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A CHAPBOOK of Poems by

Judith D.Angeles

He Art

Pieces of a Whole

Judith D. Angeles

the For more information & booking inquiries: 347-207-8777 Š Judith Angeles 2009 All rights reserved. No part of publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. To contact the author, please e-mail Printed in the United States of America


He Art


The Last Supper


Running Without Legs Yet


Deserted Sunset Party


7 8


Make Believe Unreleased

10 12

Loving a Fantasy/ My Mind Can’t Take Reality Harlem’s Rain


Patience Without a Face Punk in the Middle






He art / Junior You could have been my end and beginning of all the sleepless searches for my panties in the morning. As dawn breaks, so does my heart, wrung out from all the dingy sheets it washed. Punishment for starting in the end, like dust dead and blowing whenever husky whispers suck out my soul. Leaving my flesh out to dry -in locker room talk turning love-making to back-breaking laughs by tallying up their self worth times all the pinched ripped rubbers left dead under the bed of my memories. As I lie on top coughing and crying from a winter plagued on my chest, you turn to me and say, “you need to find someone who can take care of you” As if those exact words never thought of themselves in the back of my rolling eyes of rivers streaming out the sound of a pierced heart Trying not to die in nude secrets again tonight But my headboard reads like a tombstone while the walls close in like a casket And you bury me deeper in hate, for it’s the only way to keep warm from the needle point tongue who dragged my bare body to you.


And you so comfortably punctured an eye in that needle Ready to sew me whole Yet no thread is long enough to piece Yonkers-to-Norfolk to Brooklyn- to-Winterville-to the-Bronx-down-to-Elmsford all the way around an archipelago heart of box springs managing to stay afloat Despite the many times, i had the opportunity to end it all to dive into my own tears into pieces and quiet Giving up in the suicide notes, taped to the bridges i keep building for my red-self. 2. Smiles shine so bright blinding out the moon in my eyes No one can see how i drain to keep from drowning Except you, who came/ half ashamed trying to grope the ropes tied from my body to my soul: islands you want to piece together, so i can fall open, in-between the shores of my heart. You want to know if it’s all true another story passed around like the brew spilled for homage Sopped up by the lips that want to get drunk in the same wetness i kept slipping from. You need to find someone who can take care of you.


Those words tossed across a wooden range, from unmade sheet secrets heavy enough to break a waterfall. 3. I flipped my pillow to the drier side, pulled over the wavy blanket until it’s made clear enough, to remember to say nothing‌ You could have been my end and beginning of all the sleepless searches for my panties as a set heart dawns but I keep silent for that was the first bridge I built and crossed alone.


The Last Supper Hold me, until there is no-space for thought. Winter is a harsh reminder that home is a long way from here. Come near me, put falling inlove on hold Let’s first try to keep out the cold Clear out the old, so leftovers won’t spoil us. Nibble the scraps left to us, swallowed without question. Pray for no more extra pillows, wrapped up alone or coughing up a storm only one needs an umbrella from. Let’s hibernate our hearts, warm up our raw bodies Boil up the waterbed Until we are stewed, simmered down, and eaten And there is no taste of the last supper we thought would be preserved forever.


Running Without Legs run without legs, I try to leave myself wrapped in shouts and screams, don’t want to argue my way out, so I, run without legs to a destination of swaying wet trees, pushed by a thunderstorm too loud to care that I’m drenched and tired, paled from hard paced breaths of running without legs, longing to be a ghostinvisible from the pain I can’t stay dry from. Beaten won’t bruise, since I’m a rock drowning in the currents of my eyes. Yet, I smile throughout the lashes like a phoenix, I know I’ll rise from my ashes- when love scorches my chest up burning alive a plague older than me, a disease, epidemic in my families’ name, mixed up by too many last names, not of my father. for running without legs leaves me defenseless to the night.


Yet you are in my bones stiff like hunger, growling for a stretch, yet yawning muscles leave me with no one to extend to. eating is forever and we don’t even last as long as photographs, or cell phone battery life. we are as temporary as the beginning of my last word. instant as microwave dinners and coffee. quick as a pecked kiss. almost close to nothing, perhaps second placed to it. yet you want it all/ the essence of me/ the third base to run home to. an open stadium with waving batted eyes, and me i want my field, stacked with cemented bricks, pushing out the rain, while we’re inside: hot flames cooking our next generation.


