Weather Permitting

eugene-triguba-142946

Photo by Eugene Triguba on Unsplash.

Weather Permitting

I don’t write sunshine

and rainbows on demand.

I wish I were that gifted a poet,

but I’m not.

 

My poems form

from weather,

whether I like it or not.

 

I live in man-made shade;

civility and comfort covetously

carved from a temperate rainforest.

 

My poems rain down as unspent tears

forbidden to fall by fathers and forefathers.

 

My poems rain relentlessly down

like a mother’s cry for mercy

that went unheeded by

groping hands and pounding fists.

 

My poems rain,

pooling in cracks and bones

of glacial ancestors

pressed, locked into

bondage and shame

and left in melted recesses

long ago.

 

My poems rain and rain and rain,

cascading, pooling

wherever gravity lets them rest.

 

If I’m lucky, there is the occasional sunbreak.

 

I don’t write lilacs and lovelight

on lily-pad dewdrops upon request.

Buoyant thinking like that eludes me.

 

My poems scrawl

in greying grey smears,

churning, exchanging atmospheres.

 

I await haughty marine layers

that rhyme when they should not

making mockeries of landfall.

 

My poems tear open screen doors,

slamming them shut,

dotting the eye in goodbye.

 

My poems rip tree from earth,

uprooting my garden,

blocking my way out.

 

My poems scowl and spit

in broiling grey fistfuls,

leveling my pantry and

all my best-laid plans.

 

My poems rain and rain and rain;

my poems tear and rip and scowl.

 

If I’m lucky,

if there is a sunbreak,

and if the sun hangs low,

there may be the hint of a rainbow.

** *

Go here to donate to Tim Duncan’s island storm relief fund.

Go here and here to help hurricane Harvey victims

Go here and here to find out how to help hurricane Irma victims.

Vertigo Allegro in Indigo

pelly-benassi-2368

Photo by Pelly Benassi on Unsplash

Vertigo Allegro in Indigo

Clutched,

spun in terror,

gripped by rage,

my eyes deceive

 

Fire and grief,

I bleed, spinning, listening,

inhuman laughter splatters

 

Shattered visions falling,

screaming at the blur

unsure of perspective

 

Settling

upon my bed,

resting my head,

exchanging one dream

 

For another,

never waking

***

 

Written for dVerse Quadrille #38 – Dream, hosted by  De Jackson (Whimsy Gizmo). Go here to read other poet’s contributions.

Muses – Collaboration with Tre

IMG_20170810_115511

Muses – Collaboration with Tre

In the presence of yellow,

I bury my tears.

A great act of solitude follows shortly

After I rid myself of

A belly full of worries.

I embrace beauty.

It is the one thing sharing itself

In its most pure state and we

Have the opportunity

To swim as long and as hard

As we need to.

We usually drown, though.

 

Regrets crouch, obscuring dusk

Whispering in fitful sleeps

Quilted cotton repels them all

Invulnerable, for now

I rest

 

The average person cannot

Hold three gallons of

Water without bursting

From the inside out.

I see blue and think of Dory.

I hear her optimism in the

Face of clownfish adversity

And I wonder, “Is swimming

All we have to do?”

The pessimist in me is alive

And gearing up for the days

Of tarred and feathered.

History repeats itself.

 

There are days

Usually deceptively overcast ones

When I feel an ocean of worry

Settling upon my neck and shoulders

Days like these are when I desperately

Seek out the dividing line

Where the land melts into the sea

Briny air becomes my totem

Lifting my wings while grounding me

In the reality of nature’s bosom

Everything is as it should be and

Not as upside-down as my doubts

 

Muses come in the middle

Of the night, sweaty boxers

Covered under thick comforters.

The only thing naked are

My dreams.

 

Some flowers have prickly stems

Self-preservation against those

Who would drain their nectar and essence

Offering nothing in trade

An elegant solution

To nature’s vulgar crime

Against itself

I am made of thorns

Nourished by dried tears

In the presence of yellow

I swim on currents of light

Unbound by barbed uncertainties.

** *

I love collaborating with my talented friend Tre. Our styles mesh so well together!

You can find some her solo work here.

