but this chick gets me high.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Damnnnnnn Gina!!!
In real life tho.... we just gon play the who can out do who in silly foolishness contest???
B. Seriously I think I just might have gotten over you within this moment.
Ri. I think I'm a little more in love.
B. Seriously I think I just might have gotten over you within this moment.
Ri. I think I'm a little more in love.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Swirling Hypnotism
The tranquility of your eyes draw me in.
"Come closer," they say.
Some divine pull holds me at their center.
What I see baffles me.
Loving,
calm,
hypnotizing
swirls of purples,
red,
splashes of orange.
I want to drown in those eyes
and be reborn in your Atlantis.
"Come closer," they say.
Some divine pull holds me at their center.
What I see baffles me.
Loving,
calm,
hypnotizing
swirls of purples,
red,
splashes of orange.
I want to drown in those eyes
and be reborn in your Atlantis.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Cheater...When will I learn???
I'm sorry.
Not "I apologize."
Please
don't forgive me.
I'm just sorry.
Is admittance good enough?
Does that make it better?
It never has for me.
Someone stating the obvious,
telling me they're sorry,
leaves me wanting
to scream,
retaliate,
re-enact the situation,
swapping shoes.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
It shouldn't have happened
but it did.
I can't take it back.
I feel so foolish.
I know I've ruined
the only chance I had
at happiness.
There's no other like you.
No union like we.
This is what I would have said if I'd gone through with it.
Fill in the blanks. That's what you always do.
Not "I apologize."
Please
don't forgive me.
I'm just sorry.
Is admittance good enough?
Does that make it better?
It never has for me.
Someone stating the obvious,
telling me they're sorry,
leaves me wanting
to scream,
retaliate,
re-enact the situation,
swapping shoes.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
It shouldn't have happened
but it did.
I can't take it back.
I feel so foolish.
I know I've ruined
the only chance I had
at happiness.
There's no other like you.
No union like we.
This is what I would have said if I'd gone through with it.
Fill in the blanks. That's what you always do.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Live From New York
“I live in _____, #5A. I’m about to go to sleep and turn my phone off. I’m not sure where u r, but I’m sure ur safe.”
This was sent to me at 5:39 AM.
She left me.
Alone.
Far from my city.
In the rain.
Sky-bled tears meshing with my flesh, I walked on sore toes wrapped in soft black leather Aldo pumps. My toes, squishy from the down pour, continued to suffer as I walked back towards her apartment, her legs speedily carrying her far ahead of me. There is a breeze with the rain. The clinging black sweater-turned dress did little to insulate me from the cold. My semi-sheer leggings helped none.
Her building is locked. The only way I can enter is with a key.
The key she has with her.
While she sleeps.
With her phone off.
Later, after police were called and alternative plans made, her explanation was, “You told me you knew where you were going.”
Absurd.
She proves that chivalry is dead. She left this lady alone at 5:39 AM scantily clad in seductive garments. Somehow, she feels she did no wrong. She doesn’t recognize how she put my life and my vagina in danger. She is dead to me.
Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe I said something to warrant her wrath. Most likely, my lack of attention to her needs and insecurities pissed her off. (On the train, she told me that me not wanting to dance with her made her self-conscious. I never dance with her. Or anyone. I dance to give myself a show. Onlookers welcome. I am not her personal ego boost.) There is no love or humanism. Nor friendship. Nor acquaintanceship.
She wanted to hurt me because of the many times I hurt her. That much is apparent. Unfortunately for her, her actions only forced my respect for her to be replaced by indifference to her existence. Because, at the end of the day, she left me. The story doesn’t matter because what she said at 5:39 AM proves that she didn’t care what happened to me. Death. Rape. Anything.
She will tell her version of the evening. The scorpion manipulator. I abhor Scorpios.
“This is why we could never work.” She spits it at me as if I asked. Or cared. Or didn’t already know. She is like my bitter cold , angry that she can’t tame me. A disgusting realization of my ability to consistently make bad decisions.
