the shine of your midnight eyes

i dream of the pieces of time
that shine like your eyes
my arms
remember your ample figure
that few pears can match
i often think
of the serenity of honey
and how it lives contentedly in your skin
and i did not forget
the smokiness of your voice
that could coat a room in jasmine and longing
to think that this all lies
in concert with the shine of your midnight eyes
it makes me feel
like diamonds may be overrated.

posers of prose

i want to devote this post to one of my pet peeves
that’s been gnawing at me as of late. and that peeve
is…*mighty drum roll*…POSERS.

one of the things as a an artist…one
should hold dear is the idea of being true to oneself.
no one should ever try to be what they’re not anyway.
you’ll get nothing but hurt, and a big old bowl of
emptiness in the end. but it seems that nowadays,
to be a poser of sorts is the ‘in’ thing. it’s actually
celebrated. and someone you know, is either perpetrating
a fraud or helping someone do it. as it relates to
writing, i’ve always prided myself on who is true to
themselves and their craft and who is really just
selling a book of wolf tickets. because i’ve come
across a couple of people who will swear up and down,
‘oh yeah, i’m a writer!’ and then it turns out they
haven’t done much with their craft.

now i’m not saying that i’m expecting everyone to have
a novel, been published heavily, or gotten huge write-ups
in periodicals of the day. but i’m tired of coming
across the posers. those who copy other people’s work
and pretend it’s theirs. those who want to write only
because their half-assed celebrity awards them a book
deal and a ghostwriter to make them appear more ‘normal’.
the men and women who think that by sleeping with a
writer that they magically gain those skills by some
sort of transference through sex. enough with that

who am i to make such a statement? i’m someone who has
been writing since i was 8. i’m someone who has had the
power of the written word help me get to places some
would never had me see. i’m someone who had to use words
to fight, to love and to heal when i was too weak or too
weary to do those things on my own. i know what lies in
the power of my craft. and i would never belittle it by
such actions as i described above. if you’re reading this,
i believe you know how i feel. and if you’ve been doing
what i described above, KNOCK THAT S$#@ OFF and stop
being a poser of prose. you’re casting shadows on those
who shine brightly.

among the comets that sleep

i’m passionate
about your shoes
dangling like participles
and me being proper
i sneak only a few furtive glances
but they dance
around my ears in counterclockwise form
when you let me
enter a forest that’s more warm
than the hands of deserts
the second skin of silk you wear
will be the softness that frames my face and speech
my desire dangles
like your shoes do
as we flirt
and set our minds
to love among the comets that sleep.

whisper of a september wind.

*for brownin*

i have discovered
a secret to your smile
that perhaps you do not want shared.
so i will only say
that the closest thing to its rise
is the whisper of a September wind
across the face
as i lie down in a field
of wheat and golden blades of grass
and cast my eyes to the stars
to remember the brilliance
when i saw it last.

shell-shocked in Sirte

the glades of Lockerbie
don’t shine any brighter
Tripoli cheers
while we view a strongman
bloodied at the end of his years
dragged like spotted buck behind a pickup
media outlets that cried foul
at BlackHawks down
parade dead bodies around claiming patriotism
too many ‘isms’ makes me yearn to burn my own
yes Libya has their freedom
but you can’t help but wonder
if their countr’s soul is on regulated loan?

February 25,1964 8:23 PM

‘rumble, young man, rumble’
words rest on the rhythm
his heart makes
to fill the silence in his ears
a surah fills his chest
as fear courses down biceps in crystal ships of sweat
soon he will shake up the world
and shake many out of their sleep
just when alarm clocks become bombs
stereotypes become Viet Cong wrecking empires
Black men become Panthers and Gods
peacemakers get murdered
and friends become betrayed
‘rumble, young man, rumble’
a fitting postscript
for the history his fists
shall soon make.