After years of
broken bedstands
cheap mattresses
frank and bean times
When I would wake
in the dark & rain
to the siren that
sends me to work
on my swollen feet
in poor shoes
My face in puddles
wrinkled & young
tasting of cigarettes
and death
because my last rebirth
was recent
In these times made dirty
I was coming clean
while protests & mud
poured on my chest
defiant that in this
I’d found this content
I still find ease
in the din of the drizzle
on the attic roof
who whispers
familiar truths
that it’s not the climate
or condition
you’ve been in,
but how you’ve weathered
the storm.
There is nothing antique
in the red, blue, white star
I’ve been dressed in.
We are the child of ancients
who built our marble crib
before our birth.
We have raced through
storming skins of origins
with earthen eyes;
for unbarred faith,
for gold
we bound their titles to
propagate lust.
With rage we disown our fathers
for not fulfilling our promise
conception owes.
I was given what I took
This round and braille
story terrain.
Our story has not, and has
been written in smut slurs
and high bibles.
Our origin was never our own
Nor was the pebble’s stone
I have disclaimed my name. 

m.hampton 2003


I swap my pillow for street
and beat chase my shadow.
She, a glass mockery of my disfigure
and what burns behind me.
I step on her toes toes
and she stretches stretches.
She sees whose backs bump
and strut past me in line
I see his swarthy face gape
and tract surpast my own;
She marches ahead of my reach
and he treads up on my head.
We play on while he holds ahead
and I am never there.

m.hampton 2000

The Autumn leaves are more subtle than I
Who has chosen a staining yellow
Leaning away from branches
He melted into the foliage.
I choose to wait for the wind,
The leaf that masquerades
As a plant; naught more
Somewhere in the pile by my knees.
I know, though, this is from was,
I think; still naught more than
Sit long on what I’ve done,
Watch the white come in.
m.hampton 2002
Garden House

Autumn sings
from smoking wood
and settles in my nose
calm comes with it
unsettling nerves
washing moments

the edge of tears
looms but does not break
and warmth spreads
o’er spent souls

the same chair
stands solid
in the corner
a blanket now
over left arm
inviting us

to rest our feet.



the assumption is:

I NEED this.

So I feed on this

and your bullshit tastes


so good.

What I should


you say


    want this,

    flaunt this

          I pay for

Excess and

this Bitch

             This BITCH

is a customer,

this seat’s for her.


lick it up


and maybe

You’ll get


wet Dream that haunts you

I know

It daunts you

                        don’t it?

The shedding your skin


what you’ve done for them

has defined you.

I wade through

my fishbowl

eating my soul

The untold

is flushed

and rushed

to the waste

and the taste

of your sweets,

tempting treats


on My useless fingers.

I’ve got to eat

       got to eat.

Tell me

             what you expect.

Tell me

that I’m next.

I’ve got to eat

       got to eat

I’ve got to eat.

You’ve got the fuel,

You make the rules.

Bring your tools 

and build my world

while this little girl

learns to redefine

the sun’s shine

I’ve got what I need

I’ve seen

            My affliction

            My addiction

This glass junkie is

An American Flunkie

This is a hunger strike.



I am        An American Product

A Consumer Affair,

An MTV ad on primetime.

I’ve bought and sold my religion

fighting the System

for making Me choose

Between Pepsi and Coke or that

righteous campaign that just said


I’ve got to

cling to that thing

that won’t ever


cause what the hell else

do I have?

Gun Smoke and

a Sweet Toke

make Me choke but

how the hell else

could I breathe?   and

I  heave

at the sight of

the Diplomat fights

the Political Icons

engineers of the carnage

They must not be human

like Me.

I’m tied to my couch

with Nike shoelaces

My dainty feet

bound in newsclippings.

can’t you see

Society andConvention

bound round

My weary will?

Poisoned by the daily digest

I note the urgency

compelling Me to


The Defeat of the Enemy

past the Peace Treaties.

So you see,

I can’t,

I simply just can’t

Do it.

I am        far too busy.



