differences (061512)

it begins with a simple disagreement
misunderstanding
two eyes not seeing the same thing
then the moment
the attitude
awkward silence

foolish pride nurtures
stubbornness

shame
guilt
selfishness

i leave without saying a word
no looking back

you finish your glass of
cheap wine

doors slammed loudly
mouths shut tightly
each of us thinking quietly
..."damn i just fucked up".

All sons need fathers

Last night I thought about the "father"
The memories
The moments
The missing face in the pictures of my dreams
Would things have been different?

Fathers
Daddies
Your sons need you
To wipe tears
To offer encouragement
To assist in the manifestation of dreams
Caterpillars emerging from caccoons

Fathers
Your sons need
You

To heal he wounds that life bring
The lessons
The choices
The situations of circumstance

Fathers
Your sons need
You

To catch balls
Or his first fall
Awaiting your arrival after
Band practice or little league
Or karate classes
Or cheerleading try outs
It don't matter
He's your son
He's you

Daddy he needs you
Daddy we need you
Father I needed you.

do fish count?

consequence
don't make sense
when it comes to self defense

rows of bars like
parked cars
don't hold me captive

at least not mentally
or spiritually
or emotionally

i still smell the sun

my heart ain't broke
it's just sore
like being on your feet all day

if my circumstance cause one to
rethink their actions
then my time served will not be in vain

for truly the only prison that can hold
is the one created in the brain
like loose change
it's what you make it

time is a function of society
clocks don't mean shyt to me
like numbers
and words
it's all arbitrary
contrary
even scarey...when you think about it

do fish count?

slowly sliding

it drips like condensation on a crystal tumblr
slowly sliding along
i smile and toss my head back as far as i can
hoping to loose control
it becomes annoying at times
like having to wake for work each morning
clockwork routine dullness
like dusty hardwood floors in old country side
baptist churches
the ones that have yet to surrender control to
purple padded carpeting-
the thump from a feeling foot
does not sound the same

i want to feel what it’s like to live
loosely without regard for control
like a roaming wild stallion wandering
innately by what’s within
for a moment i think of this joy
swallowing the last of my brandy
imagining it must be like
dripping condensation on a crystal tumblr
slowly sliding along

loser

noon rendezvous

the colors don’t seem to match
i’m expressing my
sexy

drops of crystals fall from my nose
cold air cools my warm face
i must moisturize my skin

coffee
lite and sweet
sittin in this café waiting for my baby.

safe poems

i don’t wanna write safe poems
poems about whisping winds and fancy flowers
i don’t wanna write poems with nouns that rhyme at the end of each line
i don’t wanna write poems that are recited at inaugurations or graduations or celebrations
those poems are safe, sweet, guarded, nice, protected
they are created in a space and place that is hyper-real, full of folly, fancy, freedom, fun
FUCK THAT

i wanna write poems that smell like shyt,
bad pussy, or a
niggah’s dick after he has cum and not washed
i wanna write unprotected poems
poems that run the risk of infection- infecting your mind and soul
like a virus or an incurable STD
i want my poems to stay with you
sinking deep within, never letting you go, consuming you

i want my poems to be in the midst of abortions
between the legs of mothers who change their minds
the clamps the forceps
the discarded waste that was once life but now a bubbling protein mass of nothingness
innocent blood and broken eyes
a crushed skull
two hearts torn
a dream deferred

i want my poems to be unprotected
raw
like fucking a niggah in the ass that you just met online
cummin' inside
loose booty
no name
no love
no intent to ever return
“what in the fuck did i just do?”
too late now
shower
sleep
make a mental note: create new screen name

i wanna write the poem that’s there when you tell your mama you’re gay
the shock on her face
the void in her heart
the misunderstanding
the tears in her eyes
the lump in your throat
the final relief after years of hiding who you are
at least now she knows
and hopefully later, she will understand

sick is the poem that hovers over head while the priest in collar and robe
hard dick and old clammy hands feeling like wet fish
fondling the unripe dicks and innocent asses of 8 and 9 year old boys
fucking them up for life
raping them with images of Christ’s cum on their faces and in their minds
a vision that will be revisited in many nightmares and future court cases
to come
it must be written

i wanna taste the poem that is placed on the plate beside cold pork and beans and stale white
bread in front of the child of the woman who has worked her ass off
back hurting, legs aching,
tired, just plain
tired
puny paycheck that's
not enough
bills to pay
shoes to buy
groceries to get, groceries like
chicken wings or a piece of sausage to go with them beans
them beans
them damn beans

i must write the poem that
breaks promises
breaks hearts
breaks wind
winds beneath broken wings
give me two wings so that i may fly
high above it all
all these broken poems and broken lives
let me carry the burden as i sorely soar above it all
disturbing the funky fucked up lives of

mothers and fathers
sons and daughters
my people
and all the people that know what it's like to live a life
without rhyme
without reason
without hope
without prose
without poetry that matters to them

poetry that
suffers or
dries tears or
soothes pain
poetry that in the late night assures a new day is coming
a new day is coming
a new day
has come