Tre is also an Editor and writer for This Glorious Mess on Medium. She is also Resident Writer via The Scene & Heard Journal of Artistic Expressions.

In her spare time (haha! Yeah right!) Tre contributes nearly every month to Visual Verse Anthology You can find her work here.

Sadly, Tre shut down her WordPress blog, as she needed to streamline her online presence, making room for her personal site, https://www.simplesoulsister.org/.

If I wasn’t such a fan of hers, I might be envious of Tre’s prolific work ethic!

Hatred and Meditation

PeacefulProtest

Photograph by Ian Frank, taken during the white supremacy rally in Charlottesville.

Hatred and Meditation

Do I hate?

Do I use the word correctly?

Do I respect its insurrection on rationality?

 

Do I feel the emotion expressly revealed

through introspection?

Is hate’s searing devotion the lesson that seals

our soul’s subjection?

 

I hate potato salad.

I hate country western ballads.

 

I hated sweet potato

but I ate it when grandma said so.

 

I hate vapid pop music;

I rate it invalid acoustics.

 

I hated when daddy hit momma

when they hated the trauma of hate

that made strangers out of lovers,

dispirited hate externally creating

the hate from within.

 

I hate butterscotch,

and yes, I hate pop-rocks,

and yes, I hate culture shock,

displacement while vultures flock

 

I hated bullies, and

I hate being bullied.

 

I hated bullies who bullied me.

 

I hated having to fight them

for the right to subsist.

 

I hated fighting bullies

so the fight in the next bully

would cease to exist.

 

I hated fighting

for the sake of fighting.

 

I hated lightning and thunder

of fists rendering flesh asunder,

my knuckles knuckling under

my hated fate.

 

I hate being marginalized.

I despise being patronized.

 

I surmise that I hate that surprising

ill-advised, revised

hand-waving

of genocide of the natives.

 

I hated being born fated

as a second-rated citizen

in my nation, born from hate,

fear, and superstition.

 

I hated suspension of disbelief

in reality offering no relief

in fostering only grief and suffering.

 

I hated my place in the universe.

 

I hated the racial fight

in the perverse plight

to maintain the right to exist even

as second-rated civilian.

 

I hate that I relate to privilege

from the bottom of a boot heel.

My hate in its sacrilege

is throttled by acute appeal.

 

Is it hate

that makes me try to avoid hatred?

 

There are many who hate

that makes them try to destroy

what they hated.

 

I know we don’t hate the same

or mean the same thing

when we endure hatred.

 

I want to eradicate

the lame machine of pain

screaming of pure conflated abhorrence

that makes one man crush another

for discovering differences.

 

We all suffer.

 

Do I hate?

Do I verb it correctly?

Should I select an interjection

with less lethality?

 

Can I kill an emotion that exists

to make people kill?

Can we fill a devotion that persists

as a poison pill?

 

Why do we hate?

It’s self-rot

Can I ever relate?

I hope not.

***

NOTE: If you are offended by the image above, the words in this poem, the embedded video, but feel nothing about the riots, hatred, and violence that took place yesterday in Charlottesville, then you need to do some soul-searching. I am sickened and deeply saddened by what we have become as a nation.  

 

The Trouble with Bonding

Kintsugi

Image source: Google

The Trouble with Bonding

My fractures run deep

with jagged curves back in time

misaligned by variances between

what was and what should’ve been.

 

I pretended

to be whole

again and again,

blending my façade

with her charade,

becoming a beautiful lie

that died

the moment we tried

rocky weather together

whenever and wherever

our rhyme got sloppy and

disjointed.

 

We pointed out each other’s flaws

and clawed ourselves apart. My heart

mistook love for a pleasure found

oozing pillow-talk

into the next girl’s

midnight bedsheets;

repeatedly pressed this error

into her replacement’s bed too,

but she fled my good intentions

just as I was finding leverage

to press solid meaning into her…

into her…

 

Are these mildly lewd sex metaphors

doing anything for you? Because

I could probably say plainly that

 

I had mostly good sex

with mostly good women

for mostly bad reasons

 

not for love, pleasure,

not even for affection

mostly, a self-deception

 

as I mostly engaged in the self-delusion

that I loved them

or that I loved myself, when

 

I was clearly too broken to do either,

 

but I suppose it’s better that I couch it

in some wrecked flower and

tangled bedsheet nonsense.

