Talkin Shit
Being somebody, I love instead of someone everybody wants to fuck is my goal. Most of the time.
Love Me til’ the End
If I say I love you, I mean it at that moment. But we all know nothing lasts forever. So don’t be upset when it ends, because maybe, it won’t last forever.
CONVERSATIONS WITH THE OG
—Hey lord.
Hey luv.
—Halo.
Hello. Don't talk in circles.
—Not today, we haven’t spoken in too many.
And in that time, I’ve seen too many...
—My God. You act as If you didn't.
I'm tired of it.
—I won't call you a liar. Or all people say in its place, when you are away! We ain't close so I never lied to your face. Buuuut I know I’ve done some things to turn you away. But I follow your rules. Measuring life through my waist. Low-key, penetrating middles during crisis to live a high life.
You interpret them different!
—Maybe. But just think…You know the damage. Sure, I miss managed. But I miss how she managed my...
—My bad, I'm still fresh with rage, so I’m not watching what I say. We got our secrets. You don’t always Keep them, Remember. You nearly drowned me in tears. Don't ask me to come home. You entertain too many people that were close to me. Too many I miss, that I can't go see. Right now, I have all I need-mostly.
—I have been a glutton. But I'm not full of it. I cleanse daily. My sense of smell is better than my humor. I smell you in the air. Sometimes it makes me sick. The energy has two seasons- loud and clear. And clearly, you're in the time of not caring.
—But seriously OG, one joke I never understood was “people I put through hell love me the most. And those that returned the favor I don't.”
God bless because goddamn.
—Either way I'm good because I'm still here, alive and kick-in it with you. My weird friend. whose betrayal feels like love. Our relationship has me open. And I ain't into that unless I’m the one going in.
—Lol.
—Can you believe were talking? I can't because we don’t usually. But I’m gonna go. You taught me “never exhaust a good time".
Before you go. Why did you? You used to believe wholehearted. Now I am the drug you blame and take for pain.
—C’mon. You already know. I already told you. You did it. Taking away everyone, I loved and needed.
You are Alive still and by choice. I never promise a moment past your present. I have gifted them all. I am blamed every time you ruin. And those you blame me for, did I take them on purpose? Or was it an accident?
—I thought you didn’t make mistakes.
I didn’t and I don’t. I said accident. Again, you mis-interpret. Man dies on purpose, with purpose or by accident, Never from my direction or my hand.
THINKERS DILEMMA
This morning, I decided my mind would be a gun, so I could be a patriot. A sword, so I could be a warrior. A weapon, so I could heal and conquer. I can use it on myself and to control others.
EVERYDAY HIGH
I was doing laundry. Trying to help my son and subconsciously myself clean up our act. And improve my mood by freshening up how I think about everyone around me.
“Why would I want to come home and live with people that are dirtying my space, I’m going to eventually want to get away and stay away. “
I told him the same about his body and mind.
“If you only put junk in, you will eventually get stuck and have to live with crap.”
Then I did the deep thought pause, like I was about to, and already had said somethings making me a hypocrite. The fact that I claim my love is unconditional but was giving my son an ultimatum. Or telling him to make sure he stays healthy when I’m trying to shed the shit I eat.
But fuck it. We need the honesty, so we don’t grow into adults we dreaded as kids-wishing we were someone else. Covering our greatness in dirty thoughts with a stench that keeps us buried and alone.
I use Purex laundry detergent and as I watched it pour out, I thought
“My thoughts are pure.”
The journey to become an ex. can clean up your life. It can be hard? And it could be easy depending on how many you want. Ex’s make your feelings overflow until, the one you are with gets wrecked during the cleanup.
Then I heard something spilling. It was the detergent-making the floor slick.
My daydream was over, and I told myself, “That’s the last time I take an edible.”
SURVIVING MYSELF
All my habits and identities serve me until I get bored.
I change so much I get confused. Because I have never stayed satisfied, I lose focus.
Does that mean I am un-disciplined? Or does it mean I am disciplined enough to plan my frustration with ease and precision, so it comes naturally like attraction?
