yellin’ crickets and crows

there is rawness and an infantile quality to love among we children of africa in america. as if it’s a love not yet matured. as if we are unable to express our affection for one another with the purity required to reach, within our feelings for one another, the absolution true love brings. as if our puppy love is a lifelong endeavor. we use and are used. we fuck and are fucked. but so rarely do we give, freely and without recompense. rarely do we transcend the corporeal. always on the lookout for the better deal, we are consumed by our realities, and so cannot indulge fully our spirituality. true love is completely spiritual, total testament to the altar of what we can be when removed from material existence. has whitey so ripped from us our potential?

we have lost our spirituality. we have had stolen from us our inner children and our outer adults. we love and worship selfishly and without faith. tell me I am wrong. I pray that I am wrong. and yet…

in re solitude

brainstorm, take me away from the norm
I’ve got to tell you something
this phenomenon
I had to put it in a song
and it goes like…

typing. slowly the arduous process of unfolding my self onto the new page, of opening up my unmarked surfaces to the sky to be filled and scribbled upon begins anew.

together we were a sight. A miscegenation explosion of beautiful benetton body parts akimbo and on display, as we embraced madly in the urgency of the all too short time we shared.

but if sharing is what we deign to call it, then its best it ends. now before we revile each other all the more.

our hatred of one another is and should have been no surprise, because what we dislike so intensely in one another is what we fear most in ourselves…she detests her own tendencies towards laziness and abusiveness and promiscuity, and I my own vacuous self-absorption, self-criticism, and self-gratification above all else. we are our darker sides, each other’s antimatters, and the violent reaction between the opposites was something quantum physicists had up till now only hypothesized. anima and animus.

and still. though all of this is unquestioned and without challenge, and still. I love her intensely with white hot pain and bone chilling depth. I love her enough to want her near me no matter how much it hurts, and enough to never see her again if she requires it in order to avoid hurting her any more than I already have.

I have crushed many a heart before. I have broken many a promise. but this is by far the worst, as the heart I have torn in two is as much mine as hers.

goodbye, sad eyes. goodbye my magnificent hair beast. goodbye.

don’t give up your independence
unless it feels so right
nothing good comes easily
sometimes you’ve got to fight…

What Is Past

two, sitting. me in the chair now fairly coated in the earthly and earthy sacrament of our lasciviousness and sexual creativity. you in its gorgeous, timeworn, five-dollar, multi-slatted cousin, across the hardwood floors adored by nakachi. scribbling furiously in our respective symbolic notebooks (the 800 lb gorilla in redmond calls them, collectively, “notepad.”) fucking frantically sans fighting fanatically? phenomenal, filthy, fun, and fantastic. turkey & provolone on panini? well, sadly, only passable. coffee? bitter, at best. tag-team flirting? enjoyable, to be sure, though I am afraid diane wasn’t quite my type. better epilogue? how ’bout the smile on your face, teeth bared shown clean to the world, as we absorb the melodies escaping the ruby red sony on top of the dvd rack? or the spontaneous hand-dancing session that erupted during smooth grooves 4: a sensual collection‘s selection of betty wright’s “tonight is the night?” no, far, far better was the harmony of our voices in duet.

“…there will still be music left to write…”

so having shared our bodies so hungrily, completely, and furiously, we shared, together tonight, our hearts, with equal vigor, for the first time in many months. i missed the completeness of what we have to offer each other. and it hurts that our stresses and tests often obscure the miracle of what we are and should be to one another.

I had intended, in all seriousness, to write this with great beauty, poise, discipline, and wit…but instead, now I am choking back tears, and like a beautiful woman, the words with which to end this appropriately remain just beyond my extended hands. so with resignation, I surrender to the slumber that calls me, and to the woman just beyond my reach.

Sweetheart, Goodnight

drenched in the dim light of the bustling images on the omnipresent screen, she slept. I laughed aloud repeatedly at the rerun, hoping she wouldn’t awaken, and between my buffoonish guffaws I turned and stared at her fixed and closed eyelids (just looking) as I watched her collect the covers over on her side. she used but a small corner of them, but miserly horded the lot anyway, as if somehow to punish me for not joining her. sooner.

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)

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?


sunday, december 29, 2002

yours truly: you know what? I wish you were like you are online in person. I would have married you by now.
her: you have to give me time. and range of situations!

so glad I did. god. just reminiscing, and thinking of you.