New York was awesome in spite of her treachery. Where’s that camera that should follow me around? My ratings would have been sky high this weekend.
This was sent to me at 5:39 AM.
She left me.
Alone.
Far from my city.
In the rain.
Sky-bled tears meshing with my flesh, I walked on sore toes wrapped in soft black leather Aldo pumps. My toes, squishy from the down pour, continued to suffer as I walked back towards her apartment, her legs speedily carrying her far ahead of me. There is a breeze with the rain. The clinging black sweater-turned dress did little to insulate me from the cold. My semi-sheer leggings helped none.
Her building is locked. The only way I can enter is with a key.
The key she has with her.
While she sleeps.
With her phone off.
Later, after police were called and alternative plans made, her explanation was, “You told me you knew where you were going.”
Absurd.
She proves that chivalry is dead. She left this lady alone at 5:39 AM scantily clad in seductive garments. Somehow, she feels she did no wrong. She doesn’t recognize how she put my life and my vagina in danger. She is dead to me.
Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe I said something to warrant her wrath. Most likely, my lack of attention to her needs and insecurities pissed her off. (On the train, she told me that me not wanting to dance with her made her self-conscious. I never dance with her. Or anyone. I dance to give myself a show. Onlookers welcome. I am not her personal ego boost.) There is no love or humanism. Nor friendship. Nor acquaintanceship.
She wanted to hurt me because of the many times I hurt her. That much is apparent. Unfortunately for her, her actions only forced my respect for her to be replaced by indifference to her existence. Because, at the end of the day, she left me. The story doesn’t matter because what she said at 5:39 AM proves that she didn’t care what happened to me. Death. Rape. Anything.
She will tell her version of the evening. The scorpion manipulator. I abhor Scorpios.
“This is why we could never work.” She spits it at me as if I asked. Or cared. Or didn’t already know. She is like my bitter cold , angry that she can’t tame me. A disgusting realization of my ability to consistently make bad decisions.
New York was awesome in spite of her treachery. Where’s that camera that should follow me around? My ratings would have been sky high this weekend.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I want my rights back
Sometimes I wonder what all this shit is about. Why it bothers other people so much. Why my happiness seems to hurt people so much. My friend once said, "They make fun of my ness. My craziness, my happiness. People always make fun of my ness." I thought to myself, "Naw, babygirl. We are just so tickled by your existence, it makes us laugh. We just love you...really." I was too high to say it at the time...so I just sipped. But that's how I feel. Like other people are so unhappy in their tiny worlds they would rather hurt my world than focus on fixing their own. Laugh at me and my girl having a "ceremony" because they decided against our marriage. I wish I could do something about it. Maybe my continued gayness and happiness in that gayness will force someone to recognize I deserve everything I want and they have no right to stop me.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Bitter Cold
Winter smells of her.
Inhaled crisp cool breezes stinging nasal membranes,
The smell of dying
With hopes of renewal,
Regeneration,
Rebirth.
She smells of winter.
The cold and brutal hawk
Nipping at your fingertips and earlobes,
Biting,
Tearing,
Taunting.
Thoughts of her bring the chill inward,
Memories imprinted in plowed snow:
Dirty,
Disgusting,
Deeply defying doubt-filled diligence.
We died in winter.
Flourishing full in summer,
The cut of sub-zero temperatures
Split us in two,
Into a space where I’m never near you
And you cant stand me
And though you want we,
I just cant stand you taming the fierceness of my individuality.
That’s what you want.
For me to ignore the duality of consciousness.
So you’re annoyed.
I’m astounded.
We tried again,
Rebounded.
Dumbfounded,
I just drove away.
Stayed away
Plotting the day we would reunite.
But shit happens.
Fuck,
She happened.
Love happened.
Then I realized I never loved you at all,
Nor you me.
I was the tea you sipped to soothe your pain-ridden memories
But you were too self-righteous to really see the truth.
I don’t know why I saw and not you.
I saw what we became for each other:
A dependency, physical lovers.
Caught in the ever encapsulating whirlpool of me,
You saw my dense forest but not the simplicity of my trees,
The most important thing being the strength found in even my leaves.