MIDNIGHT MEDITATION
When I can’t tolerate my thoughts-whispers and screams telling me to improve, allowing failure to gain every day I don’t obey- I’m ignoring simple wisdom and encouraging myself to live stupid.
But I know I’m not stupid. So why do I play the song of sorrow and regret until it becomes the theme guiding my habits and interactions? Then act accordingly until I see myself in everyone around me-linked in struggle.
Breaking away from pain that doesn’t benefit you is a struggle you can’t brace for and the hardest to let go. Because bruises show up in any light and all your focus goes towards hiding. You lose sight and neglect other people and areas of importance.
After I overcome sorrow, happiness can seem like torture. I constantly remind myself of the steps I took to reach the comfort of a doom that seemed impossible to escape and avoid. Leaving the door open for things you miss can also allow intruders.
Whatever version of myself I create, it’s because I listened. Whatever I believe from someone else, it’s because I listened.
DON’T HOLD ME DOWN
Image from Black Panther movie
ALL OF YOU recruiting Blacks/BIPOC to teach you about Diversity Equity Inclusion. Picking our brains to see the minimum required to keep us satisfied.
You should be required to go into schools and teach them about labor, finance, capitalism, and how and where wealthy people invest.
Tell them why they can be approved for school loans/debt high as a business owners’ salary but denied for a business loan they might pay off faster.
Y'all are slick lube, but we ain't fucking stupid
I WISH A MUTHA WOULD
Art by Jordan Casteel
I started by wishing him well but ended wishing I killed him.
All of them actually. They called me all sorts of names. Imagine that. These well-wishers. happily tossing money but cursing those they see take it.
One guy in particular, looked as if he was full of war. Maybe one day I will eat that good. That was one of my wishes.
The deep grooves in his head looked like a freshly plotted cemetery. He knew where the bodies were hidden. He pointed at me with both hands as if I was the target.
‘This is a wishing well you…’ He allowed the on-lookers to finish his sentence, whipping fists full of coin, candy, and shoes.
I knew people paid to end lives, and clasped my hands in prayer, then rubbed my face, neck, and arms with water so they wouldn’t have a clear patch of skin to tattoo their curses.
But this guy… He was dressed smart, in what I imagine an ivy league professor to wear. Leather man purse. I think the pants are called tweed. A white bow tie, and dark shirt.
He looked younger than I imagined a professor to be, in spite of his manicured beard speckled with grey. I think it was the Viking strip mounted on his head that made me question his age. Maybe he was too old to still really fight for something other than harassing… Well… Nobody ever seems too age out of that.
Standing knee deep, picking up coins, soaked. Splashing intruders.
I thought:
‘I’m getting paid for cleaning, so why is everyone so mad?’
I knew I could mop him up. The stringy fingers of his supporters slid him to safety before I drowned him in blood.
I wasn’t so lucky. I laid stiff and cold as the coins in the well from their pushes and lashes.
‘You are disrespecting peoples wishes.’ He yelled.
I was glad he didn’t say prayers. cause, then, I might’of really tried to kill him. Everybody knows prayers are free. That’s really what wishes are anyway.
Right now, all I want is to see tomorrow.
Angels With Handsome Faces
Art by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye
Lonnie hated his name. It wasn’t tough enough, didn’t match… Him.
His mother had always wanted a girl, and when she saw his sweet face…
His father wasn’t around…
She told him:
“When I named you” …
She coughed a heavy haze. Stared at it. Slapped it away, distorting reminders of regret. The way her and Lonnie’s smoke would tango. But they never danced around passion. Her thoughts and speech, trailed like screams of a fall.
“He”…
“Your father was after a girl too. Somewhere” … “He still hasn’t found…”
When Lonnie had his own son, he vowed to be different. His son would have a good name. Nothing weak, trendy, or tragic. A strong one, to keep everyone in place. A name to be remembered.
When Lonnie’s son was born-the boy cried so much, Lonnie was sure he would shrivel and dry out. He Wondered if he actually had a girl.
