Saturday, February 09, 2008


i want to finish writing like i know how. deadlines always remind you that you are dope - but you are still a vessel. i love how i don't make sense to many, only sometimes him. and he still thinks im funny. so thats enough. i have friends too. the ones that would cut for me from tx or pop trunks for me in brooklyn. they write poems like they mama gave them a pen in the womb - so i feel safe. i have a maniac. shes turned ten and is growing into this body of a young lady. i dont like that part much. actually, i'm quite scared. but she's pretty damn brilliant when i'm not around - so i think we'll be ok.

i still have a deadline. looking forward to my freedom of sorts in 10 weeks. i worry about my kin. i worry about myself. how will i ever fix this broken heart if i'm always on myspace. ok, that was a metaphor gone awry, but it sounded so good in my head. i miss the bass. still fight for her when she isn't looking. still wave to those with judging eyes and scuffed up shoes. they might drown with their noses that high in the air, i think.

i still have a deadline. amari is singing loudly and on beat. she has always been better than this drama that is the poetry world. where poets life and fuk and wait for a chance to be the popular kids, so they can in turn be mean to the other kids and make up for being unpopular in the first place. i get it. you rock. now how do i find your soul strings? right - you sold them for a threesome in the bathroom while your baby at home waited for you to return with diapers. ok. so that was totally drastic - but that's only how people listen.

no one cares about the everyday people. the woman crying at the airport when i was leaving for kansas city. the man checking the newspaper for want ads two months in a row. the college kid that fell in love who only feared he would turn out to be like his father. the other college kid that got his heart broke after giving his heart to a girl that said please, before she crushed it with fingernails and a grin. the mother who aborted her baby because she didn't know she could do it alone. the baby born thrown against a wall by its 14-year-old mother. the poets that pander to the audience in hopes of feeling better about themselves. and all of us that watch the fire burn. extinguisher within arms reach.


my coffee is always said...

appreciate your honesty... and miss ya much.. see ya soon.

Ebony Stewart said...

I'd pop trunk for you tx too! (smile)
You're dope! Enough said!

hearts curve

Anonymous said...

it is true what u say about poets; a poet must hold the flame they have been given through the night of rejection;until the dawn comes and the creative embers comfort and secure in the noonday of self-acceptance...