Like when I left.
The strut of my strength could be heard in waves.
I sprinkled your world full of autumn colors that day.
Strong yellows and ferocious reds lay in my wake.
But it’s nothing like this cold bitter wind
Forcing its way against the warmth of my skin.
This pain smells of you.
Like retched memories finger painted in piles of dirty snow.
Like the way I wanted to stop us but you wouldn’t let me go
And now I wish I could just get you out of my dome.
I bundle up against this chill while memory lane I roam.
Winter smells of you.
A cold and brutal hawk
Nipping at my fingertips and earlobes,
Biting,
Tearing,
Taunting.
Winter feels like you.
Inhaled crisp cool breezes stinging nasal membranes.
You are the smell of dying
With hopes of renewal,
Regeneration,
Rebirth.
Inhaled crisp cool breezes stinging nasal membranes,
The smell of dying
With hopes of renewal,
Regeneration,
Rebirth.
She smells of winter.
The cold and brutal hawk
Nipping at your fingertips and earlobes,
Biting,
Tearing,
Taunting.
Thoughts of her bring the chill inward,
Memories imprinted in plowed snow:
Dirty,
Disgusting,
Deeply defying doubt-filled diligence.
We died in winter.
Flourishing full in summer,
The cut of sub-zero temperatures
Split us in two,
Into a space where I’m never near you
And you cant stand me
And though you want we,
I just cant stand you taming the fierceness of my individuality.
That’s what you want.
For me to ignore the duality of consciousness.
So you’re annoyed.
I’m astounded.
We tried again,
Rebounded.
Dumbfounded,
I just drove away.
Stayed away
Plotting the day we would reunite.
But shit happens.
Fuck,
She happened.
Love happened.
Then I realized I never loved you at all,
Nor you me.
I was the tea you sipped to soothe your pain-ridden memories
But you were too self-righteous to really see the truth.
I don’t know why I saw and not you.
I saw what we became for each other:
A dependency, physical lovers.
Caught in the ever encapsulating whirlpool of me,
You saw my dense forest but not the simplicity of my trees,
The most important thing being the strength found in even my leaves.
Like when I left.
The strut of my strength could be heard in waves.
I sprinkled your world full of autumn colors that day.
Strong yellows and ferocious reds lay in my wake.
But it’s nothing like this cold bitter wind
Forcing its way against the warmth of my skin.
This pain smells of you.
Like retched memories finger painted in piles of dirty snow.
Like the way I wanted to stop us but you wouldn’t let me go
And now I wish I could just get you out of my dome.
I bundle up against this chill while memory lane I roam.
Winter smells of you.
A cold and brutal hawk
Nipping at my fingertips and earlobes,
Biting,
Tearing,
Taunting.
Winter feels like you.
Inhaled crisp cool breezes stinging nasal membranes.
You are the smell of dying
With hopes of renewal,
Regeneration,
Rebirth.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I Love Our Fights
I think the integrity of a relationship can be measured by the ease of disagreements. When two lovers disagree and can find a harmonious balance, can completely understand each point of view without losing focus of self, can alter views not previously held without need for huge voices dripping minute details of previous altercations, can coalesce ideas so seamlessly, fluidly, easily … that is how you measure a relationship.
We have the worst fights and the best make-ups. I love her like I’ve never loved. She has this strange hold on me. Like magic. Like I can’t get away from her. Like she won’t go away from me. Like she is trapped within the confines of my soul and the only release would be death. I feel like I’m dying when she’s not near me. Like my only reason for having breath lies in the capabilities of her lungs.
That’s what being in love is like? Like … like necessity? Like a hunger, a yearning, a lusting, a dire need to complete some negativity with the positivity of its shear existence? The yin and yang of it all? Like eating food cuz you’re hungry or bathing because you’re dirty?
No. No. No.