Garden Parkways

Her lids hung low
on her eyes as her
head vibrated gently
on the windowsill of
the bus gray steel
bringing us home from
other lives she shared
with me grafting me
onto her past
family, friends, lost
acquaintances reintroduced to her
through me old moments
and broken friendships
I dovetail into now
giving them to me and
me to them hungrily
we each devour
what was given gratefully.


hair like graphite
drawn out into scribbled lines
of words dedicated to
long forgotten gods
a child’s handwriting
jumbled together
like discarded phrases
strewn across the floor only
to be reassembled into poetry
her hair is like language

Three Poems

In the blue darkness she kisses me
her hair is everywhere like arms
embracing me as she kisses me again
like dew on my skin in the cold morning air
she kisses me and her lips have the scent
of newness of spring on the wind

ice between each word of
affection and space and
hurt inside the love rejection
divides her heart and she
hides her pain in kisses
shirt stained with tears
for the one she misses who
only is just now learning to
miss her too.

love both strengthens and
weakens us.
stronger now I stand
when faced with challenge
No longer alone do I face it
But less of steel than
of down am I, less
protected by my
armors. A well placed
word can bring me down
as quick as any king.
When before none could reach.
Yet stronger I feel, emboldened
to gaze upon the sun full
face, and openly
embrace my love.

We Don’t Need Matching Pajamas

She snored. I watched
her take the night in
slowly and let it out in a
grunt, curled up tight
against the outside.
Her stomach empty this
evening, unfulfilled
by the books
and words and learning
she hungered for. She
craved thought more
than air, and in the
company of most men,
she damn near asphyxiated
from lack of both. And so
like the night she
exhaled I breathed her in.

Falun Dafa is Good

the futility of my resistance to the current state of affairs was making itself aware to me more and more with each newborn minute that this bloody meeting dragged on. I continuously fail to see why I must need be included in every discussion that is even tangentially related to that damned website, and why my fridays are a mush of nonsense, 2 hour lunches in the peeps room, and this 1+ hour block of time we mockingly (or at least for me, mockingly) call a “meeting.”

and in the pantheon of evil corporations, on the frieze up above the columns, add, next to the smiling face of mickey mouse and directly to the left of the bank of america logo, the computer-generated face of claire. that sprint pcs bitch. I don’t think I possess quite enough ire, enough pure bile, with which to fairly illustrate my hatred of sprint right now. their incompetence infested stores. service which can best be described as “can you hear me now? what? huh? @#&*! phone…” rude simpletons posing as gainfully employed workers. rip-offs and add-ons galore. its like a pyramid scam turned into a major corporation. and currently (and assuredly, for little longer) I am the scammee, and not the scammer. and I am so cool on that.

thoughts drift back to her. I know as I write these words I do so with the full knowledge she will devour every last one of them, though I am not clear as to what exactly I plan to gain out of this awareness, and my actions thereupon. she must know how I think of her, how my heart is hers, fully, completely, but even so she knows but does not know. thinks but does not believe it.

I am going home now. well, not now, as I am typing this, I am going to finish eating a few more slices of pizza, then I will pack my belongings and get moving like the wayward soul I am. for though I love her madly, I shall not be taken for granted. and that’s how I feel right now – completely taken for granted. its not important whether its true or not, its only important that I do feel that way. so its far better for me to take my happy black ass home, and be irate there, than to stay here and grow increasingly agitated and angry. yeah, I am hella sensitive, I know, but either you deal with it or you don’t. I think I just needed more than you were willing to give this evening. and I miss my own bed. my own walls. I wanted you to share them with me, but I don’t know, there are times I don’t want to have to remind you of our plans, when I don’t want to feel like the little kid tugging at his mama’s sleeve. “but you said…” so now its just me and comrade smirnoff. and we are making a go of it. maybe tomorrow night, you and I?

Shit Occurs When I Shift My Words

Gather round, all my children, and I will share with you these too-oft taught lessons of life, love and loss.

So have I learned…Keep your heart to yourself, guard it against all new would-be conquerors. Protected from the barbarians at the gates, you will come to no harm. Open these city walls to the invaders, and suffer at the hands of their cruel and senseless torments.


I sit in class, and failing to prepare, I write and write and write. And so I think, perhaps, this is the life for me, this is my direction, this is what I need to be doing. I only LOOK like I am taking notes, when instead I am crafting responses to Sadia, or composing some cliched poetry, or designing a webpage of some sort. Why again am I in law school?


Lo, a small, darkish nightingale lit upon my shoulder, and quietly, I heard what seemed a whistled message in my left ear. “I am hungry, feed me,” demanded the Bird, and so, being hungry myself, I understood this creature’s need, and proceeded to share all I had with it. And lustily did it devour my meal, every morsel and piece, even the crumbs, completely. Finishing that, the waifish warbler proceeded to gnaw upon my fingers as well and so, I drew back, fearful of becoming unable to pursue my chosen craft, and find my fortune, for lack of digits with which to grasp a pen and scribble my tired lines out each eve. Seeing the fear and hunger in my eyes, the Bird recoiled as well, and having fed so fully upon myself and my spread, and finding newfound strength welling up within itself, declared loudly, “Don’t be so self-centered, no one wanted to eat you, silly…and besides, I was never really all that hungry anyway. In fact, I wasn’t even talking to you.” And off it went.