Recently I have been feeling generously open and truly enjoyed answering, both privately and publicly, about things from my works and poetry to interest and dislikes.
So, one more I figured I try it again— today I’ll be free to answer questions. Last time, I was bombarded with questions didn’t do them all in a timely manner. Today, I have set aside time to address all of whom may have a question for me.
I haven’t touched a cigarette
in months but it felt like
spilled sugar on the floor—
I don’t know whether to enjoy it
or stress over how to clean up.
I’ve been faithful to a woman
that doesn’t look back at me.
So when I pick up another
I vibe on the rhythm of smoke.
She’s either cold or hot
because when I touched it
something sparked and there’s
been smoke ever since.
"You can’t write forth a damn"
and I see more of my utility bill
than my mother but I’m choosing to
call her mom; I truly don’t know her.
Fuck it— I don’t know where
life is going enough to not
fuck up and I actually care.
She said, “It’s yours,” but
I can’t remember when I felt whole.
Losing weight and confidence
but the folks that never glanced back
call it changes and a stage of youth—
but there’s nothing left to call change.
It’s sad that a woman I loved
is still searching for a man:
in life or with God.
She’s always searching for answers
everyone else already has, she’ll always
be alone changing the marquee.
How can you say “I love you”
but have never made love?
Change the marquee, I’m done
with stunts and shows.
Everything I touch turns to sand
but she never seemed to mind
until the beach got cold and forget
that making love is worth it.
But beaches don’t change the marquee
Until the show loses sales.
I just wanted a mermaid regardless
Of the fish in the sea and those
let go or kept in spite of it all.
Regardless of the looks and being
the only one alive on the ship;
I shot the albatross, I left.
I gave up, I let go.
Beaches aren’t like valleys and attars,
They all look similar but don’t gamble
a good day to enjoy the beach
and point out similarities.
Women hate that— beaches do too.
I’m searching for something that doesn’t exist or is proven real.
Does what I feel reflect the reality
of what is truly there?
I simply wanted a mermaid and to
fish never again.
Beaches don’t get that; I’m here for
the party sitting on the dock of the bay.
She doesn’t have to live in my world,
I already made mine about her.
A couple of beaches think they’re
a favorite but they don’t know
or call the right number, but you do.
I can’t be theirs, no one but you.
When someone finally sees my mermaid
they’ll say, “Who are you?”
Guess who it is: “Us.”
Truly I write the same shit
Over and over and over;
‘Cause I still can’t talk about it.
I don’t pay attention, no I don’t—
But I’ve never been the same
person for long.
I’ll get over it when I stop forgetting
They aren’t and not to mention you.
I pray with just about anyone who
will listen with this ache in my chest.
Tell me what is and how to sleep;
the sleep waits in the your spot.
Mostly because I still sleep on
my side of the bed afraid you’ll
come back and find it worn down.
It’ll be me in your spot, who’s in mine?
I wish I knew the woman you are now.
I know you’re alive and smiling
because it’s day all year around;
there are still two Suns in the world
and I got to love one.
Chile, I tell you— you weren’t grateful
but you deserve everything, Queen.
I wish that didn’t come across arrogant.
But who I’m becoming is so great
that I’m afraid to be alone anymore
because even I’m taken
back by the magic.
I get more of the sales’ paper than
a call from home but then again
this is supposed to be a phase, right?
I never knew loving someone
was a choice— it’s innate, for me.
That’s why I feel your light on the
other side of the world, this sun isn’t
as beautiful as you. We all know that.
Even when you are away.
In the middle of apologizing
I realized I wasn’t talking to you.
I see you in the nature of the
cashiers and the folks I met.
Right there in the middle of
swallowing your name and feeling the
end of the initials that you so
perfectly love— I hate it all.
I hate not sharing the joys
but why I want to call you for clarity.
Though I’m afraid, I’ve been
apologizing to the wrong person,
the wrong women, the wrong words—
I just want to talk to you.
I want to apology over and over.
I simply want you.
It’s all a game of Telephone.
By the time this gets to you
it still won’t be my words or voice.
If you’re not telling then I’m not.
Your dreams won’t work unless
What is last year’s snow to me?
If we’re not holding back why
can’t the show go on?
And then she changed the marquee
and told them it’s a traveling show.