It’s not like that at all. It’s so much more intense than that. It’s like the pain of holding your tinkle when you have to poo. Like holding your breath when you’re under water. Oh oh! It’s like that feeling you get when you’re coughing and you need some water. That pain. That need. That’s in love. The kind of in love that just won’t quit til what it needs is what it gets and you won’t be right without it even when the shit is dead ass wrong.
Like now.
Or is that just the fucked up kinda love I’ve been in? Am in? Was in? Still wondering how the hell I let myself get in?
But damn….that feeling of satisfaction … nothing is better. That relief. Perhaps that is the real love. Perhaps it is the relief and the intensity of the relief that describes in love. The passion of the yearning and force of the desire and the craziness you’ll perform to get it what it wants that really constitutes as love.
I’m not sure. But what I do know is I’ve never been in love before now. And thru all the bullshit and conflict, I look in her eyes when she talks to me, never want to let go when she hugs me. And I’ll curse her ass out one mo gin if she would just twist my twirls like that again tonight.
We have the worst fights and the best make-ups. I love her like I’ve never loved. She has this strange hold on me. Like magic. Like I can’t get away from her. Like she won’t go away from me. Like she is trapped within the confines of my soul and the only release would be death. I feel like I’m dying when she’s not near me. Like my only reason for having breath lies in the capabilities of her lungs.
That’s what being in love is like? Like … like necessity? Like a hunger, a yearning, a lusting, a dire need to complete some negativity with the positivity of its shear existence? The yin and yang of it all? Like eating food cuz you’re hungry or bathing because you’re dirty?
No. No. No.
It’s not like that at all. It’s so much more intense than that. It’s like the pain of holding your tinkle when you have to poo. Like holding your breath when you’re under water. Oh oh! It’s like that feeling you get when you’re coughing and you need some water. That pain. That need. That’s in love. The kind of in love that just won’t quit til what it needs is what it gets and you won’t be right without it even when the shit is dead ass wrong.
Like now.
Or is that just the fucked up kinda love I’ve been in? Am in? Was in? Still wondering how the hell I let myself get in?
But damn….that feeling of satisfaction … nothing is better. That relief. Perhaps that is the real love. Perhaps it is the relief and the intensity of the relief that describes in love. The passion of the yearning and force of the desire and the craziness you’ll perform to get it what it wants that really constitutes as love.
I’m not sure. But what I do know is I’ve never been in love before now. And thru all the bullshit and conflict, I look in her eyes when she talks to me, never want to let go when she hugs me. And I’ll curse her ass out one mo gin if she would just twist my twirls like that again tonight.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Barack, My Great Grandma Loves You
So yesterday I voted.
It was good.
But what was better was helping my great grandmother vote. She has the softest hands. Like foamy whipped cream clouds or cotton balls doused with baby oil.
As she strokes my face, asking why I have that eye stuff on, I believe her voice takes me places I can never go fore these places are have beens. I hear the past in the tremble of her voice. She has the sweetest voice. Like sugar cubes covered in chocolate with caramel centers or helping a blind man walk down the stairs to his train on the metro.
Hearing her tell me stories of how she not only played a part in voting Barack in office, but years ago, before my mama knew how to French kiss or my grandma had credit card debt, she helped pave the way, it makes me so proud to be in her lineage. It makes me want to be with child to continue her legacy. She should be immortal. Knowing this about her made voting so much better. She shows me the scar on her ankle where a dog almost bit her. The scar isn’t from the dog. It’s from where she fell running from it. She stabbed the dog in the neck and ran. Luckily she wasn’t caught. With our hereditary keloid skin, the scar is easy to see, barely faded.
Sitting with her, listening to her stories, I realize I want to read her childhood diaries and teenage journals. She tells the best stories. Like the time her and her little sister went to get ice cream and there was only one left of the kind they wanted so her and her sister decided to split it. But as they were paying, a little white girl came in the store and wanted (magically) that very same ice cream. The store owner told them they had to give the ice cream to the girl so my great grandma, leaving the money on the counter, opened the ice cream, licked it and gave it to the girl, pulling her younger sister out the door as they laughed. I have her spirit.
