Poem from something I call: Sessions From the Balcony

The cold war comes after heartbreak.

Night falls into this sub-divided menu
whereas I could feel her if she decided to say yes
or we could coincide together like those who survive winter
and huddle our versions of emotion
to create our own substance

 (Or warmth)

Relationships are an ongoing trade.
Wouldn’t you agree?

Some people give, some take, and some understand the cycle.
They do things like breathe out so that someone else can breathe in,
which is genius
if you’re not afraid to be trusting.

The truth is, I’ve always been a fan of love

When I was young, the way a girl smiled could dictate the direction of my day.
If nothing else, the way she smiled would at least determine my next idea.
Like say, imagining her in a flowing skirt, crossing her legs
and then dangling an open-toed shoe from the top of her right foot.

I call this mesmerizing…

Or like when she twirls strands of hair around her index finger
and looks off into nowhere with a semi-glossed smile

I call that intriguing…

I may have written this before, but I’ll write it again:
Man may very well hold the key to the universe
but women are the cylinder into which it turns.

Poem from something I call: Sessions in the balcony

The cold war comes after heartbreak.

Night falls into this sub-divided menu
whereas I could feel her if she decided to say yes
or we could coincide together like those who survive winter
and huddle our versions of emotion to create our own substance

 (Or warmth)

Relationships are an ongoing trade.
Wouldn’t you agree?

Some people give, some take, and some understand the cycle.
They do things like breathe out so that someone else can breathe in,
which is genius
if you’re not afraid to be trusting.

The truth is, I’ve always been a fan of love

When I was young, the way a girl smiled could dictate the direction of my day.
If nothing else, the way she smiled would at least determine my next idea.
Like say, imagining her in a flowing skirt, crossing her legs
and then dangling an open-toed shoe from the top of her right foot.

I call this mesmerizing…

Or like when she twirls strands of hair around her index finger
and looks off into nowhere with a semi-glossed smile

I call that intriguing…

I may have written this before, but I’ll write it again:
Man may very well hold the key to the universe
but women are the cylinder into which it turns…
.

poem

I found that I was always searching for truth
even while in my sickness……
by any means necessary
in any direction, and by whatever method I found
I sought through the exteriors to find something within
and align myself with the magic of the sun

I dreamt of children playing in the daylight
……like when we were young

little boys flipped baseball cards
and little girls play with their dolls…..

I pictured this as versions of goodness
(Or purity)

I found myself searching for the twenty thousand answers
to my ten thousand questions
I tried to find myself without using me as a factor.

What I mean is….
instead of searching within I went without
I went without the ability of forgiveness
I went without the satisfaction of salvation
or the possibilities of redemption.

So in order to form a more perfect union with myself,
I turned to the synthetic
I turned to the plastic
and the artificial

But….
I thought I would only lose  if the fight was more resilient than me
Then again…. that’s what everyone thinks
(Statistically speaking)

I mean….
No one expects the bad outcomes to come
otherwise, no one would ever come at all
at least not through the same door as me.

I have watched my childhood vanish and seen its casualties
I have heard from those
whose silhouettes are shadows against prison walls
as well as those who have fallen six feet below the surface


But yet I say this:
Even they were looking for the truth
They were searching for the truth, the whole  truth
and nothing but the truth; so help them God.

My destiny is that which proves the fact that people do change.
However, I no longer compare myself to the leopards and say,
“See, I did change my spots.”

Then again, I don’t have to

…because I no longer walk on all fours.

 

The Daddy Diaries: Father’s Day

The Old Man used to work a lot.  I suppose this was his way of controlling the uncontrollable. My mother used to say, “He works hard so he doesn’t feel old or helpless.”
She said, “And the older he gets, or the more helpless he feels; the bigger his projects are.”

My Old Man was always awake before the sunrise. He left for work before I was out of bed in the morning, and he came home after the sunset. I can still recall the scent of hand-cleaner he used at his shop. And though he washed his hands several times before leaving, the filth from machinery was embedded in his fingerprints.

He came home to reheated food because Continue reading

20 year prose

I was asked, “Where were you 20 years ago today?”
I remember exactly where I was. I was 21 years-old and learning about life. I was learning about friendships and the difference between love and lust.
On this day 20 years ago, a famous sports figure fled from police in his white Ford Bronco. He was followed by helicopters, and several police cars. He was also followed by the media, and we the people at home, followed his case as well as his trial for murder in the first.

And where was I?
I was sitting in a friend’s house waiting to leave. At the time, I was reeling from my first true romantic break-up. I felt loveless and alone. I was watching the breaking news on television, and listening to my friend talk about money and his supposed connections to a better life.
I was listening to the sound of his wasted energy and watching the news report a chase between law and man.
Continue reading

quick prose

I was a kid, it seemed. Or maybe I just felt reborn. I felt young because I decided to not be afraid and put everything on the line.
I walked up from the subway near Central Park and I was immediately embraced by the old familiar smell of hotdogs from the hotdog vendors.
I could smell the pretzels from the pretzel vendor and the roasted nuts as well.

Columbus Circle was alive and well. I stood alone with my own version of perfection; I had a pair of hotdogs with mustard, ketchup, sauerkraut, and a can of soda.
I rested at the brick wall that surrounds Continue reading

53 days….

Asked a friend how he was today.
He told me, “I’m good.”
Said, “I have 53 days,” and then he smiled the kind of smile that only comes with a sense of achievement.
By 53 days, he was referring to his time in sobriety.

To some, 53 days may not sound like much. But then I submit; try going 53 days without your everyday routine.
Try going 53 days without your cell phone or the comforts of technology.
Try going 53 days without your favorite foods, or your favorite television shows.
If you think 53 days is insignificant, then try to last that long without your usual crutches, or your everyday coping mechanisms.

My friend’s smile not only Continue reading