 

I’m wrecking the rhythm of this poem.

I apologize. Now, where was I?

 

Into her wake,

serene surface broken

by her rippling,

departing waves

I wandered,

my fractures,

deep with jagged

curves back in time

misaligned

by variances between

what was her own brokenness and

what should’ve been

her pristine perfection that

should’ve saved us both

but didn’t.

 

Looking back, I know now that her imperfections

were perfectly wondrous and uniquely lovely.

But it took another woman with her own unique

deep, jagged, fractures curving into my own

that helped me appreciate my own failings

from wondrous newly tacked angles.

 

This poem is uneven

and not as pretty

as I had hoped it would be.

 

But it is pure gold

where it needs to be.

***

Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Kintsugi: Art of Mending, Posted by Sumana Roy.

The Egregious Lie Regarding Tinkerbell’s Revenge

david-pentek-305016

Photo by David Pentek on Unsplash

The Egregious Lie Regarding Tinkerbell’s Revenge

After Tinker Bell died,

Peter couldn’t remember her.

Do my dead parents

haunt my peripherals

because they fear similar fates?

 

Fairies are too small

to hold more than one feeling

at a time. When dreamy

unspoken words dissipate

into unsavory vapor,

 

I envy them.

** *

Written for dVerse’s  Quadrille #37–Be Not Afraid, hostd by Victoria Slotto. Go here to read other poet’s contributions.  

On Moral Victories

giphy

On Moral Victories

“The man who views the world at 50 the same as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.”

— Muhammad Ali

 

I have been a die-hard Chicago Bears fan since I was four years old.

I became a Bear fan because in general, everyone I knew and loved who loved American football was a Bear fan, and specifically, because my dad was a Bear fan.

Circumstances from The Great Migrations of the early and mid-twentieth century led to our eventual fandom. Millions of black families migrated from the harsh inequities of the Jim Crow south to the marginally less harsh discriminations of northern city life. It gives me chills to think that things could’ve turned out much worse for me had my family kept going past Chicago, settling in Detroit instead.

Phew! Dodged a bullet there.

Dad became a die-hard Bear fan because his family moved to Chicago from somewhere in the red mud of Mississippi. Mom’s family moved to Chicago from somewhere in Tennessee, according to my brother, who I assume gleaned this info from our maternal grandmother. Momma became a casual Bears fan because she met dad and thought he was cute, and plus everyone she knew was a fan, so meh, why not?

The Bears had a young unknown halfback called Walter Payton. His nickname was Sweetness, and somehow it fit that soft-spoken brute. Dad didn’t think much of him at first, but Payton quickly ascended as the third male hero of my early memories behind Muhammad Ali and Dad. Like Dad, he was also from Mississippi. I sometimes fantasized about Dad hanging out with Sweetness as small children, or Payton somehow being my long-lost uncle.

Before we knew he would be enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame – before we knew that Walter Payton would become WALTER PAYTON – I marveled at how he never, ever quit on a play, not even when it was obviously doomed to fail. Not even when his teammates obviously lacked talent, effort, or otherwise played like hot garbage. Not even during the very last play of the 1984 NFC Championship game, with the game already decided, on the ass-end of a 23-0 ass-whupping at the hands of the San Francisco 49ers.

Not even in 1979, when his father Edward Payton died under mysterious circumstances inside a jailcell in Columbia, Mississippi after being arrested by a white police officer.

Sweetness seemed to approach any challenge the same way; he kept his head down, kept using his body as battering ram, kept moving forward, seldom spoke above a whisper, and never complained. I admired and wanted to emulate him, but I usually fell short.

But the greatness that was Sweetness was a welcome outlier among the years (decades?) of comically-sad futility that passed for Chicago Bears football. As a Bear fan, you quickly became acquainted with words and terms like grit, and moral victory, and maybe next year, and almost had ‘em that time, and “why did he do that?!?” and “Why not try the second-string QB?” and “Holy shit, OK we’ve seen enough of the second guy; how about the third-string QB?” and “Fuck me, that third-string guy blows; how about the punter? Can he throw?” and “Jesus! Is there anyone on defense willing to make a tackle, or are you all just gonna wait to get the ball-carrier’s autograph later?”