The day you died.
Baby hadn’t cried

You have been gone now
For some days
or dog years
In just a tick
You’ll sit here
next to me
on this couch
or across from me
on the floor looking
up with pulsing warmth
and whispering petals
you’ll tell me a secret
that’s just ours
and I’ll follow you softly
into the kitchen where
you’ll eat me alive

or I’ll probably just ignore you
like I did before
you were lost at sea
just like I do now
and have
for dog years
and ticking minutes
because I never told
about your kidnapping
because I knew
it was my fault
you wrote me poetry
my skin had no tears
it’s still hard to breathe
2 consecutive sentences

This time
i sit here
In my plaster  box
clinging to myself
as if the flesh were yours

I feel you now
and do not neglect a measure of you
I hold you hard
with my hands moving
through your hair
over your back, your arms
your eyes
your calves
your sides
your palms
your fever
your spirit
your depth
your ache
I do not release you
this time
we drown together

you evaporate again
& I continue to
inhale your revenge
as your void advances on me
a growing puddle
residing in the cracks on the tile


Soldiers wage war
with less training,
less time in the field.

“hand – to – hand”
is child’s play
to a veteran flea

on the back of
this mangy breed
You’ll see

It gets warmer
before the frost sets in
lead names fade
on paper memorials
our skin stones in remembrance

We bleed and break
recover and reopen
wounds and scars
grow thick
and hard

We become less
of our own
than victims of
resultant reluctance




waiting for sleep

In this dark, smothered cube;

In this black, cluttered corner

Locked in from the alley,

Red lights and wails.

Secured from envy

Barred from those heavy

              “powers that be.”

In this flimsy,

Silent box

           I’m waiting for sleep

The sure equalizer.

In silent adventures

We can be everyone and

The great creator.

Possibility, desire enacted

In this square theatre

I run the show.

It’s no one’s fault but my own

When sleep comes

so does all that I dream of.

Into my box

Thunders a dusky mare

With horror ablaze in its eyes

It steps on my throat,

Bleeds in my eyes

Tears at my flesh with its teeth

It asks me what I want.

           I’m waiting to wake

In this dark, smothered cube,

The globe secured outside my door.

m.hampton  2002

Poised. Prepared for show

           Elbows chafed, knees bruised

                      sleeved & stockinged


the gloss glares

boasting orange & blue

           with softer hues

           in batting eyes & open mouths

           bumping pink

                      rubbing beige & brown

warm seaweed winds

blow past sculpted muzzles

                      the wishing


                                                         in words.


To This Woman

Every woman is a Mother

Full with love and life

Full of joy and creation

Every woman is a Mother

she will come to a 5th minute

that will penetrate and fill

her cocoon with unknown body

she will stretch with hospitality

until her frame taps out; mercy

bursting and spewing life blood

she gives herself to creation

what she was no more is now you

a servant and a vessel to your love


you will not art now, anymore

your creativity ultimately

manifest in this pulsing word.

It will be Dee, Kai, Darl

no matter because you gave it

It will never belong

It is the constitution you cannot amend

the will beholden to your desist

the past to your undying future

It will not know what you have done

so it will be and right

because you’ve been wrong

It is all now

It is how you know what love is

It fills a thing that was not before

It will not know until it can’t return

you will hate it ferociously

for being you and not knowing

for not being what you never were

your nights have past

your days have slept

you do not fear

you do not sin

you do not holy

you do not want

you do not need

you do not good

you do not bad

you do not in-between

You are now.

You have been full

You have been the word

You have been.

m.hampton 2002


One Pair of Shoes

One Pair of Shoes

  is all I ever had

One Pair of Shoes

         to wear

         to school

         to church

         to meetings of House & Senate

One Pair of Shoes

         to wear

         to play

         to camp

         to France with a bag full of Yen

One Pair of Shoes

         have walked

         down one narrow path

         by signs pointing

         toward much broader regions

stepping on toes

in suit

         in rows

   before sprinting

                   toward the sea

where a grain of sand  &  Me

relinquish our righteous needs

untie our knots

remove our souls

and set them aside

as a gift

for some passer-by

 who just might

         make them fit.



