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Detrick Hughes

Author | Poet


"Spread" to be released in 2024 | Click subscribe to get updates

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The Monthly Giveaways are in celebration of the Pending release of "Spread"

  • February Winner: Delores W. (Aveda Gift Set)

Paperback Books in Print

E-Books

Free w/Kindle Unlimited
Disturbing the Piece
$1.50 | Free w/Kindle U
Amazon

Books Out of Print

Compact Disc (Now Promotional)

Man Undressed
A poem is no place
      for cowards
who hold tongues
and pens as if --nestling child.

Weary of being dressed
in unfamiliar wears, the lie,
grows, will rest uncomfortably
on backs. --I know

truth runs bare-assed,
unclothed. On paper,
like my skin, it is imperfect
though it is all --I own,

words, cobbled stones,
layered brick, memories
arranged herringbone
bits of time. Hell -to that man

who hates me. I will love him
anyway, but not on paper.
Black White Photograph
Old-lace posed behind a cigarette
and pinched fingers,

turn. It was embers washed by a Kodak
flung at the night

with punch-drunk grins,
illustrated faces.

A thousands angry-eyed,
would-be heroes or whatcha-call-them

might bend knees
again to their God

while barn fires wait
for “black bodies swinging in the southern breeze.”[1]

I hate the “read”
of bones & flesh testing a lyncher’s rope,

but I’d rather not be
—erased.

[1]…excerpt from the song “Strange Fruit” by Billie Holliday.
as if asking for a lie
watched her head turn     –counter-clockwise

breaking silence like air no longer resting
with soda caps twisted from old coke bottles

the ratchet motion of crimped tin freed
amber flakes spit to floor to join last words

she left them with used footsteps
    –i pretended
it was gold and one could pine
or pan memories
when needed     –she said she wanted truths

i assumed brushed with ‘wanna be’ like butter
to over-baked biscuits snatched from ovens
    –but
it was carefully crafted lies desired     –warmed

deception placed on paper doilies
with cut out french lace
    –pretended to sip from toy tea cups

forefinger and thumb pinched plastic handles
    –at her affair     –we held laughter hostage

just beneath our breath
Listening for a Cricket at the Edge of Night
I know the sound of serrated wings,
though I am not running to some distant end
while night touches the edge of things.

Today an old young man passes
in a boy's dilated pupil
falling between thick memories.

Yesterday, he summoned his son
before turning into a stranger
disappearing into those unfamiliar spaces

that remain familiar to the son
who stands quiet in dew-fresh grass
chasing the sound of crickets.
Cool Cups
Backdoors stayed open
except for screen barriers
where files buzzed
and thumped their bodies
trying to escape summer swelter.

We wore the heat on our backs
as we rumbled through the projects
with dusty-ass bare feet.

Old ladies propped their shoulders
against wooden frames
where hinges screamed
and released colored sugar-water
frozen in disposable Dixie Cups.

My favorite had knock-knock jokes
that I bent into funny stories
with carefully placed four-letter words.
I would regale friends for pennies

asking them not to repeat.
I was not afraid of losing my hustle,
but Mom did not appreciate
little black boy potty-mouths.

Some ladies traded the ice
for nickels instead of dimes.
I knew those were poured

from the spigot of Borden Juice jugs.
I preferred cool cups ladies
who used packets of Kool-Aid
or Wyler’s with its range of flavors.
The cheap stuff rusted in my throat.

It’s been a minute since I had a cool cup
or seen those mythical women
with their wire fly swatters.
Contacts
Found Crow’s[1] number
in the corner of my phone
camouflaged next to another Hughes.

It had been quiet for months
collecting binary cobwebs.

                Carl Hughes 409

I never greeted him with father,
dad. But—wanted
to taste those syllables
when moments provided too much time.

Maybe a good son
renames the reference to “Dad”
and stores it in the cloud.

Wondered of his body
and the prosthetic leg
the VA added below the knee.
Did the undertaker rest it
in his dress blues?

Maybe it became an artifact
heaped on trash
or refurbished metal & foam.

But—did they make him whole,
and can I remove his number?

It begs my thumb
so I called my mother
just to hear the way she says

“Hello, Son”
and I visited Crow’s plot
and cried on the way home.

That year, I got a new phone.

 [1] Crow was my father’s nickname.

2024 Readings/Events

Celebrating Black History Month, BCFS Health and Human Services, 4346 NW Loop 410, San Antonio, TX 78229 - Wednesday, Feb 21st from 10 AM - 4 PM (Reading @Noon)

Lyric & Verse (Reading & Slam), Lackawanna (Buffalo), NY - Saturday, April 20th

Book Release Celebration, Houston, TX - Saturday, Octber 12th 4:00 - 6:00 pm at the University of Houston, Alumni Center, 3204 Cullen Blvd, Houston, TX 77004

2023 Readings/Events

ThoughtCrime Live, Beaumont, TX - Friday, April 14th

Lyric & Verse (Reading & Slam), Lackawanna (Buffalo), NY - Saturday, April 22nd

Uncloistered Poetry Live @ The Attic On Adams, 1701 Adams St, Toledo, OH 43604, Toledo, OH - Saturday, June 10th @ 4:00 PM ET

2022 Readings/Events

Theodore Johns Library, Beaumont, TX - May 27th

Deep Vellum Bookstore, Dallas, TX - August 4th

Blue Cypress Books, New Orleans, LA - October 6th

Project Row Houses, Houston, TX - Nov 13th

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