I have watched decades of mostly-bad Bears football with little complaint. Sure, I’ve flung a remote or two and broken a few TV’s in the throws of defeat, but after each tantrum – and even the mantrums of my adult years – I always returned for more, head down, moving forward in silent fanaticism.

But the Chicago Bears were not just a mostly bad football team in a civic vacuum. When I was eight years old, I realized that the city of Chicago hosted mostly bad professional sports teams across multiple venues. In baseball, the Cubs were the “lovable losers” who made me hate all of baseball. I guess that made the White Sox apathetic losers since they were usually slightly better than the Cubs, but few cared because who really gives a damn about a team that’s only marginally better than dogshit?

In hockey, the Blackhawks blew too, and nobody cared that their mascot was an indigenous people that were mostly wiped out by the U.S. government, and therefore, it’s a really racist mascot if you think about it too much, or at all (it is now 2017 and guess what? Nobody seems to care now either.)

In basketball, we had the Bulls before they signed some guy named Mike Jordan. And let me be clear; the pre-MJ-Bulls squads of the late 70’s/early 80’s are not teams you will ever see featured on the network ESPN Classic. In my entire childhood, I might’ve watched a single quarter of their basic chest-passes and bricked shots before getting bored and switching over to Trapper John M.D.

One night, I recall Momma tucking me in. This was two years after my parents separated, and the second time that Momma failed to pave her way alone as a single parent. This was the second time that she had to crawl back to her mother’s house with me and my baby brother Phil in tow. I knew she felt like a failure because she said as much in my presence without knowing I was listening. Plus, it was in her body language.

There was something about the accumulation of these moments that struck me. My parents failed in marriage. Dad failed in his own autonomy and had to rent a room from his mother. Mom failed in her autonomy as well, but with her kids watching her every misstep. I had recently failed to stand up to my bullying maternal uncles with Grandmother’s admonishment falling down upon my incredulous ears for daring to try standing up for myself against grown men who should know better than to abuse their power.

My Bears took L’s, my other teams took L’s, my parents took L’s, and I was taking L’s daily; It began to feel like maybe I was born to lose.

I guess at that moment I was the right amount of dejected and inquisitive to form a few questions in my head.

“Momma,” I asked, “why do all the teams from Chicago lose so much? Is it because of me?”

“Oh, no baby! You didn’t do anything wrong at all!” Momma reassured me, kissing my forehead. “All the Chicago teams lose so much because their owners are too cheap to hire good players and coaches, and because the people they hire to run their teams are very bad at math. Goodnight, sweetie.”

To steal a phrase from Forest Gump, Momma always had a knack for breaking down complex ideas into terms my young brain could grasp.

But oh, what a difference four years makes! Dad had leveled-up to renting a swank townhouse in an affluent suburb, and Momma moved us out on her own, though we were in a housing project one of the more dangerous southside Chicago neighborhoods. This was a source of friction between Momma and me. Obviously, I wanted to move in with Dad in the safe suburbs with the delicious dinners and unending chocolate chip cookies, and Dad wanted me with him too.

The main thing that being a Bear fan taught me is that even when we get a come-up, it almost always comes laced with some type of L. Some kind of moral defeat always piggy-backing on a fleeting victory, if you will. Perhaps that’s just how life works, though it seemed that it was just how my life worked. Sadly, for Mom to remain eligible for the government assistance she needed to maintain her independence, Phil and I were required to live with her.

Mom had asthma, and I mean that she had the type of asthma that got her laid up in hospitals for long stretches of winter. On more than one occasion during her hospital visits, her heart stopped and she had to be forcibly brought back from the other side. Basically, her illness rendered her unemployable, but the government dragged their asses on approving her medical disability.

It was all a bunch of convoluted bureaucratic nonsense that mostly went over my twelve-year-old head. All it meant to me was that I couldn’t go live with Dad because Mom needed me with her. From my limited, selfish perspective, I couldn’t grasp why Momma would be so selfish, not knowing or caring how much my words and actions wounded her. I seethed and resented her and we clashed and butted heads frequently. I took ass-whuppins from her like hotcakes, but I could never silence my resentment. I couldn’t keep my head down and move forward quietly.