It’s simply better when it rains.

The chorus of oceans raised

in a heated frenzy

rushes back to its nature,

its formative home and

plays softly on my tarred roof

The Silence is harder and warmer this night

when leaded words are

fuller than woofers.

        I walk through grocerys

on nights like this

with fluorescence

and Dionne Warwick

I see:

        Angel Cake & Whipped Cream

        Onion Skins & Rice Crackers

        Again and again & again.

Shoppers mill about me,

amidst the cans & boxes,

avoiding my eyes while

the soles of our shoes

play the linoleum in

staccatos,falsettos, in concert

we pass w/in inches

waiting our turn

humming our apologies

as we knock about the narrow isles.



We smile back at ourselves

From our reflections

 In the TV

We marvel at the good

We’ve done

The values

We’ve fed


I’m nauseous

Our self is disintegrating

Under the weight

Of our hypocrisy  and

The mask

 Dropping over our eyes

We pretend these days

That we all have


That we all have

               Respect   for one another

As we rehearse for

The new roles we play.


Hear This:

                               Your picturebox fibs.

 Muffyour ears again if you like,

My teeth hurt

               And it spreads to my eyes


               Of no consequence

the nausea

               Vomits an answer


               No matter

We’ve none left

The weight is now commonplace

We won’t notice it for days.

We’ve lived together for too long

Us and the stench

Of man’s arrogance

It’s time for the guilt to move out

He will never make amends

For everything that’s been done

America has no remorse

I’ve grieved for you

So many times


your rape can never be undone.


So I’m done

I’ve taken too many pills

For the ache in my head

exacerbated my nausea

My hand is carpal tunneled

This is my final Apology.

I won’t anymore.

still responsible

For the shape that my place holds


I’m not sorry.

Not anymore.

Not sorry.

Not after this

               Next line 



I will whisper with you softly
as tomorrow draws again
as all the times before
passing to tomorrow again
I will whisper with you softly

my raised voice spent
with squandered pennies and bonds
I tiptoe lightly to your room
to spend the evening with the breeze
and you
the breeze and you

I will whisper with you softly
as these full days wear on
I will lay beside you intently
I will feel your presence gently
consistently with loyal memory

I will hear your words contently
break each dawn with ease
willing the stillness in my mind
that your hands imbue my body
I will be simple as the days wear on

and I will whisper with you




Former Ex-Patriate

I think:

It’s rather strange

that We

Point fingers

at the Middle East.

In the face of conflict,

We proclaim Peace?

A nation of bigots

justified and judgmental

certain of its own mental clarity?

Capitol Hill:

Gives us just enough

to shadow the bluff,

pacify the masses,

keep us passive and under

the watchful eye of big brother

legislation incubating the

gestation of domination.

What do I have to prove

opposite a target that moves?

Why do I even bother?

I say:

same nation, different father;

He’s got a videocam

in the kitchen down the street where

daddy beats his kids on the ass

for smoking that grass,

convincing us to be glad

that’s not our dad.

“Well Pops,” You can give me a beating

if you’ll stop repeating

those bullshit phrases abusing my brain,

from this point I refrain

from my organized protest

of international contests

I’m back in my own affairs,

now envious of those aware

of their enemy’s shape

recalling your fundamental rape

because to conquer someone must submit

I admit – I can’t catch you

so difficult to see

perpetually shifting the meaning of


Keeping my eyes on that fool’s golden dream?

Remind me of my opportunity?

Your education conforms me,

healthcare ignores me,

technology replaces my mind

young overworked, underpaid

prozac keeps me at bay

for a 5 dollar copay

hey, this is livin’

You’ve given me nothing to fight for,

use those 5 star word rights for

because I can’t see

how you’ve conditioned me

into passivity

with TVs

and wax-paper democracy

This job is not for me.

“Well honey,” you say:

If you insist on that way

you’ll never get paid

So you don’t like glass ceilings

and superficial dealings,

you’re still cute, why don’t you marry rich?

“Well buddy,” this bitch

ain’t getting hitched

to any notion prescribed by who?

