Posts for June 17, 2017

Ridin front seat in that Volvo man I shoulda died
Now I know a couple feet can keep you alive
Now that shits in the past can I leave it behind
Lucky just my ribs cracked
From the whiplash
no time to sit back
Who wanna kiss ass
You know what I mean
Fuck the syntax
It’s all about the cream
Binge on the stacks
My pen can’t be seen
But it gon put me on the map
Now I’m writin hot sun
Make that shit slap
Ridin shotgun in that Volvo man I shoulda died
Now I know a couple feet can keep you alive
Ridin shotgun in that volvo man i shoulda died

Airbag saved my life
Shoulda straight paid the price
Blue van comin 45
Lordy lordy shoulda died
x2

but im still here
and im livin
with the old fears
but im chillin
but no fear
is what im feelin
gonna hold dear
to this feelin  

Almost lost my life in broad day
On Broadway
Blue van hit us bout 45
Man oh man I shoulda died
Grandpa tryna turn left onto Pine
Shoulda sent me to the pine
Whole life flash before my eyes
It ain’t the first time
Prolly won’t be the last
Brother od off the smack
Pain runs so deep through the past
Go to sleep
Make the time pass
My mind fast
No food for thought in days
Who’d of thought it’d be this way
I’ve bought a lot of dismay
but ima sell it for this lovely May Day
May day almost went overboard
when im sober im bored
glad they didnt load my corpse
into a bodybag
and take me to the morgue
it’s Body Baghdad
just had to come back for more
never did it for the hashtag
i’m back and better than ever before
dont be surprised if i ask where the cash at
puttin letters together that’s that
gon open some doors 

Airbag saved my life
Shoulda straight paid the price
Blue van comin 45
Lordy Lordy shoulda died
x2

Yeah im still alive
yeah i gotta strive
yeah i havent died
yeah im doin fine

I look out the front window
see scoop of vanilla ice cream
topped with cherries        wishful thinking

or perhaps an errant soccer
ball from the boisterous
game next door                  delightful kids

no, it’s backside of ADT sign
viewed through cluster
of three crimson tulips      I am alarmed

just above the tree tops
looking over town,
the horizon flows
like a million simmered peaches
tumbling down into rich cream
an emulsion of ripe summer and delight

poolside, clothed,
with dipped feet
I wallow in the southern melancholy
and listen to the drawl of mating insects
whose eyes for one another miss
a line of vapors splitting the sky,
technologic sillage of a jet-set life
too quick for the world below,
that, from my perspective, divides
the encroaching expanse of space
from the unresolved skyline
in a manner that suggests a choice
to be made

choosing neither, I wait to watch
the contrail dissipate
so that the sky could, once again, 
become whole,
a declivity from nothingness
to the last bursts of light
over my town and me

like Jacob the saint
sleeps on a stone

pillow made dazzling 
by the sun and the dangers

of an ordinary day
lost in scrawled

constellations spinning
prayers as if a stone

could dream

what the waves know
the yellow eyes of crocodiles
exposed
the time between
love and ordinary creatures

hard to handle
the night falling
untethered
into the beautiful north

they may not mean to, but they do
listen to me
a city breathing

secret of a thousand beauties
chasing fire

reckless disregard

…You motherfucking raccoon 
Not for breaking into the kitchen 
Through screened open window 
Not for spilling cooking oil
All across the laminate 
Not for trying to stare me down
When I commanded you to leave
Not for laying on the porch railing
Looking back all smug

But for this rage
Rising in my chest
If I can feel this for you
I know I can feel
White hot poker passion
Once again

Thursday afternoon stop  

On Thursday afternoon,
I drive from my home in Columbia
to Lexington.

At the traffic light
on Versailles Road
& Man-O-War Blvd,  

the air compressor unit locks,
killing the engine,
I turn off the AC & the engine restarts.

With me is an international student
from 11 Miles Bull Bay, Jamaica.
I have been her host family for a year.  

We plan to pick up my son
who will help me drive to Jamaica,
New York.  

A poem can be about car problems
away from home at a busy intersection,
as well as it can be about sex,  

love, or a dead deer in the middle
of a country road at night.
Poets write what they live.

I drive to my son’s apartment 
& his roommate calls me an Uber
that takes me to Bluegrass Airport.  

This poem is not about a short flight
to New York, Queens;
it is not about blue lights, flashing;  

it is not about red lights, flashing,
or sirens, sounding at the scene
of a wreck, but about a change of plans.  

At Bluegrass Airport, I rent a car.
I return to my son’s apartment.
He begins our drive to New York.

Sometimes, when he’s riding
in the car with me, he lets me
into his world.  He opens
the wardrobe filled
with fur coats, and we walk
into the snow-covered dominion
where he is king, and I his servant.
What is your bidding, My Master?
A bite to eat, a trinket to add
to his hoarded assemblage.
Suddenly, we’re thrust back
to reality, a place not nearly
as delightful, but for a little while
his kingdom flourished.

Did you know when you texted how much you needed his dick
and he snuck off to the bathroom to reply how hard you made him,
his son sat frustrated at the kitchen table
waiting for help with homework?

Did you know when you sent a pic detailing how wet you were
and he jumped in the shower to rub one out,
his mom cried in solitude
waiting to share the sorrow that his aunt was dying of cancer?

Did you know when you knelt before him
and he pushed down on your head so your mouth molded his cock,
his wife lay broken in a hospital bed
waiting for her husband to visit?

Did you know when you waited for him to call you again,
he thrilled as another woman straddled his lap
and offered up strange new pussy?
No? Me either.

Cold bottles clink 
On the front porch we soapbox
While watching breezes
Step long leg steady 
Coming and going. we continue
To slapbox syllables sipping
Just enough to lean a little sideways
Ain’t nothing wild here on this Sunday
Except ideas seasoned in someday
And we just want to keep breathing
On our own terms