primitive yank of our ponytail in class.

There is no 'hay day'. From age 6 to 100 we know the dance and as long as we're female (in whichever form that takes) we're principal players in the game and We Have The Upper Hand -no contest. Youth is fleeting and civilization has attempted to convince us that as women, it's really all we have -and when it's done, we're done... but in truth, we're just as volatile in our 70's as we were in our teens.

Men think that the erupting volcano within a woman will eventually become dormant and might even extinguish simply because she's sexually lost interest in him (which bizarrely must translate into having a fizzled interest in every other man, woman or fervor to live and experience life) but the truth of that is that when a dog is kicked, it's knee jerk reaction is to immediately bite back.
If a cat is insulted, she'll wait a month and then shit on your pillow for 'no apparent reason'.

Men venture out and have their conquests, believing that their sleepy, listless, self-conscious, disinterested cat-women are simply waiting in comfort for the return of their owner, when in actuality even if women don't outwardly express it... they're still very dangerous and incredibly active volcanoes at every stage of life. And we believe just as purely as you do, that what you don't know, won't hurt you.

Fuck youth. Fuck Death In Venice. I've got a volcano in my panties. I challenge the world to go right ahead and attempt to remove it.

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Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved

We, Creatures of the Flesh.

God Is Indeed A Jealous God
He Cannot Bear To See
That We Had Rather Not With Him
But With Each Other Play.

-Emily Dickinson



Human salvation as well as our own damnation rests upon the fact that we will only only ever see what we want to see. What we need to see. Or what we're programmed to see.

Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved

Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva

An extremely rare disorder where extra-skeletal bone formation causes progressive loss of mobility as the joints, tendons and muscles turn to bone, rendering a once active and unstationary human being immobile... morphing the body into a rigid living skeleton.

When I think of the development of prejudices against other human beings of any race, creed or color within the fleshy, weak human mind, I imagine these prejudices starting as tendrils of soft bone, unformed, yet to maturate into static, stubborn trunks of resolve.

Beginning as 'playful observations' or 'harmless comments' that marginalize our fellow man by unconsciously spawning a closeted, bigoted 'Us against Them' mentality, these musings eventually ripen into conclusions that spread throughout the nervous system posthaste like a venom.

This eventually results in boney growths that begin to morph the positive aspects of our pliable, compassionate humanity into ugly, perforated stony cells which imprison us and retard our ability to see outside of ourselves.

Small-mindedness breeds small-mindedness. If You Can't Help Yourself, Then Keep It To Yourself.

The Point... Is Evolution. In whatever way that happens to manifest for you.

The point is not to attempt to crawl back into the womb as a full-fledged adult. Because trust me... You Are Not Welcome.


Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved

To Pine.

But in truth,

I want illicit trysts between our lips, skin braided in sinewed sheets, coiling like a clutch of snakes in the basement of night or in the bloodshot gaze of an early rising sun.


Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved


What evacuates from a black engorged sky
What slices within an inflamed white squall
What rolls round the moor in a clammy thin robe,
sudden grey chariot chilling the globe.

What quenched the salty sea and rinses out its rancid belly
What cleaves a deep vein from this canyon to that
What forces death in a Winter of artifice,
pallid snow cloak on a polar doormat.

What pummels like bullets from half-frozen clouds
What clings to the web as dawn does to peace
What floods the fields plowed drowning legions of lifetimes,
and fills mausoleums found deep within me.


Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved

Sandpaper Kisses

Sandpaper kisses, papercut bliss. I'm just a girl with featherweight curls.
Just a girl... a blood red pearl.

fd copy

Timid Is The Glassy Maid

Timid is the glassy maid.

Queer, withdrawn she slinks on pointe,
milky, weighty, solo gaze, culling stags within her maze,
she draws them near and fears their charge,
and unaware their dreams are razed.

Timid is the glass-blown maid for she in tatters still be torn,
morsels of a sacrament, a holy union still hellbent
keeps shredding at her hope (near spent) with jaws a-gnashing sprouting thorns.

And timid is the fragile maid - she a finespun thought of sweet,
but in her lurches pendulums of bone-deep pain and red night raids
of loud men barging through her glade commanding that their love be worn.

Launch a Blitz and draw your steel, file your arrows for the hunt,
cock your gun, fall in formation, heave your club and make it blunt
but when you come upon a doe and limping she be from old shots
and you mean not to make a meal of her weak breast or her frail heart...

Do not crusade her wary gaze or lurch t'ward her fine-stemmed frame,
do not approach her like a war and plunge your flag into her spine
while barking claims like 'prize be mine',

but wade instead into her depths with careful measured strides and lengths.
Stay the boisterous bleating of your ego and your show of strength,

for breathing featherweightless breaths and gentle hands that slow to touch...
will lay a path of temperance for the fragile maid to walk
and halt her leap into the briar, vanished like an ice-bathed blush.

Timid is the fractured maid, of Love scrawled, etched and burnt
into stones that sail on blind romance, spinning as they rush.
Building speed with nothing gained and hunting bones to crush.


Copyright © 2014 by Shay Lhea
All Rights Reserved