It’s funny how no matter how deeply we understand a word, phrase, person, or innately stored concept, our attempts to convey said understanding always falls short.  The way we define things is only ever an approximation. The way we use the words we do and why we choose them are mere facsimile when juxtaposed to our innate understanding of concepts.  Even the most eloquent members of our species are doomed ever to build the shoddiest bridges of communion from one seat of consciousness to another.  Despite this apparent gross mishandling of language, we are always compelled to pin our “best attempt” at communication to the surface of another’s perception.  We are like islands of being.  “Good writing gets down to the essence of things,” a good mentor once told me. There is a divinity ceded within brevity.


In The Backroom

Was you a Black Queen in a past life?

Did God grant you a pass like,

From ancestor to grand daughter,

“I got you right the first time,

no added mix to the formula…”

And she said,

“I beat these bruises out my face,

and rub a smile across my lips,

but you can still see the thorns draped around my neck.

So if you think you can just buy my affection,

or spend my time…”

We painted all night in my studio,

She had a candid conversation with my canvas,

As I brushed her skin in candied couture,

Each breath like laughter,

Until honey dripped between her thighs,

The way the flames of another person,

Swallow you whole before you can wade their shallow waters,

I feel comfortable the way we bury our problems in one another.

False Fantasies

I know it, I know I’m wrong.  There’s no way I could ever be right.  Rationally and empirically there is no possible way she could be the right one for me.  Why? Because I don’t know anything about her.  But I know if only my voice could reach her.  Not that I’m afraid of talking to her of course, I could chat up a storm, but better yet I’m a superlative listener.  I just need my true voice to reach her, the one that speaks on first sight, that  speaks of all the miraculous things the future for her I hold.  I know I can be your everything.  I know what I can be. I know it like I know the tenderness of my mother’s kisses.  But I can’t speak of such things, I can’t say how I know I love you.  How you ignite everything inside me and how there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to you.  I know that I’m just caught up in the experience of witnessing beauty something that should be preserved but not possessed.  I know you could be just as broken as me.  And yet…when I see that woman…With the floppy hat, fur vest, skinny jeans, and black heels.  With the black lipstick, pierced nose, soft lips, rich eyes, and deep skin. When I see her…I can’t help but love her.

Quiet…You’ll lead me astray.


The Passion

When you lie beside, thigh running over thigh, arm over waist…

When you touch and clutch, and grip me with your smile…

When your hair rakes me and your fingers take me…

When you sigh and search, whisper with thirst…

When you climb as we grind, skin shining sublime, bodies intertwined…

When you leave nothing of yourself outside my skin, and the Gods above and Devils below call it sin.

I know I carry a piece of you within.


Thoughts Past Midnight Part 2

It begins as such: The sun reveals the truth in the form of all things, thereby freeing beauty.
What beauties from truth will you reveal to me, I’m hoping it’s something more than skin deep.
My virtue to you is the freedom of expression.
Can I be the catalyst to your satisfaction? An ounce of your doubt and a gram of my passion, chemistry together for favorable metabolic reactions. No need to get ahead of ourselves, we can start with subtraction of all your distractions and work our way down to the fractions of your clothes .
Then maybe dispel all your woes as we lie beside each other, confide each other, preside and realize each other.
If you are my truth then my words are your proof, Mother of my “versa lingua.” Unconfine yourself from the rhyme and embrace thy divine.
The gift you take from wine is the presence of time, not temptuous taste…
Be true to your skin…be true to your form. Bless me with your poetry and every letter’s effort. I’m trying to find that sublime selfless. Wrap me up inside you girl and apply that pressure…and we can push through forever together.


Thoughts Past Midnight Part 1

[Once, skin glittered like gold. Words spun sweet to song. Eternity my goal. Light…soft within my grasp, comforting my soul, comforting my soul.]
(What was taken from me is too innumerable to count.
The little left of me an immeasurable amount.
Life to me is empty.
Nothing lies behind these hollow eyes.
Bowed pride, silent cries, shallow skin.
Melanin to marrow, Silence and sorrow like poison on the tip of an arrow.
Meaning in morning erodes, like tides ‘gainst shores that ebb and flow.
Name remains unknown.
Forever listless, ever ahead remains the road.
Destiny neatly paved, restlessness, heart bereft.
Cities composed of shattered towers and empty hours.
False priests minister in the streets.
I know not you, nor much less me,
Relentless pursuit, lay me to rest.
Bury me deep then fade to sleep, pray the Lord my soul to keep.
Just some simple thoughts past midnight, wishing even for broken wings to take flight.
Your will to fill me my greatest fright.
Even shattered remnants of a human being you say are well worth the fight.
Perhaps you’re right, not enough left of me to decide.
Loving me is the most selfless form of suicide.)


To My Future Self

As my son you are my, original sin…
My greatest anti-win.
I hate you.
Of all the things I could ever dream or conceive, I’m ashamed that I ever breathed faith in you.
I tried to define for you the divine, set forth my greatest example, performing the pinnacle, paragon of perfection, you were to be my future reflection and you failed.
Desperately grasping to tenuous factions and nebulous actions.
You disgrace my gift, and abused your charge. You call yourself a man yet don’t understand the value of compassion, substantive passion. You use and abuse females as if it’s admirable ambition, for the perceived grievances sufferation stretching sundering subtly sunken.
You seem to believe that life is a dream, like if you hoist your sail high you will fly high to the sky, say goodbye to the die, aloft in greatness, prosperity, and wealth. Remiss in responsibility, calamity to civility. Ambitions aloft in mystery, yet lazy in listless activity.
Who are you to stand before thyself?
And am I to blame anyone but myself?
You are not a man, but an empty mask.
Hollow face stretched across a lovely design.
The human in you is found to be lacking, as an addendum to mankind you are perpetually slacking.
If I could,
strip you of your namesake, leave you barren and desolate like the keepsake left in the bodies of women you gleefully deface.
If I could,
strip you of your mind leave you behind a distant disgusting memory lost and resigned.
If I could,
unmake you, mistake erase you, reshape and replace you.
If I would,
undo you, I would undo mine, together we would be faded remnants adrift in time.