I Do  not

pledge allegiance

to your token convenience

Your canon,

Your politics

or Your priest

I refuse to feast

on your ill-inducing toxins

that have boxed in

my health and my concept of free

You won’t develop in me

that crucial dependency

on your favors and sweet-tasting lies

I’m rubbing my eyes

on pages of a new open text

I mean to share with the rest

We’re coming Big Brother

                     We’re next.

m.hampton 2001

Ham at Sunday Market

  Pokes at me

With its brown sugar glaze

  It wants to eat me


I try another aisle

  Cold & Green

Cartoons shout at me

  & Dr. sax G.

            speaks his piece

There’s enough to eat.

  This is not endurance

Instinct abandons me

  To preference

I hold my head

Because its shaking wildly

Or I’m shaking it

Instead      I’m chosen

& snacked on for a while

then left to starve

in aisle 4.



Last Night

The house was gorgeous

Huge and empty

So many white walls and halls

From ‘Better Homes and Gardens’

This house with

A carpeted spiral staircase and

For the first time

Since memory

The whole portrait was there,

all of us.

No: place

To unload,


Peacefully for the night


The Kin

had stained the walls.

The men

Were marching through

The house

Invading all the

Rooms with windows.


Was reading

Art books


To relax


She Wore a robe

Like Sophocles’

Players would,

Set her books on the

wood milk

crate before her.

You Saw the shine in her eye

As she picked up the

bread knife

With both hands

you th vainly begging


you gave her the rusty sewing scissors

Thinking to take the butter knife.

Down the stairs caught in alternate shadows.

So she wouldn’t see





It flashed over her face

As she slowly tore down

The spinning staircase






The virile inventor

And apprentice

Rise to her room

Then lean over the rampart rail

To declare:

She’s done it.

In this homeless place

The windows face the alley

Full of empty boxes

And soiled mattresses

And those rained wet

Art books

Still, the closet

Is big and dirty enough to be

A New York City apartment

And I think about how

I can

Make it home.

m.hampton   1999

In this hour of love

                              And this one of truth

In this hour of Love

        Will you speak to me?

        Soft words touching

        of my eyes

               my lips

                       my hair

In this hour

        Will you forget?

        that I’m broken, discarded

        wise and untrue

        that I’m only lonely

This hour of love,

        is it me?

        You, my saviour

        healer  and all things

        with white light and soft focus

In this hour

        may I promise?

        to believe all of this

        empty my experience

        know only yes words

        and my senses

in this hour of love

        could we confide?

        full and ripe

        even living,

        satisfied .

In this hour of truth

        we will be without

        bells and whistles

        a sort of total     naked

        unable to see

                       the other’s eye

In this hour of truth

        we are grey and uncommon

        we cannot touch

        for our baseness and age

        we’re terrified

In this hour of truth

        we have other things

        other lives

        we are hopeless, w/out

        subtext, context

                                      or story line

in this hour of truth

        we’ve forgotten

        worship, affection, devotion

        we are you and i

        you and i are only

in this hour of truth

        i will try

        as hard as i

        have ever

        and render ruin.

m.hampton    2004

The thing is

           The Wasted Way We Talk

with weathered words

 and spoken gestures

a lifetime of caution

 and dismembered regret

our tainted memories

 paint the room with

the results we¹vechosen to become.


Like robed lions

 we navigate our losses

smelling fear

 craving flesh

and a monument in ourname


we speak on lonely things

 with bitter sounds

and preserve our hope

 with wasted words


we waste our truth

 on pretty things

that tickle for a time

then fade to silence


we can rest for a while

avoiding the sound

of the smoothed round

boulder on the bed

that rallies our thoughts

‘round the sillysimplicity

of a lilted tongue

that speaks with

eyes ablaze


we turn to ash

turn our words to dust

our lust to fear

and speak in prose liketext

like toys

like trinkets

children’s story books

like things we leftbehind

in mounting piles ofdebris.

There was a bitter storm


I set foot for Canada

 my carriage late

 but still timely


It stormed straight through

my travels with wind


I wrote you letters along the way.


I haven’t heard back

-I was on the road-

but I know you’re

  still there.