I wonder where the disconnect came. Where did the youth forget that our elders hold the key? They’ve been there and done that and can teach us how to do it better. How to appreciate what we’ve got because they did things they may or may not be proud of to make sure we could walk in those schools yesterday and vote. And not be harassed or tested for competency or intimidated by dogs or cheated out of our rights.
I love my great grandma. She has the softest hands, the sweetest voice, and the best stories. Thank you Barack Obama. You’ve made her a very happy woman. Although your grandma passed before she could see your triumph, know that there are others here that also helped you along the way and are just as proud of you. O, and my great grandma said if they mess with you, she still got that knife.
It was good.
But what was better was helping my great grandmother vote. She has the softest hands. Like foamy whipped cream clouds or cotton balls doused with baby oil.
As she strokes my face, asking why I have that eye stuff on, I believe her voice takes me places I can never go fore these places are have beens. I hear the past in the tremble of her voice. She has the sweetest voice. Like sugar cubes covered in chocolate with caramel centers or helping a blind man walk down the stairs to his train on the metro.
Hearing her tell me stories of how she not only played a part in voting Barack in office, but years ago, before my mama knew how to French kiss or my grandma had credit card debt, she helped pave the way, it makes me so proud to be in her lineage. It makes me want to be with child to continue her legacy. She should be immortal. Knowing this about her made voting so much better. She shows me the scar on her ankle where a dog almost bit her. The scar isn’t from the dog. It’s from where she fell running from it. She stabbed the dog in the neck and ran. Luckily she wasn’t caught. With our hereditary keloid skin, the scar is easy to see, barely faded.
Sitting with her, listening to her stories, I realize I want to read her childhood diaries and teenage journals. She tells the best stories. Like the time her and her little sister went to get ice cream and there was only one left of the kind they wanted so her and her sister decided to split it. But as they were paying, a little white girl came in the store and wanted (magically) that very same ice cream. The store owner told them they had to give the ice cream to the girl so my great grandma, leaving the money on the counter, opened the ice cream, licked it and gave it to the girl, pulling her younger sister out the door as they laughed. I have her spirit.
I wonder where the disconnect came. Where did the youth forget that our elders hold the key? They’ve been there and done that and can teach us how to do it better. How to appreciate what we’ve got because they did things they may or may not be proud of to make sure we could walk in those schools yesterday and vote. And not be harassed or tested for competency or intimidated by dogs or cheated out of our rights.
I love my great grandma. She has the softest hands, the sweetest voice, and the best stories. Thank you Barack Obama. You’ve made her a very happy woman. Although your grandma passed before she could see your triumph, know that there are others here that also helped you along the way and are just as proud of you. O, and my great grandma said if they mess with you, she still got that knife.
Uncle Tom tho???
So I’m flipping between blogs….waiting….waiting….waiting….. I know I’m not the only one that heard it. Ralph Nader’s Uncle Tom comment.
No one said anything yet.
Well let me be the first.
What
The
Fuck
Nader!!!!!
I’m not even really sure how to approach him about this. I just have so many questions. I’ll just ask them:
1. First and foremost, what makes you think that what you said was OK? The first time in recorded history that the United States elects (by a very large margin I might add) an African-American president, you question his integrity to the American people … o wait. Let me rephrase that. You were concerned with “poor people,” not the entire country (as if “poor” people are somehow a separate nation of people) being duped because he is “simply the first African American president.” Did you not think that was rude?
2. So if Barack was of a Caucasian, what would you have said about someone with his background? Is there an Uncle Tom synonym for white folks?
3. When given the option to retract your statement after having some time to think, why didn’t you?
4. Are you aware that calling someone an Uncle Tom is racially offensive since it can only apply to people of color?
This is why people look at our country like the backwards walking piece of crap it sometimes appears to be. As much as I bitch and moan, I am an American. I know that. But sometimes some of “you people” make me so damn sick. Syntactically, I understand what he was trying to say. He’s looking at it from Barack’s “black” perspective but really Nader. Come on. You should know better.
