confounding expectations (how apropos)

Verse Three: Grand Puba
As the jewels jingle from the hot young and single little stunt
A forty and a blunt, that’s all she really wants
But she’ll spend your papes and she’ll use up all your plastic
And if you swing an ep you’d better wear a prophylactic
Cause things are getting drastic
Slide up in the wrong one you’ll end up in a casket
(Slow down)
Sister, there’s no need in speeding
She was doing lays before she started bleeding
What makes a bitch want to act in this fashion?
Pulled more stunts than my man Action Jackson
A real gold winner just like Bruce Jenner
Lay the bitch on the bed and then you run right in her
Puba makes no mistakes
She said “Rock me tonight (for old time’s sake)”
Picture that
(Slow Down)
You little hooker
Honey got a problem with the bends
Meaning she likes to bend over, and then she spreads the skins
The hoe is just hoe and that’s without no controversy
She can make the bedsprings sing a song of mercy
Come on toots you can take a thousand douche
Scrub that ass and I’ll still pass
(Slow down)
You’re living foul
(Slow down x2)
Now see it ain’t no reason for you to be out here skeezin’
Cause it ain’t the season
So if you want to live foul and be a dumb diddy dumb dumb bitch
Well go ahead
You’re living foul

(I wonder what bell hooks would say. – management.)

like hell.

I fought back every inclination to put your business in the street, to attempt to share the wounds I had from you, with you. but no. instead, I will leave things as they lay. now you are done.

good luck. I suppose I will save the card I got on Sunday, and the stamp I bought for it this very day, for another time, person, and place.

paradise is a place for fools.

The Tumult of the Time Disconsolate

there is purgatory. and then there is hell.

purgatory is the student health center line and waiting for 3 and a half hours to gain even the simplest of understandings as to why an infernal medical hold has been misplaced on my student account, preventing me from registering. purgatory is the 45 dollar parking ticket surely awaiting me on my return to my lovely nissan, earned because to leave the health center, thereby losing both my place in line and my ability to re-enter the building again today, was a fate I was not quite ready to face. purgatory is the hu beauracracy, beating down we humble and humiliated students, year after year after year after year. purgatory is the bullshit forms. bullshit lines. bullshit shots. and bullshit people in lab coats who clearly have no reasonable business interacting with the public. purgatory is a tuberculosis scare, and expired tests.

hell is bonita perry, who drove all the way from mobile alabama (she says) to atlanta, whereupon she took a flight to dc to share her words with us in line, to talk and talk, about absolutely nothing of any worth or substance. with her spellman t-shirt, her 44 years of life, her 4th from the bottom of page 8. and no, you cannot film us for your home viewing enjoyment, miss perry.

and I promise you, purgatory ain’t got shit on hell.

Born With No State of Mind

they sat there, perched delicately on my eyelids, trapped between each eyeball and its respective lashes. the tears should have overflowed on the spot, but instead they remained fixedly in position, awaiting some new catalyst to initiate the inevitable deluge. I tried, seriously tried, to distance myself as best I could from my old wounds. the darkness caught up with me, though, hard as I tried to outrun it.

this was a hard weekend.

I Try Not To Be Too Temperamental

“my shit is gold I hold the pole of polarity/ I go on and fondle phrases/ ages/ before you ever heard the lion roar/ my minions were preparing for my birth…” – del, ’94 via satellite

goddamn, I know its been like a minute and a half since I wrote last, but shit, its not like a lot of people are reading this…

oh wait, if a lot of people are reading this, send money. right away. lots and lots of money. dough, moolah, cash, clams, shit, I will take pesos too. just like in cancun. I takes what you gots, senor.

but I digress.

I am tired. I could write a lot more about this, but I don’t want to ruffle any feathers. I, in fact, have written more about this, and am still debating whether to post it. fact is, I could write some beautiful ass blurb about my pain and struggles, but will the writing make it any easier? no. why not? because no one wants it to be their fault, no one wants to take the blame for their own actions. and until that happens, nothing will change. not all the cathartic scribbles on the face of the earth will change that. so for my money, fuck that writing shit.

oh, and fuck the san antonio spurs. times two. squared. *.

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)

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.

The Circumference of Your Activity

12:37 AM. so I sat next to her in what we politely call a bed, through this day of snow and cynicism, these final moments of the month dedicated both in antiquity and by the current administration to the god of war, and felt easily more alone that I had ever felt since before we were together. and like the naive little fool I am, I told her so, and she got more distant. good response, I thought, that should help the problem. I only barely stopped myself from saying those very words. instead, and wisely, I too quieted myself and chose a spot in the goosebumped ceiling to stare at with varying intensity until something else was said. preferably by someone other than myself. eventually it worked its way out into the increasingly colder air that trapped us in The Light Blue Comforter That Martha Would Disapprove Of. “I feel bad,” she said quietly, half to me and half to the pillow, “and I don’t know what I can do about it.” simple acknowledgement of my feelings. validation. even just some idea that that I have been heard. that she was still alive. a fucking nonverbal cue. anything. finally receiving this, well, it was at least a start. even if it did take a half an hour.

so why am I sitting here typing alone whilst she reads downstairs?

Sorry I Stole Your Title

so I have resolved to never write again. well, ok, not that exactly, but prose is definitely out for the kid. no more. from now on its only poems or pictures you’ll see on these pages. reasons? you want reasons? ok, maybe for one, my ability to craft my thoughts into a coherent sentence structure and paragraph is not up to par with the work of those whom I admire, nor is it in any way approaching that level of skill. maybe for two, I hate what I write with a passion only just this side of rapture. three? for three, well, my poetry is far better anyway, and I take damn good pictures.

And Your Ass Will Follow

thing is, I always figured that if you and I didn’t have a dime, when we struggle, we struggle together. But if you see it differently, well…I just don’t know. If my place has no furniture and I have no car [already half way there, I’m afraid] and I have no dough in my pockets, if I still had you, none of that would matter. But that’s me. I guess I need you to persuade me that you feel the same way…


you know what? I uploaded this damn new website, and now blogger is not doing what it should be doing. fuck. movable type, here I come.