In Due Time

November 11, 2008  :: 0 comments

In due time, a poem written
By me won’t be about love,
Love lost, politics, or the
World we live in.

And it won’t be
Humorous,

And it won’t be
Angry,

Or sad.

It will be about growing
Old and dying.

The fear we have of both,
Losing love ones, one by
One,

The fear we have doing
Them both, alone.

The comfort and finality
Of death itself.

And neither humor, rage, or
Sadness will appear in that piece.

Because it’s life, and it ends. That’s it.

What’s the use of getting
Emotional about it.

One day, that poem will come,
And like death, I believe it’ll
Come just when I least expect it.

1 A.M.

July 7, 2008  :: 0 comments

I’m waking up at 1 a.m.
I needed to take a piss
Really bad after drinking
Four cans of 16 oz Red Dogs
And the rest of my
Seagram’s Raspberry Twisted Gin.

I wake up to the sounds
Of central AC, and a light
Tremble from the ceiling.

I know it all too well.
In a way,

Apparently, my neighbor upstairs
Was getting her fuck-on. A very
Lovely woman. Very petite
Blond Hispanic woman with three kids.

I’ve waved to her for about
A year-and-a-half. Don’t
Know much about her. Except
She speaks very little English –
If at all,

And until tonight I’ve never
Heard this rhythmic tremble
From her place.

Normally, I would find this
Entertaining. I did with the
Lovely couple that lived there
Before her.

Now I sit with Odysseus rowing
Toward death and despair as The Beast
Keeps us in rhythm with the drum
Of melancholy.

She found herself someone.
The loneliness we’ve both shared
Is no more.

I shed tears of heartbreak
As I move to the couch.

White Girl

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

She should have lived a fairy tale
Life, but she grew up being nearly
Perfect in a perfect small Texas town
In the 80s.

Long, blond hair; blue eyes; cute, round
Face with dimples illuminated by a
Shirley Temple smile and a voice as
Mesmerizing as Aphrodite’s’ moans of
Ecstasy.

She was pure and innocent as a fawn
Before her first stance. She should have
Been the obsession of every man who
Could see beyond his arm length.

But you see, being nearly perfect is not
Not good enough.

What should in the way of her status as
Goddess (and it’s a mystery where she got them) was
when she blossomed into womanhood in junior
High, she developed over-portioned, obtuse, child-bearing hips
And thick, muscular, track-star legs.

She was branded with names such as “Wide Load,”
“Fat Ass,” and “Blue Bell.” She walked down the hall each day
to hear “STEP BACK AND GIVE WIDE LOAD SOME ROOM!!” “HEY
BLUE BELL, WHATCHA DOING IN SCHOOL? AIN’TCHA
SUPPOSE TO BE GRAZING IN THE FIELD WITH THE
REST OF YOUR FAMILY?”

It didn’t get any better in high
School. She tried to stand her ground like
The proud, glorious queen she should
Have been.

There were too many
Heather Locklear and Daisy Duke clones
To fend off. Their subjects – zombies risen
By the demi-gods from Hollywood – could not be
Turned. She stopped fighting back and
Accepted her fate

And like a flower that suffered
Long through too many cloudy
Days and dark, winter nights; she
Withered.

That was then.

She went to college. Life outside her hometown
Led to new discoveries. Different faces; different
Races. Different views on what is considered
Beautiful.

First were the blacks,
The athletes, and frat brothers became wolf packs roaming the
Campus tundra for fresh meat, and she was the perfect Black man’s
Trophy wife. Marsha Brady with a big ass.

She turned them all down, and for her troubles was called
“Racist bitch,” because they can’t see the difference between
Prejudice and preference. Their female counterparts (white, black and ghetto) were
Just as vicious, with stares that would weaken the mighty

Atlas. Now, she hears something different as she walks
Down the halls. “She thinks she’s cute. With her fat ass.”

It gets worse.