I’m writing this last

to let you know the climate

is more pleasant

  milder here.


I’m writing this last

to state and share

things are as they could be







i am in awe of the Humble Man
Who kneels on the stone steps
of Labor and Charity.

i am in awe of this Man
in his plain clothes
worn at the knees and elbows.

I believe I love him.

i am in awe of the Humble Man
and his love for jesus
who has not turned
My Fiery Passion from
my own crucifixion

i am in awe of the Humble Man
who lightly burns his path each day
with trust and loyalty.

His answers are thorough,
brief and fueled by faith

i am in awe of the Humble Man
my own humility enlightened
yet tempered by
my burn for validation
what I put to this page.
The Humble Man’s quest
a Humble Trade.

The prayers of the Humble Man
wake me each morn
with the lingering taste of
My Own Prayer
to draw him near.





    Is it all right with you?

If I plain say enough.

    Would you be just fine?

If I stop for one line.


    Would you consider it rude

If I stop for one line

    Could you pull through

    Would you consider it rude

If I enjoy the silence and break it

    Could you pull through

If I give voice to my mind

If I relish the silence and break it

    Would you take it hard

If I give voice to mind

    Couldn’t you understand

    Would you take it hard

If I hold solely myself in the dark

    Could you not understand

If I step outside myself a while

If I hold solely myself in the dark

    Could you take anymore

If I step outside myself a while

    Would you still say you know me

    Could you take anymore

If I cry till my eyes bleed

    Would you still say you know me

If I lose in my humanity

If I cry till my eyes bleed

    Would you be just fine

If I lose in my faith

    Is it all right with you



Little Ache

            right there     again

where it shouldn’t.

            Little Ache

wormed its way in

like first frost

spreading over

            lawn green

                                    Little Ache

Little things

            Little pieces


                        Little Ache

eating pink things

  eating soft things

Little Ache

You shouldn’t

                        Little Ache

You should leave

                        Little Ache




Now, Little Ache           

i keep thinking

                                    We’re through

i keep thinking

                                    i’m clean

You keep making

                                    me dirty

You keep making


me dream.



I’m in love

with Your Illusion

the Promises you  make

and your Righteous pursuit of

Compensation for               irretreivable loss.

I drool over

Your image

of luscious reality

You’ve shown me who

i’m supposed to be and

she doesn’t look like me

but He

looks so good in Tommy.

You embrace me.

I’m  so close   and now

so sure  that


is better than


You breed

Your cattle

to low in rented stables and

march boldly to bloodletting.

the best water is foreign dollar bottled

at some

running brook

in some


Tell me

about Peace

and PeaceKeepers

that seem

to induce

fear in me.

At the sound of the gun

i sprint toward

Your excess

in shiny red sneakers

that blister my feet.

With an angry


I puss

and purge

the gold plated corn-nugget

i swallowed.

In the shine

of the Chrysler

I wink at

my golden halo.

m.hampton 2000

I haven’t got anything  

To say

It’s been said  

By now

I am so sure

of nothing

Except I am


So what

Is in my head

Is in control of my

Voluntary muscular movement

Vitality is involuntary

I didn’t mean to

Feel it.

To: My Crop,



What’s to be done?

The actors do for us.

May I take your order?

Advancement conveniences:

 Save us


Time to get fat  and

Wish bones

  Show us.

Can we talk?

I only know you as

I’d like.

You do wonders for

My image


’m in love

I think or

Was there a time

I had heard of it. 

What’s my role in

Your racist, sexist, ageist, typecast

We shall overcome?

Stand By Me was not about us.

I don’t feel like

A winner.

Pass the prescription

What’s to come

Soothsayer cries

Judgement for our eyes.

It seems

We missed the boat

And yet

We’re floating

So what?

We who?

I don’t want to talk to you anymore.



How are you?
It’s been such a long time.
Things are good?
Good. Really good.
How’s the weather there?
Yeah, the winters are often tough.
Me? Oh. Well, I’m. Fine.
(I can barely hear
my own voice
in the silent hum
on the line.)