“Boys ain’t supposed to cry like that!”
The boy’s mother would say:
“He just needs a little love.” As she reached for him. “
Lonnie pinched before handing the boy over. Shock brings the man out. If he was gonna cry, it better be for a reason. Lonnie fed him, hot bottles that bit his throat and tore out screams.
Lonnie yelled:
“pick yourself up”, when he fell.
If Lonnie did have to help, he squeezed hard, until knuckles and bones popped, until asking for help associated with torture and weakness.
Funny thing about children of a certain age-they have a forgiving spirit. Angels in flesh turned into devils. Trying their entire life to ignore the grave sculpted and furnished by their parents.
When Lonnie’s son tried to hug him, Lonnie pushed him.
“Be ready for anything.”
Next, was a slap then a punch.
“I am not your mother.” A firm handshake is the only greeting a man needs.”
What the son needed, he realized by the age anger and pleasure makes penises hard as fists, was to be out, away from the den where his father prowled.
This taught him the value of time. He wasted so much, avoiding his father, who spread his like fantasies from scented wind. He didn’t notice his mother wilting from pollution. Strong roots can only survive so long, being pulled, struck, stripped from every direction, in the place they are supposed to be protected.
When Lonnie returned to bury his wife, he was greeted with the warmth of a wildfire.
Old age brings remorse. And it’s often one sided- like that grave Lonnie’s son forced him into.
Who YOU Calling Toxic
Listen. Man, if you call me toxic one more time. Imma tell you to stop being a bitch. All my problems don’t involve my dick. But I do wanna fuck everybody up that’s minding my business.
Not always, not every day. I’m peaceful enough not to involve or blame anyone for my problems. I don’t care how bad I had it, I’m moving past that. But if that’s all you wanna discuss and harass me when I show love I will bust, so you have to stitch and bandage your mouth menstration.
BITCH!
HEARTBREAKER
The destruction I seen people halfway survive- when I was young and strong enough to get up and move away from caused me to look at them as weak. The way children look at fat parents and spouses look at their bed-guests who used to chase and be their dreams.
As age and weight hold down bad decisions, and you represent everything you swore to never become. Making friends with and becoming the worst- because you can depend on going down together. That becomes a different kind of happiness. A different type of heartbreak. Allowing and encouraging betrayal.
Then, people move on. They change, die, or both, and leave you hanging. Until you think about hanging and live surrounded by misery. This is when people think they can’t solve their own problems.
But you are always the answer. People don’t always believe that and that’s the real heartbreak.
FRIENDSHIP
Sometimes you have to let that ship sail.
If I’m not being friendly, it’s because I’m treating myself better than you do.
TABERNACLE
Vibrating upon the ears of listeners was the scratching sound of decisive hands, messaging delicate pages expressing life that ends miserably for those who don’t pay attention.
MAN;
I’m from a place where youth didn’t experience the joy of presence. You had to be two steps ahead or get flipped backwards. The only thing that turned old was their soul. But to change-you have to believe it’s worth the price of allowing something bigger to take control.
BOY:
God was a damned man. I have no use for prayer. Anything allowing defeat can’t be a savior. He abandoned his son and his mother. So he can’t be my idol-leading me to a place to sing and dance. Wash my senses with praise by giving up my finances. Hope never put food in my belly. Wishing won’t take my troubles away. Building worship without jobs, taught me how to rob. If this is what a man does, I’ll stay a boy until my dying day.
We all tune out people who beat us down with lessons if they haven’t achieved the success they are expressing.
HOME-BODY
Where I'm at.
My home is where my mind is. I try to open up to see things different, air out differences. But I like the same things. My way. You will like it too or go find another. I will change at any moment, so be ready to go.
You don’t have to smile, but don't frown at my honesty. I let it go soon as its said. I like to move on-not dance around and trip over it.
I just wanna sit. Enjoy my heaven for a minute. Between your eyes. Between your lips. Between your hips. Which-ever you choose to let me in. But pleasure makes me want to escape when it becomes painful to maintain.