The zombies were sent a new command via movies by
J-Lo, music videos by Mariah Carrey and later Shakra.
Now she is swarmed by the same type of dogs who looked
At her like a leaper’s scab growing up.
All just salivating for the chance to
Fuck her from behind.

Even the boys back home are saying, “Damn, you’ve changed.
It’s something different about you. I mean, WOW!”
FUCKING IDIOTS!!!
Nothing changed!! She’s the same classy young woman who
Reads Katie Chopin and Emily Dickinson, listens to
Natalie Merchant, loves watching black & white film,
And idolizes Johnny Depp from 21 Jumpstreet to now.

And she sits on the same gluteus
maximus that just a few years ago
they found so repulsive.

It should boggle the mind how we treat body parts
And skin tone as though their name brand clothing
That goes in and out of style with the times.

She’s battered, bruised, scarred and confused. She’s
Seen as nothing more than a slab of walking flesh
Regardless on how one views her backside. She didn’t
Have a chance to love herself.

No one told her she could.
That opportunity was
Taken away.

I wish God would one day anoint me as His messenger, and
Bless me with golden shoes with wings so I could fly her
To heaven, because the Earth was never meant for her, but
We squandered our chance to adore her in her time outside her
Cocoon.

And before I fly back home, I would tell her, “It was never your fault.”

“It was never your fault.”

At First Sight

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

You are a jazz masterpiece to me.
With your instruments playing
In different rhythms, tempos
And notes with each step.
Feeding my soul through sight.

Your hips of percussion keep
Me lusting. Snare drum and
Cymbals shake and quiver with
Each thumping of your bass drum
Moving left, right, left, right.

Your legs are the bass lines
Round, thick, holding the piece
Together. Stroking my thoughts,
Teasing with crescendo marches,
Stunning allegro frolics, hypnotic
Bridges wrapping around my ears
As I listen to the climax.

Your breasts sing the chorus
Of brass. Your nipples are
Like mouthpieces. Powerful
Sound blasts through my mentals
Tongue dancing behind soft melody
Living vicariously through peripheral
Vision. Horns lead a bouncing tempo
With precision.

The wind caresses your hair
Like ivory keys playing a scale.
Subtle, but radiant. And I
Listen every morning, but as the
Distance grows, I squint my eyes
To keep the music from fading.

Sex Addict

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

It should bring you
A sense of satisfaction
To know that you’re
The drug of
Choice.

That feeling that
Their world revolves
Around you.

That feeling of power.
It’s almost an addiction
In itself. You’d think.

But it’s not.

Because like all
Drug addictions, the
Supply’s not always
There to meet the
The demand.

Then, you become as
Faceless as an aborted
Fetus.

For they don’t see
The drug now.
Only the need.

So, they search everywhere
From the Information
Super Red Light
District down to
Skid row.

And they’ll continue to
Feed that hunger. If
They’re lucky it’ll be
Rock bottom that’ll
Force them to stop.

Death’s not always
Instant when you OD
On sex.
But if he returns
Safe and sound, you’ll
Be happy, but only for
A little while.

Because after all,
You are his drug of
Choice

Death of a Beautician

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

They came from all over the
Neighborhood, piling inside for
One last look.
A final farewell.

Goodbye to the one with the diamond
Smile, and pious soul whose delicate
Hands molded their destinies
The day before they met it.

Prom night.
Graduation day.
That job interview that kicked off
Their careers.
The night at the club where they met
Their husbands.

Or the point in their lives when
Nothing seemed to go right. When
They were about to lose whatever
Kind of hope they were clinging
On to.

And they ran to her.
And their hearts were all screaming
The same thing.

“I just wanna feel beautiful.”

She saw within what they
Couldn’t see in themselves.
She saw them as the queens they are.

Yes, they all came to see
Her, and in exactly the
Way she wanted them to be.

Flawless, from head to toe.

The Beast, and I

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

Tonight, like last night, I feel like crying.
I’m empty inside, though one can’t tell.
At times, I do believe that I am dying.
Maybe I’m dead, and this is my Hell.