I’d take it all back if I could.

But oh! Four years and my Bears were good! I mean, really good! I’d spend Sundays high-fiving with Dad and weekdays being surly to Mom and counting the days until I could spend Sundays high-fiving with Dad again.

This all came to a head on Super Bowl Sunday, when my Bears would destroy the New England Patriots! The game was a formality, really; a coronation I’d waited for my entire thirteen-year life. Leave it to Momma to throw a curveball and guilt me into watching the big game with her and her sister, my aunt Judy. Momma didn’t even like football! But we’d had a pretty rough month of beefing, and all mothers know how to lay on just enough guilt, you know? Just enough.

So, I stayed and watch the Super Bowl on our wack-ass TV in the wack-ass projects with Momma, lil’ Phil, aunt Judy, and her wack-ass husband, my uncle Fred. It wasn’t ideal, but for the most part, I got over myself. (I can only assume that wack-ass uncle Fred had also lost a battle of wills that day, because nobody wakes up in a three-bedroom, two-bathroom suburban palace with his own den and decides, “You know what would be even better than this? Returning to the ghetto I barely escaped from not even twenty years ago just so I can watch the Big Game on a wack-ass TV in the wack-ass projects with my sister-in-law and my wack-ass sass-mouthed nephew!” Sorry about that, Fred.)

Things took a dark turn just after the game ended, and I take full responsibility for my actions. I wanted to bask in the glory of my team’s win, watch them hoist the trophy, listen to the postgame interviews, and all those wonderful things.

Mom wanted me to take out the trash. Immediately.

In the grand scheme of things, we basically just disagreed about how I would spend the next 15-20 minutes of my life. But things escalated quickly. I pleaded, begged, whined, and used all the basic negotiation tactics of a thirteen-year-old mini-supervillain, up to, and including the tantrum-to-end-all-tantrums. But Momma, merely a casual Bears fan, failed to grasp how important this was to me, and she did not yield one inch.

Left with no outlet to adequately vent my frustration, I calmly gathered the kitchen trash, tied it off securely, picked it up, and flung it across the living room as hard as I fucking could. The bag tore and some garbage spilled out, but it was only a little. No big, right?

I know. I know. You can stop looking at me like that. I know, OK?

Mom knew too. That’s why she beat the shit out of me. And she was right to do so. I had that one coming. But at the time, I was filled with righteous rage, and so I decided to run away. In Chicago. During January. Wearing only jeans and a t-shirt.

I bolted down the stairs and made it the length of the building before realizing that I should probably turn back before I froze to death. I could give Momma the silent treatment from the comfort of my room after I finished taking out the garbage.

To recap: at the pinnacle of my favorite team’s most triumphant moment, just after they finally became the best NFL team on the planet, and I mean directly after that happened, I got my ass-whupped and almost gave myself hypothermia. All my come-ups come with L’s included. It’s just my lot in life.

I could stop right here and write, “And that’s what being a Bears fan is all about, Charlie Brown,” but I’m not quite done.

A few hours later, after we had time to calm down and make our apologies, I finally voiced the crux of my frustration. I wanted to watch the game with Dad. Dad would’ve understood why the end was so important. Why had Mom imposed herself upon me if she just didn’t get it?

This is what my sweet, loving Momma said to me, verbatim:

“Oh boy, hush! Quit being so dramatic! You can watch with your dad the next time the Bears win the Super Bowl.”

Momma died of complications with asthma in 2009. Doctors couldn’t force her back to us that last time. Dad died of throat cancer four years later.

The Bears went to one more Super Bowl in 2007, where they faced the Indianapolis Colts during a freak monsoon. The Bears were easily the superior team on defense, special teams, and running game. The Colts were easily the superior passing team, as they had Peyton Manning and the Bears historically suck at passing the ball through the air. All the Bears had to do to win the game were two things:

  1. Make the game as ugly, muddy, and unwatchable as humanly possible.
  2. Do NOT, under ANY circumstances, try to pass the freaking football through the air, which again, is historically the Bears’ weakest freaking attribute, especially during a freak monsoon.

