POETRY BY M
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
leaking
familiar truths
that it’s not the climate
or condition
you’ve been in,
but how you’ve weathered
the storm.

in the red, blue, white star
I’ve been dressed in.
who built our marble crib
before our birth.
storming skins of origins
with earthen eyes;
we bound their titles to
propagate lust.
for not fulfilling our promise
conception owes.
This round and braille
story terrain.
been written in smut slurs
and high bibles.
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

Who has chosen a staining yellow
Leaning away from branches
He melted into the foliage.
The leaf that masquerades
As a plant; naught more
Somewhere in the pile by my knees.
I think; still naught more than
Sit long on what I’ve done,
Watch the white come in.

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.
9/2006
Consumption
the assumption is:
I NEED this.
So I feed on this
and your bullshit tastes
MMmmmmmmmmm,
so good.
What I should
do,
you say
is:
want this,
flaunt this
I pay for
Excess and
this Bitch
This BITCH
is a customer,
this seat’s for her.
Well,
lick it up
Baby
and maybe
You’ll get
that
wet Dream that haunts you
I know
It daunts you
don’t it?
The shedding your skin
this
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
lingers
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.
m.hampton
2000
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
NO.
I’ve got to
cling to that thing
that won’t ever
Be
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
design
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.
m.hampton
2000
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
anyone
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
later
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
unaffected
as your void advances on me
a growing puddle
residing in the cracks on the tile
m.hampton
2/2004
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
casualties
of our own
affairs
than victims of
resultant reluctance
m.hampton
2006

I’m
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
unknown
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
wound
in words.
M.Hampton
5/2006
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
Mother,
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.
m.hampton
2003
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.
m.hampton
2001
We smile back at ourselves
From our reflections
In the TV
We marvel at the good
We’ve done
The values
We’ve fed
Worldwide
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
Opportunity
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
Everyday
Of no consequence
the nausea
Vomits an answer
Sometimes
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
Knowing
your rape can never be undone.
So I’m done
I’ve taken too many pills
For the ache in my head
They’ve
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
But,
I’m not sorry.
Not anymore.
Not sorry.
Not after this
Next line
m.hampton
1/2007
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
softly.
m.hampton
7/2008
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
equality.
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
Pig.
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.
M.Hampton
2005
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,
Rest
Peacefully for the night
Somehow
The Kin
had stained the walls.
The men
Were marching through
The house
Invading all the
Rooms with windows.
Matron
Was reading
Art books
Trying
To relax
Upstairs.
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
No
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
Light
Step
Dark
Step
It flashed over her face
As she slowly tore down
The spinning staircase
No
No
No
No
No
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
where
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
when
I set foot for Canada
my carriage late
but still timely
It stormed straight through
my travels with wind
hail
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
here.
m.hampton
2008
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.
m.hampton
8/2008

Is it all right with you?
If I plain say enough.
Would you be just fine?
If I stop for one line.
enough.
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
m.hampton
1999
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
browning
Little Ache
eating pink things
eating soft things
Little Ache
You shouldn’t
Little Ache
You should leave
Little Ache
uninvited
unreciprocated
un-reposed.
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.
m.hampton
2006
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
Hopeless
is better than
Shattered.
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
Pristineland.
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
POP!
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
Numb.
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,
‘Whatchadoin?
Nothin.’
What’s to be done?
The actors do for us.
May I take your order?
Advancement conveniences:
Save us
Excess
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
I
’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.
m.hampton
1999
Hi.
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
always
like my corpse
some times
when I come back at Night
to scramble through the wish box,
I stop and
unfreeze
My Thoughts
just long enough to
write bad poetry and
wish you weren’t dead
by the by
I am
still,
Unloved
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?)
So,
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
right.
I’m getting so good
at lying
down
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,
candles.
I thanked you
by stifling
my particular talents
knowing
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
unfolding
m.hampton
3/2007
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
unwound
the wishing.
This thing that was
now wept away
so what?
She says
So What.
M.Hampton
5/2006
Madonna
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
unbounded.

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
breathe
Gulp the fairest air
For a moment we
Share it
Then
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,
comrade
She is
In my dream
We take trophies.
m.hampton 1999

You had no business softly raining today
Still
Your unpredictable expression is appreciable
When you started to shine like I did your uncertainty was unapparent and you are so
Odd
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?
m.hampton
2001

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.
So,
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
you
standing there
in my
living room
leave me be
America
Get out
leave me be.
M.Hampton
1/2007
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.
M.Hampton
2002
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.
m.hampton
2006
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
meantime
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.
m.hampton
2004
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
m.hampton
2004
The radio this morning
blared
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.
M.Hampton
September 11, 2001
10 a.m.
unspeakable things
heard in expressions
&tense,untouchingfingers
bleed dissertations
oninstability
build thrones
where we sit unclothed
&nurseOurShrunkenGenitals
This is where
we freeze our feeling
&bury it behind
old liverwurst
&UntastedWeddingCake
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.
m.hampton
1/2008
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

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.
M.Hampton
2005
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.