Going through hell can bring peace. The fire of impatience makes it hard to see. I try to give, but the depth is suffocating. That may not be hard to hear but constant struggle makes difficult to speak.
SPAGHETTI DAY
Do you remember when you were told.---”You keep eatin that shit, that’s what you gonna become.”
Well.---Now that I am done ranting.
This is for my spaghetti lovers.
Those wiggly, long, slimey’s, flavored to your own belief. Slipping and sliding down.
Smooth and stringy like...
And the sauce.
Red and wet or White and sticky.
Don’t think.---Just dive in.
You will love the various seasonings.
Enjoy dinner tonight.
ON THE COUCH (GRIZZLY THERAPY)
Art by Kharbine Tapabor
If you’re thinking-He’s watching your curves as you sit. If you can move like the ocean of bodies searching for an escape. Wet from make-up sex and the pain of never recovering from mistakes.
Ahhh-you are half right.
This is why I don’t need therapy.
FUCK YOUR THERAPY!
LISTEN! I believe in it for people who can’t find another way to help themselves. At one point in my life, I thought I wanted to be a psychologist. But I’m always too busy working out my own problems-helping everyone I love-love me more. And the ones that don’t, well they just don’t know me intimately. Because everybody loves other people’s pain.
Listen. I talk to myself enough. I tell myself the truth-honest-brutal-sympathetic, enough to lay in my own bed and not shrink my issues into hourly rates cries and tissues.
If I want to kill myself or you, I know why. Everybody ain’t always happy.
Ahhh-I just thought of this-Listen! I don’t like being lectured or preached to because fathers and preachers let pussy make them foolish enough to fuck up families.
Now that was therapeutic.
DAD PSYCHOLOGY
Damn.
Stop chasing, the rapist of your life. Pleasure that has you sitting up late nights, rocking on the edge. Reaching to shut off your lights.
Refusing to look at the life's you shattered. All the beauty you made ugly. Because fuck faces are satisfying as rubbing a horrible wound while its healing.
What am I saying?
More money and more bitches. Everybody’s addiction. The only truth you can't deny. Like a man’s love adjusting and aging with his children. Growing strong as a tantrum, as they weaken from their first crush. Trying to break the bond before they get fucked.
He thinks?
What if I lose my daughter to my idea of perfection? Men reject their sons for less. Because our dreams were excused after we decided to let go. Then we pass as the ass. Shitting on everyone.
For no good reason. Just old, useless beliefs. But I get to use them to use somebody. I'm guilty but not responsible. Damn, I'm where they get it from.
URBANIA
Image created on Canva by Borcelle
People used to say “urban” as a slick way to let Blacks know we were too ghetto and hood. Only good as the fast food, speeding up our bad decisions.
As if they invented a new way of living, they advertise new beginnings. Keeping us collared, bundled, dirty as a dollar. While we pay to keep theirs white, our forced smiles entertain, as they watch us grimace to survive cold nights.
This city! Grey dreary, foggy most of the year. Mindful of the way it medicates depression. On every corner, through every mirror, patriot healers stand, leading another business succession.
Blossoming like virgins and cherries. The smell of the most vibrant narcotic. Potent as mind copulation that tingles the spine.
Powerful, calm and inviting. The reason the hood needs a mental plan. Common place for homes with the highest income to provide room on every corner to house a make-shift slum.
Here, it makes sense to be discourteous, where people like me chase revenge and can barely pay rent. Trying to clean by airing dirt, but nobody gets close enough to care for the ones hurting.
A place where we contract equality. And salaried caregivers become useless officials, teaching kids to get ahead by making drug deals. Concealing pollution, bodily discharge, needles from paraphernalia and shrubs-poking my pockets for bread.
The city attempts relief when I swell up with anger. Punishing small businesses and taxing the GAY and BIPOC community for trying to make equity more than a profitable statement.
A place covered with towering greenery. Landscape breathtaking as a redhead running through a field. Where I get fired on and shamed for defending my family.
To say they accomplished something, people try to befriend a N.I.G.G.A.—I mean a MAN like me.