Well, my Bears only accomplished one of those two things as they were defeated. They haven’t sniffed a Super Bowl since, and they probably won’t until well after my own dirt-nap. So, if you believe in some form of afterlife, technically, Momma was right. I’ll probably be watching with Dad the next time the Bears win the Super Bowl.

And that’s what being a Bears fan is all about, Charlie Brown!

** *

Except I’m not a Bears fan anymore.

To be more specific, I’m not an NFL fan anymore. At least not a die-hard, pay for streaming, watch every game fan anymore. Ironically, my mother’s casual fan approach turns out to be the best way of dealing with the modern NFL. Who knew?

Why am I taking several giant steps back from NFL fandom?

kaepernick-final

You see, there’s a gentleman named Colin Kaepernick who played for the San Francisco 49ers. You’ve probably heard of him because last year he famously took a knee during each of his game’s National Anthem Ceremony in protest of police brutality and police killings of unarmed African Americans (people who look a lot like me).

There are many (myself included) who viewed this gesture as a brave act to draw attention to egregious injustices occurring across the U. S. Unfortunately, there are others who view this protest as disrespectful to the troops and veterans who fight for the freedoms us Americans share, which baffles me (I am a U.S. Navy Veteran, so if you disagree with me, you have that right. I just ask that you please try not to disrespect me in the comments area while you’re disagreeing with me.)

It would seem that most NFL owners fall into the latter camp, as Kaepernick cannot seem to get a job in the NFL. Kaep isn’t an elite QB, but he is certainly better than half the QB’s in the league who already have jobs, including the guy currently starting for the Bears. For the Bears to not even look at Kaep via a workout tells me that NFL ownership in general, and Bears ownership specifically, would rather make their ill-conceived rhetorical point than win football games. And that’s where I get off the bus.

Please do not misunderstand me; this is not a boycott. A boycott is me withholding my time, energy, and money until certain conditions are met. I have no reason to believe that me withholding my one lousy NFL Sunday Ticket subscription, or pairing down my cable sports package will register as even a blip on the NFL’s revenue stream. I am just one guy, so who gives a shit where my chump-change goes?

No, this is not a boycott; this is me severing ties with an organization that I spent two-score foolishly and overzealously treating like an extension of my family. As the NFL said in their disingenuous anti-domestic abuse ad; No More. I can and have tolerated four decades of mostly bad football and moral victories from this team. I must part ways with any organization who would rather settle for being on the wrong side of history than – you know – actually try to win football games.

Failing to even look at a free-agent that could be best equipped to help your team win because you find his activism uncomfortable? I thought my Bears were made of sterner stuff than that. I cannot keep my head down while   The Bears can take that L by themselves; I’m not taking this one with them.

Perhaps I’ll see you guys on free network TV if I can’t find any Trapper John M.D. reruns to watch.

** *

For anyone cringing at my suffering so-called child abuse at the hands of my mom after the Super Bowl or whatever, please stop and consider this. Three years later, my dad punched me out when I was 16. That was probably abuse. What my mom did to me in ‘86 was not abuse; it was an old-fashioned ass-whupping, and I had it coming.

What can I say? It was the 80’s. We lived in the ghetto. We didn’t know then what we know now.

My kids are adults now. In their childhood, I maybe spanked them three times. Knowing what we know now, that was probably three times too many. But like I said, different time, different era.

Momma didn’t have the luxury of discussing my feelings with me while I was flinging garbage across her clean floors like a jackass. For all she knew, I could’ve also been acting like a jackass outside in public where the very real possibility existed that I could’ve been shot and killed by a gangster or police officer or arrested and left to die a jailcell under mysterious circumstances.

In 2017, perhaps this is abuse. But in 1986 in the projects, it was just damn good Johnny-on-the-spot parenting.

Recurring Nemesis

shadow

Image source: Google

Recurring Nemesis

He was nonchalant, dismissive, scornful

of me. Always has been, from our first meeting

way back before memory. His visits

leave me fitful, restless, waking in a

 

frightful sweat, but only when I force my

release from his domineering grip. Or

perhaps only when he releases me

out of boredom and acute disgust.