Yeah, the winters are often tough

I still
get out
most days, though
You know,
at Night
I come back to:
The Box where we used to live.
I mostly live
in the box now
with the pictures moving
at Night
I practice dying
and taxidermy
so You’ll have something to
remember me by
the way

You did
like my corpse
some times
when I come back at Night
to scramble through the wish box,
I stop and
My Thoughts
just long enough to
write bad poetry and
wish you weren’t dead
by the by
I am
though I think
They don’t hate me anymore;
just enough to be
all I have.
(Are you still there
I think
I hear
are You breathing?)

I live
in the picture box now
skillfully bottling my preserves,
stuffing my doll,
removing myself
from that
sort of love
and if
You can remember
I always persevere until
I do something
I’m getting so good
at lying
in this ice Box
and you know,

I’m so glad
I called.

m.hampton 1999

You’ve kept me in this room . . .

   I’ve forgotten how long

            formidable you

    assuring me:

there’s nothing outside these walls

    but shadows

            and rain

    softening the ropes

you bound me in

    with smoke,

other intoxicants,


I thanked you

    by stifling

            my particular talents


it was easier for you

    to like me

            if I was less

I was content

    to busy myself

            cleaning up your mess

    my hands like sponges

however since

    I first gazed the sun

            I set to gnawing

    at this barbed hemp

decades now, chewing

as this rigging

    falls to the floor at my feet

            like so many serpents

    that first cast me to the murk

with that deceit

I stand

   bent, but unbroken

with a child’s legs

I settle

  to leave you choose

            this coop

I walk

  Blind, but direct  

to the door





Something Sunday Waking

           whispers as it washes the windows

this aching thing

           having found its way outside

watches from without

           the sorry, singing 

                                              sorely missed

soundless, unwound, un-kept


                                              the wishing.

This thing           that was

                       now wept away

           so what?

                       She says

                                   So What.




i always see you

inside the patient bricks You lay

by the devoted bed you make

You feed me strength

in an apron heavy with my tears.

i see You with sky eyes

from where i pray

i lift my mirrored headdress

to a warrior soft in victory

from a battle in my name.

i see you when i am blind

from thick nowhere that sinks my shaking knees

i find the roots of your moonlit cypress

the branches that cradle me

with lullabies of unsung hero.

i see You always

in puddles of joy

by my side

where i grow inside

what i build

from what i fight for

See me

I’m learning to sing

without lyrics

I offer

this that I am,

this that You taught me

with tender strength



When I sunk into it

          I closed my eyes.

It is a girl

High on a slender wooden walk

I scale the low one

With a point of confidence in hush

She throws a rope to me

And beckons

Butthis fear of heights


Only,      I trust her.

I climb her line

Doggedly, then

Take her hand

To the top.

Landing there is drowned in fear

Then I     

Gulp the fairest air

For a moment we

Share it      


She leaps round me

Carelessly un-tremulous

Rocking my boat and

I cling to the floor

Why this

Is she doing

For me?

we do not fall

The worst is yet

They come from under

Glass walls

Unruly soldiers with shouts and

Shaking wrecking tools      as

I know       what

He wants.

to sink it

Where she lives paramount

I howl. 

won’t let him

For her,


She is

In my dream

We take trophies.

m.hampton 1999


You had no business softly raining today


Your unpredictable expression is appreciable

When you started to shine like I did your uncertainty was unapparent and you are so     


I’m at your mercy

You’re so good with your clear overcast; 

My job sucks.

Even  when I wake You show things amazing and always new      I want you     to be   something  and  nothing particular

For all the things You know Me, things I don’t understand

   How crucial you are       

You have everything 

My cherished dichotomy

When can I meet You?         

Will You be at the corner shop at three; will you be looking for me and
will You bring along all the things I’ve yet to see in a bag with the rest of Me?                                

 RSVP on your season with the reason I don’t have.

Will You be there?  How   

should I dress,    in
an overcoat? 

 So temperamental with Your dawn and dusk

Are You serious?  Iam.  Concentrate. 

What’s left? 

Is there anything of veritable importance?

 It must be beside  You.

