Poems by Bruce Jr. (a.k.a. Priest

Bruce Jr. (a.k.a. Pri t)

Hole in my soul

I fi nally decided my soul was where that empty space was deep within me, that hollow spot that was always craving something to fi ll it. But nothing could satisfy it. It was a lingering hunger, but for what I never knew. So I decided that if I did indeed have a soul, it had a huge hole in it. A hole as big as a hula-hoop, I decided, more hole than soul. It was a wounded soul aching to be healed. Love is what the soul thrives on. I found love. That hole in my soul is fi lled. Only a mother could love.

In loving memory of my mother, Florence P. Morgan, Brooklyn’s best. Bruce Jr. (a.k.a. Priest)

Brothers, sisters

My brothers are my friends. My sisters are my friends.

Show me, I am the baby brother. Show me life that dances under the pale moonlight. Show me, brothers, where boys become men. Sisters, show me where girls become women. Brothers, show me—what’s the meaning of life? Sisters, show me why a man should not cry. Brothers, I’m scared to die. HIV got my body. My sisters, I love you. My brothers, I need you. Help me, I am in pain. I learned, thank God. He freed my pain, brothers and sisters. I love and respect, dear to my heart I do confess, my brothers and sisters they’re the best. Thank you, God. For we know our mother can rest. She gave us strength to move on. My brothers and sisters, she made us strong. We are family. Bruce Jr. (a.k.a. Priest)

State of confusion

Who’s right, who’s wrong? Go left, go right. Go forward, go back. Go up, go down. Stand up or sit down. Walk or run. Talk or be quiet. Look up, look down, or spin around. You sad-faced clown— who’s right, who’s wrong, stop or go go or stop look, listen, and learn. No one knows who’s right, who’s wrong— listen to the story: I am gone. I am back. Still whack. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Bruce Jr. (a.k.a. Priest)