Although we all would love to say race is not an issue, it is. Just like big vs. small boobs is an issue; short vs long hair, tall vs short girls, etc. Everything that can have an opposite, or even a difference for that matter, be it physical, economical, social, whatever, it is an issue somewhere in the world. That is something we naturally do. No worries. The problem is that we try to make it seem like it doesn’t exist so we (and when I say we I mean Nader) think we can just say whatever the hell we want because we (again, meaning Nader) think that we can always fall back on the farcical notion that race isn’t an issue.
Nader, sweetness, honey love, retract immediately before the few black friends you have turn their backs on you.
No one said anything yet.
Well let me be the first.
What
The
Fuck
Nader!!!!!
I’m not even really sure how to approach him about this. I just have so many questions. I’ll just ask them:
1. First and foremost, what makes you think that what you said was OK? The first time in recorded history that the United States elects (by a very large margin I might add) an African-American president, you question his integrity to the American people … o wait. Let me rephrase that. You were concerned with “poor people,” not the entire country (as if “poor” people are somehow a separate nation of people) being duped because he is “simply the first African American president.” Did you not think that was rude?
2. So if Barack was of a Caucasian, what would you have said about someone with his background? Is there an Uncle Tom synonym for white folks?
3. When given the option to retract your statement after having some time to think, why didn’t you?
4. Are you aware that calling someone an Uncle Tom is racially offensive since it can only apply to people of color?
This is why people look at our country like the backwards walking piece of crap it sometimes appears to be. As much as I bitch and moan, I am an American. I know that. But sometimes some of “you people” make me so damn sick. Syntactically, I understand what he was trying to say. He’s looking at it from Barack’s “black” perspective but really Nader. Come on. You should know better.
Although we all would love to say race is not an issue, it is. Just like big vs. small boobs is an issue; short vs long hair, tall vs short girls, etc. Everything that can have an opposite, or even a difference for that matter, be it physical, economical, social, whatever, it is an issue somewhere in the world. That is something we naturally do. No worries. The problem is that we try to make it seem like it doesn’t exist so we (and when I say we I mean Nader) think we can just say whatever the hell we want because we (again, meaning Nader) think that we can always fall back on the farcical notion that race isn’t an issue.
Nader, sweetness, honey love, retract immediately before the few black friends you have turn their backs on you.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Dreams do come true.
Last night I said, "Self, out there somewhere somebody is talking some real shit." Today, I found her.
So dreamy.
Yeah girl you got class but....
I wanna see that ass.
Now is that a compliment or an insult???
Meanwhile, I'm already dancing in the mirror.
Back up. I need my space.
Now is that a compliment or an insult???
Meanwhile, I'm already dancing in the mirror.
Back up. I need my space.
Most days...
She confuses me by her lack of pigmented make-up and the way she makes me forget that she is a black Texan. She even often annoys me with her remakes and unoriginality.
But generally speaking, I see the fierceness in her and wonder when exactly she will recognize that those hips and those curves in a dress like this....
is what really makes her beautiful? But then again, with some other woman's hair braided into my hair, who am I to judge???
But generally speaking, I see the fierceness in her and wonder when exactly she will recognize that those hips and those curves in a dress like this....
is what really makes her beautiful? But then again, with some other woman's hair braided into my hair, who am I to judge???
Monday, November 3, 2008
Marriage
If it stays this beautiful after 16 years, can I have some?
I mean the simple thing of time being spent together...that's what I love about this picture. The way the curvature of her face rests so easily against his. The easy way his arms rests around her. The soft way he moves as not to disturb her as he works. The comforting way she nuzzles him while giving him space to do his work. They look warm. The type of warm you snuggleupagainst at night. I love this. A picturesque moment of a happy marriage.
I mean the simple thing of time being spent together...that's what I love about this picture. The way the curvature of her face rests so easily against his. The easy way his arms rests around her. The soft way he moves as not to disturb her as he works. The comforting way she nuzzles him while giving him space to do his work. They look warm. The type of warm you snuggleupagainst at night. I love this. A picturesque moment of a happy marriage.
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