Am I not right?

I need loud obstreperous for your listening. How do you take it when I tell You.   You’re a bitch,  Well?

I feel silent reticent.

You are huge and quiet.  How? 

and everywhere I am.  Do I hear You when I can’t touch You.

Flee faster 

Beat harder

catch Your rhythm  
Feel it

Spit out on Your other side 

It’s stuck in my throat.

If I step boldly into your shower catch you with a wide scream wash me down sting my eyes

?  Will     You          be

 Will      You   

m.hampton 2000

How much

of what we’ve learned

are we responsible for?

How much

         will it take     

to absolve us?

should We stay

         and give

                            with The Needy?

We learned about race, color & creed

We learned about hunger & greed

We learned sex & destruction

We accordingly learned compunction

We learned the external significance

We learned to dispel our innocence

We learned what’s in a name

We were taught to pawn in this game

How much

         of what I’ve learned       

                            am I responsible for?

How much

         of my education

                            was I asking for?



brittany beach bunker aged

I’m through       

                       with you.

Get out.

           I’ve tasted the last of

your promises.

marveled at the last of

your illusions.

I Don’t Care

           for your lust for me.

I Don’t Hear

           the song you sing.

you can take back

           the sparkles you gave me.

you can suck that.

           the way you tame me.

I’m taking back

           the mogul I made you

you can’t have that

           the pride I gave you

                       you used it to blacken the scene

After all these minutes . . . I offer a proper goodbye

I’m not sorry

           for anything I’ve done

           for anything I’ve said

                       I’d do it again.

I’m no longer

your puppet.

I’m no longer

           your prize.


     take your eyes  off the thighs

     you’re trying to colonize

     you can’t sell me anymore

     to your neighbors

     or your boys

No More

     Raping my resource

No More

     Eating my dollars

No More

     Breaking my heart

No More


           standing there

           in my

                       living room

leave me be


Get out

            leave me be.




Berlin, Dresden, Prague

3 days

back to Hamburg

the lights are out in

not my house

I can’t read the phonebook

the furniture is cold

still, I’m running late.

My P.O.V.

is coast to coast

having someplace to be

I’m sure I’ll get

back T

here soon.



he rolls atop of poo

and dons a pleasant grin

wears naught but dirt –

a badge of white

and thinks not of his sin.

The bitch,

she sniffs and picks a mate

then tosses him away;

a sense, a natural bitch

of breed, 

shameless in her play

light of foot

free of crime

from gut goes on

to waste stilled time

Ah, to have a dog’s life

with simple rules to bide

a simple game,

no need

to fake, to bargain, nor to buy;

to have no need

to twist, nor shape,

nor ever have

 to Lie.



speak me Not Love

i read you between smiles

Lover me Indian Summer Sweat

i goo for anything cellophane wrappered

            trade you for space-heater

            christmas-cold after-flesh

i see you Not Love

Not Looking Eyes

 surely could out there

 be bigger tits

 be high society, daddy money

  she fine.  Lands to conquer  maybe

                        someplace real

sing these Not Love Songs


            meal’s on table

            wiggle and pork-feed

            steak-lust with mother’s

            resilience,   walk-me-down

            two way alley, make eyes

            by Venice Mural to unfair

take turns tongue sucking

            is .

            & isn’t

            is more.



We Camped in the Desert Last Night

it was lovely, cold and dry

i spoke too soon & out of turn

with soaking words

the cactus ate

one of those with thick skin

& fine needles

one pink bloom on top

the kind that might die forever

those sounds that could have been

lost in the wide heat there

will stay in their gourd

freezing your touch

waiting to spill in the sand



The radio this morning


what an extraordinary day!

the sky was blue outside my bedroom window.

Once upon a time,

I commuted to a place settled

in the shade of the stage

where the raid took place on world trade.

Each day I tiptoed

past the tower with the shadow 6 blocks long

at 8 am.  my intestines would shake

as the building rumbled and crumbled up my knees

debris eating at my eyes, why

if that thing ever tumbled, well

if that thing ever tumbled.

and this is New York City

home of the Yanks and the Free

and they must have known

what they were doing when they let that thing be.