 

He visited me last night, as he has

many nights before. Though I don’t recognize

him, he is oddly familiar. His smug smile

lives in every bully who has ever

 

toyed with my meekness. His unforgiving glare

is in every bystander who ever

had their doubts of my abilities proven

by observing me fail spectacularly.

 

He is strong, masculine, fit, handsome, and

firmly confident, but just short of being

obscenely so; he is everything I’m not,

but wish I were. He is kind to every

 

other soul inhabiting my mind, but

exceptionally cruel to me, and only

on exceptionally cruel whims that seemed

to instinctively align with when I

 

was at my lowest, most vulnerable

moments. He openly mocks my appeals

to his reason, decency, and empathy,

targeting my darker nature, the part

 

of me I try to ignore, compartmentalize,

and starve to death. He ignites something

primal in me, strutting away from the

embers floating around the tinderbox.

 

I feel my evolved sensibilities

burn away, leaving only the cruelest

intentions hooking themselves into my limbs;

if he approaches me once more, I know

 

there won’t be anything left of me to

reason with. And this fills me with a

primal joy that frightens me. I know that

if he invades my space again, if he

 

seeks to belittle me with a face slap

or an ill-advised shove, the three-strike

combination I have chambered for him

won’t simply be warning shots to get him off me.

 

They won’t be angry, bleary, wild lashes;

they’ll be highly-focused nitro-glycerin-

fueled blockbusters designed to take his smug smile

on his arrogant head right the fuck off

 

of his fucking shoulders. I would lean in,

attempting to channel those three strikes into

punching and kicking him out of existence.

He smirked and moved in my direction, just

 

as I envisioned. As he entered range

and readied a dismissive slap for me,

I released every ounce of rage from my

left fist, followed immediately by

 

my right fist and a left front-thrust kick just

for kicks. All three blows landed with great, lush

satisfying thuds, evaporating him

from my dream, throwing me into the harsh

 

reality of morning sunlit skies,

punching, kicking tangled blankets and air.

Immediately, I felt dread, for it

wasn’t my fancy words that had prevailed,

 

but my violent nature that I had tried

to deny for so long. Disoriented

and ashamed, I tried to regulate my

breathing, eventually cracking an

 

ironic smile because right or wrong, I

finally got that bullying bastard.

***

 

 

 

 

Enemy of Delusion

Boondocks Spring

Image source: GoComics

Enemy of Delusion

Small talk is a dishonest

and barely varnished lie

I walk in and demolish

the scarcely garnished try

 

and then I’m the bad guy

defend my unclad

psychotic truth,

my ironic pursuit

of uncouth certainties

 

but you’re hurting me

by not paying fair

and laying bare

when we both see

inequities

 

and then you say

you don’t see our color

with respect to political cover,

 

correctness when I reflect

on your blindness

I’d rather you select

Kindness

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads FASHION ME YOUR WORDS TO FOLD ~ Ergo, imagined By Gillena Cox . We were challenged to write based on our discovery of ourselves in a Peanuts comic, or a comic strip of our choice. Obviously, I chose the young black revolutionary, Huey Freeman, because of couse I did. 🙂

Drawing a Blank

Drawing a Blank

Drunken-lotus when I wrote this

I’m chokin’ on my brokenness

hopein’ against hopelessness

woke and I was scopin’ this

 

truth in our reality, ponderin’

where should I be, wonderin’

calamity, astonishment

at query of accomplishments

 

this verse is dumbfounded and

this verse is dumbfounded and

I curse this unfounded and

Herculean logician canned

 

Olympian delusions

many eons and no solutions

egocentric push got me listenin’

to Kendrick’s Kush and Corinthians

 

cramming solutions to the feat

in the fetal position, repeated

achievement unsaid and unlocked

dragging myself out of bed when I block

 

all the straggling self-hate that says

 

this poem is a lie to self

this poem says goodbye to health

throw him evil-eye yourself

this poem is a cry for help

 

help, help, help, help

 

I added melodrama here

so you could save what’s left

 

even the Dali Lama fears

nature of life bereft

 

an empty diorama, years

neglected and distressed

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads Literary Excursions with Kerry ~ Metafiction.