Bekah Fly has been writing and performing poetry since a young age. She has performed poetry at the Nuyorican Poets cafe, Museo Del Barrio, Bar 13, the United Nations with “I sell the Shadow”, Joes Pub with Saul Williams. Her writing has been featured in Spoon River Poetry Review, Saul Williams “A mixtape,” Bending Genres. She has taught poetry workshops with Urban Word at Bellevue Hospital psych ward in NYC and at Farley Mowat recovery program in Los Angeles.
Becoming a patron of my art/music/poetry is like subscribing to my magazine or a to surrealist radio channel by an awkward graffiti god who sometimes communicates with thunder beings. As a monthly subscriber, you can help keep this disabled artist living longer and continuing to create
i'll tell you the truth that hasn't happened:
i begin in a rude place
my body is ugly. and a consequence of silence
i watched myself being born
i came from crocodile mouths,
i swam thru the bronx of my mothers' belly
she married those cracks in bible passages
her jesus-witch-brew cried a liquid city between thighs and blurred bookcases
until a heartbeat broke centuries
a noisemaker spat
and bled thru his golden horn.
a poet held me down on a bed.
this is old news, all the stethoscopes have told it before.
i watch the singing ones and i want to move in their throats
and i want to sleep in them
and not be so scared all the time.
i dont want to talk about the kissing ones, or the ones who are smaller than their mouths, who die in the middle of the street, and how small children are chastised for wanting to touch them. Who are the lullaby gods' worst...or the funksmell that follows them across bridges, and beneath breasts, and powders armpits with their crying.
If i could tell you i love you in a language where fear didn't exist
i know i would remember the earth as a piece of my chest.
Do earthquakes practice being themselves?!
....if this flood kisses me, I'll wash my lungs...if my heart sheds like water I'll cross the street// satellite orbiting sleep backwards// in my chest 100 wolves scattering, the highways' throat for a drum....
fingerprints as a posture/for a postage stamp I'm listening/ easier than 3 bullets in his brain, the font of your music on my bones replanting a nervous system...sleep...sleep...the milkways' ghost graffiti-ing sleep
....i am also Saturn for blood and artemisinin
i regret not giving myself as a gift to the rain in awkward currents
sharpening my sounds like knives
swimming around inside
a 7 rainbow octave
a little lust pocket
i keep this light in my backpocket as a crows' foot.....
if your blood is also a funny shape, then yell