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Monthly Archives: January 2012

Baby Elephant

I don’t have any pictures to share this time.  But I guess I don’t need anything.  But I’m a creature of habit.  But I’m defiantly not going to post anything.  But I just don’t But I will stop using periods and uses ellipses…and I just did…I’m left hand justifying for no reason…there is no meaning…just like green doesn’t always mean sex…remember that…how green doesn’t always mean sex

I have another poem to share.  Kind of a poem about a poem.  Kind of.  I don’t know if that counts as an Ars Poetrica or not.  Nor do I care.  Just pointing something out.

I had to go to three different places today to get a One Day Fun Pass.  It was frustrating.  And I always think someones gonna rear end me.  So I have this habit of looking out my rearview mirror a lot.  (Two words “a lot” as opposed to “alot” and “although” not “all though.”)

I forced myself to stop biting my fingernails years ago.  For not particular reason.  I think it was because of that Rocko’s Modern Life episode when Heffer told Rocko to pick up a nickel and he couldn’t because he bit his nails so much.  I never had that problem.  The quarter problem.  I have had impotency problems in the past.  TMI?  Well you asked…not really…I just told…there I go with the ellipses again.

There word “album” is comprised of a man’s first name and a man who doesn’t value his life.  Just pointing something out.

The poem right.  It’s coming.  Well it references a poem I have published in Vinyl.  “I’d like to give a shout out to my nigga Phillip B. Williams for putting a nigga on.  Peace king.”  Link below…

http://vinylpoetry.com/volume-4/page-30/

In the meantime…………………………………………………………………………………………………

What does you poem mean?  The one with the scarf…is it about a place or a person?

Well yesterday it was about what your hair is about

So how does the title relate to the content?

I found a dandelion

Can you write a poem about me?

There’s things in boxes that still need unpacking.  Tomorrow it might be about what you skin says.

Ok…I really like slam poetry

Lock the door please

The stuff on the page confuses me sometimes

I have something.  Well…three days ago that poem was about the beetle.  Not you.  The one with the scarf I mean.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Put Your Hand Here

Let me make sense for a moment.  Linear writing is what I like to call it…

Recently I’ve had two people say they don’t understand poetry.  For the most part though there isn’t anything to understand.  There isn’t anything to get any “ah ha” moment any epiphanies.   When it comes down to it it’s just words on paper.  Think of it like listening to classical music or jazz or something in a foreign language.  There emotion there’s a language.  But not necessarily something anyone’s suppose to get.  “A lot of people think poetry stopped” (Roger Reeves, The Whistler Lounge). Guess I must have stopped then.

Here’s a song I was trying to listen to and write this but I couldn’t do both…

I’ve noticed some grey hair recently.  10 years ago I was a freshman in college….fyi I just erased a lot of stuff.  Most of it was about someone I once knew.

I used to write the subject of my emails with whatever was the first thing I saw when I opened the “new message” button.  Some of them were…Nighttime Sleep Aid…Keys…Mozilla…1 New Message…Blank…Experience…

…Speaking of experience I heard a quote yesterday…”Experience is your worse teacher.  It gives you the test first and the lesson later.”

…Speaking of teacher that’s what I do for a job…or work…there is a difference between a job and work I hope you know.

Just like there’s a such thing as a career.  A good friend of mine said he’s been working in retail all his life and that’s all he knows. He’s 31.  And even though he has been doing it for 16 years.  That doesn’t mean that’s all he has too do.  There’s still time for a 30 year career.  Technically I’m on my second.

I used to go to raves 10 years ago.  It was fun…fyi

I’m still not using commas and I think I wanna share a poem (it should be single spaced but wordpress won’t let me)…fyi…I’ve gotten 5 rejections in the past 3 weeks.

If anyone knows tell me what this poem means because I honestly don’t have a clue.  Guess I should a mentioned that too.  How people told me they don’t understand poetry.  Well poets really don’t know what they’re writing about either sometimes.  I know I don’t.  “I don’t know what the fuck I’m writing about sometimes.  And I don’t wanna know.  It might affect the poem.”  (Roger Reeves, CPW)

Sugar for the Sky

There’s a red table

poets and red wine

red fingertips sucked

like Cheetos pointed

in the sun.  Jam me

farther.  Finish me

and don’t care.  I

don’t know what

your name means.

Black letters on white

pages.  I don’t read

because you put black

letters on white paper.

White stars on engulfing

black skies.  Grey moon.

Fist through my shoulder

through my shoulder through

my shoulder fist.  Pause.

Stop telling me what

I’m doing.  Finish me

and don’t care.  I

don’t know what

your name means.

Keep me the same.  I’m

always the same. I am

what you don’t want me

to be.  You don’t want me

to be.  Red.  On the table

I like Cheetos pointed

to the sun.  Leave ashes.

When I burn everything

I’ll leave ashes.  Like thrown

sugar into the sky.  Look

through sugar in the sky.

Muzzle for your mouth.  Sugar

for the sky muzzle in your mouth.

 
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Posted by on January 28, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Michigan

Astral Projection is defined as is an interpretation of out-of-body experience (OBE) that assumes the existence of an “astral body” separate from the physical…(I couldn’t write the whole definition Wikipedia is Occupying)…

I Occupy things too.  The tops of pens are used to clean under my nails.  I haven’t bought any pens or pencils in about 10 years.  Everything is a poem.  Look at your desk where you write or put your laptop or keep your tissue handy when jerking off to porn.  The desk is a poem.  The top of my head is a poem.  The woman who slips on ice putting groceries in the trunk of her car is a poem.

The Help.  Well let me just say The Help is a movie to help white America feel good about themselves.  When that movie ends all the black women still need help.  They aren’t moving to New York at the expense of someone else.  Then again.  The title is ironic.  Then again all of that is a poem.

I’ve been told this…

  • “O wow your hands are so soft”
  • “You’re so warm”
  • “Why aren’t you saying anything”

Sei Shonogan might say I just wrote a Zuihitsu.  Those are poems.

I haven’t yelled in a very long time.  Probably years.  By the way I just stopped typing to answer some text messages.  I’m worried for everyone. (Note to reader:  None of the preceding three sentences have anything to do with each other).

I should probably acknowledge the fact I haven’t blogged in months.  I just did.  I should acknowledge the fact I’ve written something (everything is a poem) everyday since July 12th.  I stopped Jan 1.  I need a break.  Not of a Kit Kat.  By the way I don’t like wafers really. Just in Kit Kats.

Mice can swim for up to a mile and sometimes I think write poems.  Most of the time I don’t know what I’m writing about.  And that’s ok.

Everytime I wash and retwist my new growth it rains.  Even if it’s winter.  Even if I have someone else do it.  It rains.  Ann Lauterbach wrote a poem called “Hum” where she mentions rain.  Not really rain though.  Everyone needs a poem.

As a side note:  eventually cash will be the poor mans currency…diets may create two races of mankind…I am a black American poet and I have an inability to sustain rage (thank you Cornelius).

 
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Posted by on January 18, 2012 in Uncategorized