Black Brooklyn, Baby Baby – Sample Poems

© 2018 Seneca Basoalto


 All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law or for critical articles and reviews.

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 Cover design by Seneca Basoalto – formatted and edited by Alex Kasper

Sample Poem 1

I had written this somewhere, on a napkin I think


“I am the underground”, I say, as I am rubble,

as I forget to mention that I detonate into existence

to a whistle of bats, the rev of my mutation, I upgrade,


Pick myself up every day, meet my barrier,

pick and choose a colony on the globe,


Rubble Girl Digs For Rubble Father Within Sperm Bank Siblings


                        Headline this

how I catch your eye, I didn’t want to be alone

and yet!— I despise that I found so many like myself –

it was not my intention to erase individuality

or share my individuality with half-blood flesh and dust,

like that’s the sorted Slytherin in me,


Disinherit me, or distinguish me from the sunny afternoon

of amateur dark-humour scripts and graffiti,


Forget to mention me, now.


I extend beyond sperm clones and passports.

Sample Poem 2

You are not my lover.

I am not the world.


When I sleep, I’m an enormity,

and will survive without your little feet

for days,


or even years


and when you appear

these pores will no longer recognize you


Listen to me,


You are not my lover.

I am not the sea.

Sample Poem 3

Drop rhythm on cement & canvas                      I was lucky

never ran from the cops, even w/ reasonI melted,

my makeup the same colors as graffiti tag & stolen bicycles,

drag queen camouflage from blowout to boot


Some of these friends follow me around to burrows

they’ve never been to with bars that probably shouldn’t exist

but       who doesn’t love a C grade window & glitter in the cocktails?

who doesn’t prefer being lonely with strangers over sucking

bottles dry at home?


There’s only about six people who find me interesting

                        I don’t know any of them,


Most of the time I’m too tired read text messages

or expiration dates on the cans in my kitchen cabinet,


My fingers make art through sobriety and hangovers, my fingers

smear ink and shove the words to where the story should be,

black & red, loosen me, I’m gold – creating aesthetic

and proportions in the shape of a handmade body image,


The bassline drops through the headphones        I was lucky

to feel something, even once, striking me heavy in the heart.

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