Beaches don’t look closer these days
but the plastic and rolling up another
isn’t what they imagined as fun.
But if we’re not holding back
why is your heart’s arrival the headline?
Tell me what a secret is to you
if it’s news to me?
I hope the voice in your head,
either mine or yours is truthful.
Someone has to be “solid” or
the marquee will always change.
I wish someone wrote about me
as I have with you.
I wish the phone would ring
and it’s your day’s synopsis I hear
or how you can’t stand the heat.
I just want my woman and
a little peace within my
corners and crevices I call home.
And they all are on or within you,
I assume that’s why home is a feeling
and you give the best highs.
Please let me wake up in
bliss even if it’s a lie.
Even if you hear my voice, now,
It won’t make the marquee or headlines.
"Do you still want the cannoli cake?"
“Right now before your meal?”
“Yes, I want it.”
While in town I wanted to be brave
so I stopped by that small, decadent
Greek place I love—
Our first date was perfect there;
I haven’t gone there since that date
and every night since then I can’t remember when I prayed solely for myself.
Every woman I ever look at
is cursed with the image of you,
to me— no one is simply enough.
And if I said that, I’d still be
I ate my favorite cake
we ordered for dessert;
I only had a few bites that day—
You were enough, that day and
Everyday I breathe, just existing
but you can’t say that without proof.
I can’t prove what I feel without me
and regardless of choosing you over
and over and over and over, with
each day with every day’s new problem;
I still choose you, effortlessly.
It’s simply painful that I finally
ate a slice of that cake at
that restaurant, alone and single.
Why didn’t we order the cake earlier?
We should have had that
far before the meal.
We waited too long.
Anonymous said: Are you going to publish anything?
Truthfully, I’m afraid to publish anything right now or try to. My work is so much of me that in becoming serious about my artistry, in becoming more passionate about getting my work out to a larger audience is scary. In some way I’m afraid I will lose something or myself. I mainly post my poetry as a way to express myself, for criticism, and possibly, quite possibly help someone else. I’m a sponge to everything and anything I see or experience. This may probably be my own insecurities speaking, but it’s a process. I want to be published one and soon day; however, getting to that “point” is difficult. It’s more psychological in some way for me, I truly have to “get over myself” to do something bigger than me, which is publishing my work (i.e. poetry, novellas, and others).
Hell, just being an artist is hard, however being an amateur is harder. You have no creditability but establishing that for myself is another struggle. I’m possibly going through that now. I met amazing artist that I admire recently and he’s shown me sides of artist and his artistry that have all helped and help me. I’m staying open and from there, my story will come out.
She teased, “Wake me up to it.”
But I’m afraid to tell her I don’t want
to kiss because she can have any part
for tonight but everything is already owned by my Queen.
I don’t play fair when it comes to this.
I’m such a baby when it comes
to sleeping on the wet spot.
I don’t care and half the time
I’m just excited I’m still awake
and ready for part three.
“How many orgasms do you want?”
I need it more than holding hands
and less than the arguing.
She already knows that,
she needs something to take back
to her friends or assurance.
I like smooth skin, confidence,
and all the southern jargon she knows.
I need to visit Nashville and Georgia
in the small city of “folks.”
But most importantly I have to try
not to wake her up yet.
I’m wrong for even being here.
And this is the wrong time to use serendipity as an influence.
Why do I treat my Queen this way if
she’s never on the throne and in the jungle?
Who will watch the throne?
I can’t live forever but I’m
fucking a woman that believes in one.
“You can’t live for everyone.”
Who said I can’t live forever, lord?
If you see me walk in a room directly to the corner;
simply push against the music and sway.
There is a forever and home in
the harmony of our eyes.
Everything is tentative and trivial
with a blind landing.
Who says your beauty isn’t forever—
I see it in the people I meet,
a sucker punch after epiphanies;
in the doubts of returning and staying,
I see you throughout— not in.
It’s a purple not needed for blue.
“Purple Haze all in my brain,
lately things don’t seem the same,”
She’s looking for a forever in a moment
“actin’ funny but I don’t know why
‘scuse me while I kiss the sky.”
I just want to get through the purple
and never stay blue.
There is no accuracy with colors;
either or, you’re still a part of blue.