While at first it might be easy to confuse this poet's name with his famous cinema counterpart, but after reading James Cagney's work, the distinct passion of his subject matter and rhythm of his cadences stick with you. 

Well known for his performance pieces, Cagney has shared stages with Maya Angelou, Quincy Troupe and Will Power and read at major artist venues around the Bay Area including the Afrosolo Performance Series, The Starry Plough, La Pena Cultural Center, Above Paradise Lounge and The Java House.

At The Velvet Rope of Heaven 

Your warmth resides 
within the palms of light reaching 
through the branches of these wild 
trees sweating squirrels 
 
yet amidst flurries of pollen 
like somnambulist insects 
i remain lost within myself 
even as the air is stirred by hawks 
and children move as flood waters 
across the hillside-- 
their language limited to the action of their small 
fingers, moving in a choreography of butterflies 
 
there is the dance of grasses 
to the song in wind 
a blues heard best from a mouth 
full of leaves—with lyrics brittle and hollow 
crushing to dust under foot 
or between palms softened 
thru fervent prayer. 

A Prayer (for s.g.) 

life is imperfect but your love is eternal. 
my heart lifts this petition to your table of mercy 
through my illusion of inferiorities 
i've become indifferent to my imagined investments-- 
in family, in love, in a warm spring that never buds. 
I inherited infinite inadequacies yet with every injury 
I heal from the light of your divine love. 
improve these impure intentions -- inaugurate inspiration 
within me. may your angels undress me of my false identity, 
my imagined self. Bless me to remain present in your perfect light. 

For What Remains

His tongue endless as these breaking waves 
he pulls whole sentences, black and cold

vines of seaweed out of this throat. 
but his words are homeless around me.  
i jettison them, his voice, into the noise 
of the embroidered waves, sweeping them out to sea. 
 
are you listening to me, he says. 
you and i are just alike, i answer. 
i am here, now, for what remains of the low 
hanging fruit of the sun. his words are 
as rose petals; i sprinkle them into the tongue 
of water rainbowing beneath rolling foam 
 
the sun hemorrages orange, violet 
and falls drowsy at the horizon. 
i turn away from him, stare at the action

of water and sky. He circles

behind, repositioning between the sun and me.

I walk faster launching his words into the sun 
Take it, I keep saying. Take it all. 
 
I toss my heart into the nucleus of the sun 
now leaking variations of red 
like something hammered thru god's palm 
 
The sun sets. He talks. Waves sweep. 
I offer this as a kind of grace: 
Let go. Let go. 
 
And the sun is gone,

leaving us 
and everything we've been for one another 
behind. 
 
Silence.

The dull crunch of sand, now. 
and waves vocalizing. 
He looks up.

Are those headlights, he asks. 
 
They are camp fires,

       lining the shoreline 
embers of light fallen in lint off the sun. 
 
We stand at a distance,

watching the flames, 
friends gathered.

Nothing is left to burn 
between us.  Just evidence

of something having once 
lived and flourished

but is now extinguished

and lies cooling in the dark 
 

Bakersfield   

Aunt Pearl's grass appears painted,

each blade perfect and ripe, bleeding

should you pinch it between your fingernails. 

Her dog, named Rat by a granddaughter

for obvious reasons, darts a stray mark

of ink across the lawn.  He stops at his water

dish, a snow globe of sand, and chokes

down the liquid.  From a distance,

he appears to be a curly black wig,

his tongue a perfect orange slice.   

The heat is a curse in Bakersfield;

worrisome and mischievous as a mad

fly, even coaxing my mother into

shorts.  It is a heat that hugs you,

sticks and burns.  It is a heat that

settles over you like ash and is cured

only by watermelon and lemon popsicles.   

Night comes slowly as if the sky

were being peeled in long strips

of blue banana skin.  One at a time

the stars remove their shirts

revealing their random white bodies;

tiny stones littering a beach of black

sand.  In the cooling darkness,

the sidewalks surrender tortured

memories of heat and mimic hot coals.   

Uncle Jerry sits on the cement porch.

The sky above him ripens to a deep

plum color as he unscrews a story

from a bottle and moths dance

their suicidal dance for the flickering

porch light which, at this moment,

is brighter and hotter than the sun. 

Day/Shift 

mornings my mother would wake

with the birds, sweep the shadows

of the house with sunlight,

brew coffee sweetened to a black

syrup, straddle the high stool

where I first learned to handle

a chicken leg, a spoon

sit like an actor before a haloed

mirror on the kitchen sink

and quietly press her hair. 

      she could do this blindfolded

hands working from memory

while she read the paper.  the hot comb

smoothing her hair into vinyl.

      before her, the tribune.  coffee.  toast

indented by a sunrise of butter.  a glass

of water prayed into holiness.

the chirping morse code of the curling

iron.  Bergamot mist rising

from smoothed loops of her hair.

A tuneless whistle from her lips. 

      the morning of my mother’s death

the shrillness of the telephone

could shatter a heart.  the house was colder

than from the night before.

every morning my mother would pull the living

room curtains open with

a rustling sound and fill the house with

yellow. 

this morning the only sound is of rain.

her doctors’ voice like a lover

who didn’t want to see or speak

to me again

      I take her message and hold

it like a doomed orchid

in the cool, new stillness of the house. 

Sandwich School

Gimme a turkey sandwich with everything, no onions. 
I don't want them things. What's that? 
Red bell pepper taste like water. Nasty! 
And pickles! I want pickles. Extra pickles. 
 
I don't want them things. What's that? 
Olives is nasty. Yellow cheese! The yellow kind. 
What kind of bread is that?  Brown?  Ugh. 
Did yawl put honey mustard? I'm watching yawl. 
 
Olives is nasty. Yellow cheese! The yellow kind. 
What kind of bread is that? Brown? Ugh. 
Did you put honey mustard? I'm watching yawl. 
Look-- ain't you been to sandwich school? Damn. 
 
What kind of bread is that? Brown? Ugh. 
That's too much lettuce. That don’t look right. 
Ain't you been to sandwich school? Damn. 
I'm allergic to tomatoes. Just... Oh, hell naw. 
 
That's too much lettuce. That don’t look right. 
Red bell pepper taste like water. Nasty! 
I'm allergic to tomatoes. Just... Oh, hell naw. 
Gimme a turkey sandwich with everything, no onions.

You can read more of Cagney's work on his website http://dirtyratattack.com and see his performance during semifinal competitions of the Oakland Poetry Slam on April 8.

Oakland Poets is our feature highlighting The Town's talented wordsmiths.  If you know someone we should feature or would like your work considered, email Kwan@oaklandlocal.com.