I had a friend who liked to tell me   on the balcony at night  NYC skyline

see those things, those towers, they’re rockets UC?

programmed to jettison on judgement day into space with a master race

the nation’s elite will pile in to begin a new world,

after our disgrace.

now everyone’s in shock, racing round city blocks

streaming tears, thinking they had nothing to fear

in this insecure nation    

 a generation characterized by apathy   they say

it’s because war’s obsolete and terrorism’s the wave of the future.

There’s Nothing Like War for Inspiring Patriotism

To Fortify a Nation, To Wake up a Generation.

Good morning it’s an extraordinary day.

and I was glad

there was little traffic by the pentagon today 8 am

but Oh, by 10 am, a black cloud in the sky,

city under siege masses screaming

how could this be?

I ask how could we be so naive?

Can’t you see how it’s grown?

Damn it, we should have known.

Attack On America.

media frenzy.

I’m downtown, stopped dead

in the center of an immediate evacuation

the whole sensation live from every radio and TV

I’m starting to get angry.

the center of American finance collapsed

the center of American government is in flames

               Goddammit who’s to blame?

who’s to blame, the president’s on the run, on tape

declaring war against “a faceless coward”

ensuring swift military retaliation,

declaring war, forceful retaliation, military retaliation, “faceless coward”

I feel sick.

I was sure we had learned that pointing fingers points nowhere,

it’s not men against us anymore

it’s systems, structures

 towering structures

us and them are imaginary

and maybe it was defense

against weapons of capitalism:

exploitation, militarism, imperialism,

they must be scared of us.

and then, my love has grown every day and today

I love my people more than ever.

love could rise to revolution against America’s ills.

  then, destruction is a disease.

by 10 a.m. a black cloud in the sky

city under siege masses screaming

how could this be?

I ask how could we be so naive?

Can’t you see how it’s grown?

Damn it, we should have known.


                          September 11, 2001

               10 a.m.

unspeakable things

heard in expressions


bleed dissertations


build thrones

where we sit unclothed


This is where
we freeze our feeling
&bury it behind
  old liverwurst

Once 2 people spoke, I heard
though I’ve never met them.

They said everything
without caution or pinkcheek

with ease and ardor
they spoke on all things
   to eachother
   and understood everything.






I did not want it like I did
blinking through the window.
With a glance the Tango stepped in

Beat to beat to beat
It twirled and thundered
calm in the eye.
What superb devastation
in its song
feather steps
joining whispers in harmony
sincere white voice in the sky.

Ground feared the stomping,
wings defer shoelaces.
It exhaled the heavens
and ran from the ground
to sway in
the air of the night
Of nowhere, no finale.

It loiters
In moments
Of fragrant breath.

m.hampton 1999

exhaleIt feels so…MmmmHmmm. Yeah.
Tastes like rain.
Don’t recall allhow the get down got down.
Down where I found
What I’d never lose.
I’ve never, always known it like this,
with the glass soaked clean.
Already I see the heavens encircle.
It is a wide desert plain.
How thrilling to venture
where the wind blows my tracks.
The song I have known is learning pitch.
It is low, with fortitude.
So decays my existence
and I beat the first time.
It was right in my face.
I smelled it.
I breathed it in.
I breathe it out.m.hampton 1999

It’s raining again

And another chance was lost

From somewhere on high

A poet wept

And carried her quilt

With the inside out

Dissidence swayed

By a promise          


The sun is out

And it’s not clear

What’s been spent

To ride here


Some sad thing

she was before she wept,

Wiped her eyes

And saddled here.


I rode a weathervane

On this trip

That fogged

       without storm


I’m soiled

And spent

For wanting near

The warm wind

                                On my neck.



The bee that bumbles
flies the hive
to dip and trip,
then launch and dive.
His buzz to flower
a sightless trance
to soak the sweet
his shoeless dance.
Thick feet bear wing
to spring again
aft winter long
he gather gem.
His sound crescendo
melodic flea,
sum blossomed quest
mind harmony
yield honey to rest.