Fuck a Perm

fuck law school. fuck my job, my roommates and sprint pcs. fuck b.e.t. fuck critics of b.e.t. who aren’t even fuckin’ black. fuck essentialist notions of blackness. fuck copycats. fuck dreadlocks. fuck stupidity, bullshit and selfishness. fuck weird girls and fuck plagiarism. fuck mayor williams. fuck verizon and fuck bank of america. fuck 65.207.0.#. fuck 205.247.35.#, too. fuck exes. fuck american idol, fuck mr. personality…matter of fact, fuck reality tv, reality movies, and reality all around. fuck living in a fantasy. fuck charles and ray eames. fuck being the “black” anything. fuck the police. fuck being different for no good goddamn reason. fuck being just like everyone else. fuck dichotomies and duality. fuck yin, and muthafuck a yang, too. fuck both sides of the coin. fuck art with a capital a. fuck filth. fuck jim crow.

fuck president bush up his fuckin’ ass. fuck iraq. fuck iraqi most wanted playing cards, and fuck the moron that invented them. fuck the new graphics every network created for the war, and while you are at it, fuck the networks. fuck jingoism. fuck the abc/tnt/espn troika for fuckin’ with the nba playoffs so regular people can’t watch any goddamn games if they don’t have cable. fuck lazy fuckers. fuck the sacramento kings. fuck tim duncan. fuck jay-z, ja rule, nelly, celine dion, 50 cent, erykah badu, kelly clarkson and clay aiken. fuck the new black. fuck fantasy sports leagues. fuck shitty websites. fuck self-proclaimed creative types. fuck my landlord and my boss and fuck massa. fuck scalia, thomas, and rehnquist.

fuck the bad economy. fuck the digital millennium copyright act and the sonny bono copyright extension act. fuck dial-up. fuck allergies. fuck bean sprouts. fuck tuna fish and all other canned meat products. fuck spam. fuck spam. fuck spam. fuck penis enlargements, secret nigerian financial scams, and unsolicited pornography. fuck tellin’ em’ why you mad, son. fuck overbearing people. fuck suffocation. fuck immediately. fuck early. fuck often. fuck this, fuck that and fuck you.

and most importantly, fuck haters.

Tryin’ To Get A Clutch

so this is the song we play. here is our dance. you look at me, innocent as a new lamb entering the world. tell me you love me. kiss me goodbye. hang up the phone. then you scribble some little angry remark and post it. and I? I look up at you and smile ever so sweetly as you mill about the room, or eat the sandwich that I, for the hunger of my love, rescued from the jaws of lame co-workers, and its my turn to hammer away at the keys like liberace on speed, playing out my angry tune as retort. they say that call and response is a fundamental part of black music, it’s at the root of who we are as products both of africa and this “new” world [thank you, mr. baraka.]. who knew it would pervade our love making as much as it does our ass shaking? (of course you know, I took liberties with that last sentence…parallelism above all things, mi amigo…I never met a trope or a scheme I didn’t like)

Unless You Plan to Bang


her hair streaked down her face
like sleet on an early march evening
the night walked in her shoes
and mocked her brisk gait
the old girl’s heel scuffed
by the tiles with
each quickening bootstep
she moved hastily
dressed in darkness
easing past me
through the metro doors

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The Hotness

would that I could write on command, like so many wannabe starlets can call forth a deluge of tears on a whim for the delight of the ad and the cinematographer. alas. I have held back my words and thoughts and poorly strung together phrases for long enough, however, so I now feel compelled to hammer out some few simple words here on this rickety keyboard, the one with the “a” softly disappearing into the wilderness. yet and still, though, I have nothing of worth nor interest to say. shame. It’s not as though nothing has happened in my life — looking back, the tumult of the past few weeks has overwhelmed me. it’s just that I have no way of cribbing all those experiences, the life and meat and blood of the world, into something palatable for the devouring. something all of you out there can digest with ease and alacrity. alas. give me time, though. I am working on it. furiously.

Sold Out

so I guess I am caving in. I know. even though I don’t need this job, I am going to be diplomatic and take my post down. maybe I will put it up again later. to all those who enjoyed it before I took it down, well, lucky you. – management.