I’m empty inside, though one can’t tell.
I try to cleanse myself through fasting.
No matter I do, I always seem to fail.
I’m afraid my sadness is everlasting.

I try to cleanse myself through fasting.
In darkness, I have found a friend.
I’m afraid my sadness is everlasting.
In this mindless torture I see no end.

In darkness, I’ve found a friend.
At times I do believe that I am dying.
In this mindless torture I see no end.
Tonight, like last night, I feel like crying.

Not Tonight

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

Here I sit on my couch,
Legs stretch out on the floor,
Surrounded only by the
Murmurs from tonight’s news,
The air conditioner, and the
Loud music from my neighbors.

It’s Friday night, and my apartment
Complex becomes Deep Ellum.
Hip hop in the next building,
Tejano upstairs, dance and pop
Three doors down.

And here I sit. Guarded by these
Lifeless, white walls, and I can’t
Sleep.

They won’t allow me to sleep.

I can feel them – the walls, sitting
On my chest, and blood rushes to
My head. My temples throb, my
Heart pounds wanting to escape
From me.

And I can’t sleep.
They won’t allow me to sleep.

And I say to myself,
“I don’t want to be alone.
Not tonight.”

But where can I go?
Who do I see?

I would have to face questions
I have no answer to such as
“What’s wrong?” And emotions
I’m afraid exists will pour out
Due to my drunken state.

I would have to talk when I
Don’t feel like saying a word.

And I say to myself,
“I don’t want to be bothered.
Not tonight.”

So I drive. I drive to flee from
Those white, lifeless walls.

And here I sit. On this chair
Legs stretch out to the floor
As a half-naked stranger sits
On my nap grinding to
Reggaeton.

This is costing me $10 a
Song. And though she
Now knows me by name
I know to her, I’m just
A means to an end. A cell
Phone payment, a half-tank
Of gas or a manicure.

But the feel of soft skin and
The smell of baby powder
Is what I need.

Because, I don’t want
To be alone,
And I don’t
Want to be bothered.

Not tonight.

Sunday Night at Cave’s

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

I didn’t appreciate the place
Until I came here alone
Without the expectation of seeing
Anyone I knew.

Here I sit alone in the corner of
The bar. I laughed to myself. Thinking
I can always create a Loser’s Corner
Anywhere.

And I thought, “This is a poor substitution
For a strip club.” But the female bartenders
Are really cute, and they smile each
Time they hand me a beer. So I still
Get that strip club illusion that the beautiful
Actually care. Plus the beer is cheaper.

I sit back in the corner, while people in
Their designated groups imitate the banging
Head ritual and singing, “U hate me” by
Rammerstein followed by the whitest hop
Hip posing redition of Check the Rhyme
By A Tribe Called Quest. And I
Made a sigh of relief.

Because though I came here by myself,
I’m not alone, so I can sleep well
Tonight.

The cheap beer helps though.

Booty Call

July 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

I beg of you not to see this as
Love. It’s best for the both of us.
Well, you can if YOU want. Really I
Don’t give a shit. For me it’s plan lust.

I will state that clear.
Why do you think I’m here?

Converse? For what? You know
Why I’m at your home.
And, you know why you
Picked up the phone.

You wanted to fuck.
So do I, but ran outta luck
At the club.

So, at 3 a.m. I’m knocking at you door.
And no, I don’t think of you as a whore.

You’re…more.
Like a sacrifice fly, a free throw, a 53-yard
Field goal. Whatever it takes for my desperate,
Horny ass to score.

You fall for it every week.

I’ll tell you why, cause I
Know what’s up.
You want to fuck.

Unfortunately, for you, it’s for the wrong reason.

You still believe that if you, “Dip it low,” and “Pop,
Pop, pop that thang,” “Back that Azz up.”
And leave no evidence
On your blue dress.
That I’ll decide to stay.

And I might…
but not tonight.
It doesn’t work that way.

When I stick around it’s only
Because I want seconds.
But I’m done for now
And Saturday morning beckons.
So, again I say goodbye.
By the way
Tell my son I said hi.