Deserted Kisses melt my spine into vanilla rivers. I lay on this bliss sailing. I want the air he holds in the bend of his lips, the tears in his hands, the landscape of his man. He wonders through the cobweb of my heart. Stumbles on sticky silence. Tongues massage words we haven’t said. I want to be stranded on his island and live off his muscle. Hide with the spiders just so he can find me. His lap would fish for me. Smolder flames for his taste buds. Deserted/ with no eyes to answer to.


Sunset Night wanted your limbs to hold the Sun in, but she’s not the Horizon


Party i could taste your smile thru the smog of cycling waist, pulling jah down to you/ releasing him again. heaven seems close, despite the funk of armpits and rice and beans, while hip-hop allows fast movements in the half-light. across my view, in between heads and shoulder rhythms, the booming bass feels like my heart. i’ve learned the worst way to walk away and pin pride over my chest. so i decided to liquor you down and forget. closed my eyes and stared past this party and loud dj. in my somber darkness, i heard‌excuse me, wanna hit this shhhit? it was heaven again. spoke to me in his drunken slang. pinched tight in his branch-colored touch. humid on my lip, inhaled the beating smoke


Make Believe i don’t understand what attracts you to me my simplicity without a paintbrush How i rather stay inside and learn the lessons of your eyes, the warmth of your skin drowned in the sun’s comfort, or the scar on your hand that went into a space not meant to be touched like me keep my distance, even with kisses Aint no highway to my heart/ only rainbows disguised as dark back roads leading to fools gold can’t cry enough to erode those roads, cause the quality of trusts is locked up in safes, and most of us live from payday to payday so who’s to blame when love lies with promiscuity with nothing to save, but unwrapped rubbers, fallen guts from blunts stuffed with hope to numb the invisible pain pushing up your throat i see your jaw swelling, from white bars grinding stubborn to your feelings, captive from the unsaid words spilling from your eyes so you let the drips land on different thighs hoping that no one can see the lies you hide, while you lie they say the truth hurts but i’d rather feel those pains than the lust that burns in the passion we fake flames eventually die out and when the smoke clears who will hold you- when your deepest fear wrinkles you to loneliness


when your face falls apart into tiny drops when your backups back up and the only things that hold you are the walls that feel like bars not me can’t be your C.O. or your release I’m just like you, caught up in the disbelief that love just plays on TV so I fabricate my words on plain sheets to see if I can just feel a portion of make believe cause when reality grounds itself, all we do is keep walking away on it


Unreleased/ At the Computer Lab I’m afraid to release this sigh to you– afraid that it might inflate your ego and not your heart. because I need courage/ the kind that doesn’t take balls to prove. but now, surrounded in abstract nouns I want to tell you with lips full of tongue and smiles, “I’m feelin’ you!” but I hide in computer work. peeping your glances between typed sentences of a thesis hoping I catch at least one. but my red drum cautions me, from crossing bridges made of air and stares. can’t float with sneakers alone. fallen so much people think I’m a stone. thrown myself to hands who palms always face down. so I just roll around until the grass rises me blowing my sigh out.


Loving a Fantasy/ My Mind Can’t Take Reality I want him here, pressing my wrinkled skin, crevices holding seamless streams of screams silenced by tears I want him here, molding a heart too stubborn to care for itself, murmuring from love’s past I need his strong hands to wring all the pain, don’t care if it hurts, just release my doubts/ and if I run, trip me in a way that I’ll fall in your arms I need his eyes to dance with mine even through the dark, remember to look for me/ that’s enough to spark sadness out the earth Am I asking for too much? Healing in your pupils and touch? If it is let me know, so we can let go Because I need so much more, like Words caressing the sore many generations’ old/ words to wake me when I daydream in all the sorrow my ink sleeps in- between the covers I dress in, concealing my must for you Vulnerability festering in my beaten trust/ bruises neglected by my own tongue How do I explain plainly that I’m falling in love


But been on the floor before we met/ trampled on because I refused to confess the ways I need to be adored. Hoping someone could follow Hollywood stars to my sensitivity. For I call for more than a hickey on my breast, sperm not reaching my egg, or dead presidents, but the moments between surfaces of skin/ sharing kin, a meal and the deepest keys, unlocking only what god can see and his son can feel/ memories reminding me of the times I won’t need to write about.


