Anorexia

featured in the poetry forum August 28, 2012  :: 0 comments

I’m gaining weight!
Putting the pounds
Back on!

I just know it!

I can feel my face
Growing, getting
Rounder. Right
Now as I sit!

My gut is getting
Out there, too.
I can feel the fat
Building back up,

With each second.

I’m putting the
Pounds back on.
I just know it!

It must be that
Sandwich I ate
A couple of days ago.

I shouldn’t have
Been so fucking
Gluttonous! So
Weak!

If I can go without
Eating for about two
Days, maybe I’ll burn
It off.

Maybe I can push
It to three.

I’m putting the pounds
Back on. I just know it!

Look at my face! It wasn’t
This round yesterday! My
Gut wasn’t this big either!

I shouldn’t have eaten
That sandwich.

I think I’m putting the
Pounds back on.

I can’t go back to
My former self!

When no one noticed me!
Didn’t know I existed!
No one fucking cared!

Then, it was, “Oh, you
Look great! Wow! Look
At you!

“Wow.”

I don’t hear that anymore.
Now I hear voices of
Concern.

They’re just jealous.

Everyone knows the
Larger you are, the
More invisible you
Become.

And, I’m not going
Back to that!

I would rather die!

I’m going to check the
Scale…

I weigh the same…

Or maybe I lost the
Weight in-between
Weigh-ins, and now
I’m gaining it back.

I think I’m putting
The pounds back on.

I just know it.

editors note:

Such is the fate of the invisible man; responsible for missing sandwiches everywhere. – mh

He Lives!

featured in the poetry forum September 4, 2011  :: 0 comments

Jim Crow is gone
From our sight!

He’s no longer here
To torment the
Colored folk!

Gone from the buses!
Gone from the restaurants!
Gone from the voting booths!

The courtrooms!
THE ENTIRE SOUTH!

Jim Crow has
Disappeared!

But…

He is just hiding.

And you can
Find him,

Inside a woman’s womb.

Forward March!

featured in the poetry forum October 2, 2010  :: 0 comments

There they go!

The Mighty Christian Right!

Marching,
Marching,
Marching,

Marching! Through,
Communities, cities,
States, countries, and
History already written!

Marching,
Marching,
Marching,

Marching!
Intimidating!
CRUCIFYING!

Anything and anybody they don’t
Agree with or so-called threatens them,
Package it as righteousness, and
Sell it without the warning label.

WARNING: Swallowing this could
Send you faster to the Hell you are
Trying to avoid, and open the doors
To the tyranny you fear!

It’s enough to make me
Ashamed to call myself
A Christian.

Don’t they realize
That shit doesn’t work?

Didn’t they read the Bible?

Icy Road Traffic Ejaculation

featured in the poetry forum March 21, 2010  :: 0 comments

I am a sperm released because of a
Steamy, wet American Dream this morning.

I’m traveling up the virginal walls of I-20, up
Towards the Fallopian Tubes of 360, 183 and
161.

I pass my dead fellow clones who lay in the ditches,
Swim past the weak ones stuck on the hill.

And I reached my destination to fertilize the
401K nest egg.

Only to be later aborted by a coat hanger
That sports a company logo.

Nothing Going on but The Rent

featured in the poetry forum January 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

She is happy when
She is with me, so
She says.

She drinks.
She laughs.
She dances.
She sings.

She rants on life and
I listen.

She moans in passion, and
I listen.

And though 15 years my senior, with
A certain look, or
A kiss behind the ear,

Will have her blushing and giggling
Like a schoolgirl.

And that’s all good, but laughter
And happiness doesn’t pay the rent.

She misses me when I’m not around, so
She says.

After three days of my absence, like clockwork
She calls, and
She looks back on the time
We spent together days ago, or the nights before.

I guess those memories keep
Her going, but
Memories don’t pay the rent.

So, as
I write this piece, as
I listen to poets, as
I drink, dance, and rant on stage.

She’s at home with the man
She pretends to love. And while

She’s in the bedroom watching TVLand,
He’s checking his MySpace page, while switching
His cell to vibrate.

Because in their home, there’s nothing going on but
The rent.

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