Harlem’s Rain In the midst of our bodies my heart races to catch yours. Through NYC’s hydroplane traffic, billboards of promises sold, and reparation Nikes. I leave my master (the blood out of me) to touch yours varnished with chiseled ebony. Everything I want, but don’t want straddled all at the same time. I save myself for you -folded awayuntil we unfold again Bending away from myself, I surrender to you when the drizzle falls, puddles splash, and hips zig zag BOOM! Spines thunder and the storm drops us down to the mud we made.


Patience Without a Face fazing in and out of the smoke i keep filling to cloud my mind away from a face, i cant face but feel, during the phases i watch my phone. Trying to ignore your voice of reason hooded in the same plastic of nicks and times where slow motion is never good enough, so when you say, be patient, i lose my pace beside you, belonging only to promises i cant see your lips say, even if i squint long enough to believe in a faceless face which spills ink every time i need to let you out of me, for that’s the only remedy besides climbing cloud-touching-trees to aid my ailing envisions second placed to greed for every second he hears dimes dropping over boosting mobiles, always on the run and all i could do is take a deep breath, exhale a prayer, hoping god would spare you from red and blue screams to silence every hood hymn hip hopping their blocked freedom tax-free and i pray while the stars are on/ that you’ll live until oldness cripples you/ not before you outrun the sun.


Punk in the Middle sometimes I want to believe this could happen: a fashion thrown on a carpeted floor at a motelwhere people wither faster than leaves changing seasons. On the Concourse so Grand in size, he thought his notes could buy me out my clothes I would’ve been fine walking on a lane words explain, inhaling the summer night’s breeze, as it combs the tree’s hair in the middle of the Bronx somewhere? we didn’t care to go, but got lost in each other’s talk. Time is priceless, so if you have those kind of chips floss them in quality laughter, not boned out expressions. my heart nauseates when I keep selling its parts, wanting to throw itself up in the middle of Fordham Rd, during Christmas spirit, slipping through salt and snow,


kicked around by Timberlands until I can’t feel the beating of my chest. Numbness doesn’t take away the pain, just makes it dull to the point where dying is something to look forward to. Fear is not my battery, just a spec in my mind that grips for righteous sanity. I know god will love me no matter what I do, but Lucifer’s passion is conditioned in destruction. maybe if I vomited the red fist punching to survive it could be of this world, spreading wider than white sheets over soft corners, yet I was taught too late that I am a moving temple, worth more than a lamppost flicked on at night. The city never sleeps it just screws around, passing diseases, faster than flyers capitalizing sales for a better American home You can’t materialize my soul, so keep your envy, papered in green, lusting to be free I’ll take the 9 bus to my mother’s and all I’ll owe her are the lessons she preached to me.


about the author Judith is a student, a mother, a teacher, a writer, and a printer. Residing in Yonkers, NY, He Art is her first self-published and printed chapbook. Her work sleeps and works in metaphors. It is urban and classic. It is sincere and intimate. In 2003, Judith was selected out of 500 participants to represent New York City in Chicago at Brave New Voices poetry competition. She was also a finalist in Urban Word’s 2004 Slam and the winner of Russel Simmons’ Young Voices Presents Def Poetry. She is published in several independent anthologies. Her writing has also appeared in the New York Times, the Fader, and the Daily News. The National Book Foundation sponsored her for a writers’ retreat at Bennington College in Vermont. Judith is also an instructor of poetry. She has taught under several not-for-profit organizations in New York City public schools. She is a member and volunteer for several writer communities, including Girls Write Now, Urban Word NYC, and Acentos.

He Art is Judith Angeles’ first published chapbook of poems, that explores through the matter of her heart. It is the “He” turned into “Art”.


Profile for Judith Angeles

He Art: Pieces of a Whole  

Judith Angeles' first published collection of poems.

He Art: Pieces of a Whole  

Judith Angeles' first published collection of poems.