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…

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.


Posted by on January 28, 2012 in Uncategorized



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



I’ve been gone for a while and feel like I should write an explanation.  How’s this…”Sometimes I always say yes.”

I have a dvd on my table that says “Stay.”  I know the dvd doesn’t really say “Stay.” But what if I wrote.  I have a dvd on my table that read “Stay.” That makes even less sense really.  I’m reading it when the laser in my player isn’t.

Here’s a list of words I can hear differently but not say differently:



Did I break a rule by using a colon and only writing two things.  Do I care.  Ask me.  Say I won’t.

I remember hearing that after we die our hair and fingernails still grow.  I remember hearing that a frog loses it’s memory after it blinks.  I remember hearing a cricket won’t burn in a fire.  I remember someone saying to their students “If someone corrects you by saying you should use ‘whom’ instead of ‘who’ they’re only trying to prove they’re smarter than you are.  When really they haven’t proved anything except for they’re an elitest shit pot.”  I always tell my students never to use “whom” or semicolons.  I tell myself I have to capitalize and to avoid commas…yes we’re still doing that.

“You won’t”

I had a lot of fun from the time I met my brother E when I was 14 until I was around 22.  I missed out on doing stupid things though.  I only did irrational mischievous.  If I could go back I’d do dumb things.

I talk with the fellas sometimes and we mention how if we knew in high school what we know 10 years removed we would have been hos.  The best we can do now is objectify women.

I like Halloween because of the fun costumes.  Honestly it’s not because of the skin.  One year I saw 8 people dress up like the entire cast of Clue.  One year I saw a guy dress up like the Michelin Man and had to have his friend help him walk to the bars.

I was walking through DePaul once and this black girl (walking towards me with a friend) stopped her conversation to say hello to me (then went back to her conversation).  That was one of the most genuine moments I can remember.  I often have people speak to me though.  This gang member spoke to me in Dunkin Donuts about getting jumped.  Then wished me a good day and called me “sir.”

I’ve been a writer ever since I was 10.  Probably before I was 10.  Didn’t admit to it til I was 20.  Didn’t admit to being a poet til I was 24.

I told this girl I was a writer once and she said she thought that meant a fancy way of saying I was unemployed.  I haven’t shaved in 4 months.  But this was before.  This was when I stared at my facebook screen for hours.

Did you find this blog through facebook or do you know me.  Do you really know me though.  Do you know how to open the door on the Dodge Daytona.  That I have nosebleeds often.  Screw-to-the-Lou. Or how I feel about certain midwestern cities?

A man told me recently he knew me and I didn’t know him.  He told me not to worry about how he knew me.  Guess it doesn’t matter.  I do like laughing. And bears.


Posted by on October 14, 2011 in Uncategorized


And I Like It

First thing I thought of to write was a line from an OutKast song.  I’m going to hold back that impulse for now.

I don’t know if I ever mentioned I opened up a fortune cookie and the Chinese word on the back was “Orange.”  Poetry is Orange right?  Wonder what part is red and which part is yellow.  Then again “O” is in Roy G Biv.  Everything Depends Upon the Red Wheelbarrow.

I’ve seen more Michigan license plates recently than I have in a while.  Maybe I’ve been looking for them.  Kind of how you buy a new car and then notice it on the road a lot.  I haven’t bought Michigan though.  Looks like your hand.  Put your hand up to a map.  It looks like your hand.

The way it looks on the page.

Top 10 Reasons Why I Shouldn’t Own a Handgun

  • Easier to grip than a shotgun and remember I think like Hemmingway
  • My aim is terrible and I’ve failed at enough already.
Shall we visit this again…left or right…
courtesy of Amara Betty Martin (tampered with by the HNIC)
Another reason why black bears roll down hills is because she likes it.  Or as she said it “and because I like it.”
I know where Carmen SanDiego is.  She’s with Waldo.  Sitting in Jimmy Hoffa’s convertible.  Talking about how they miss hugs.
Miss as in I Miss U.  Not as in Miss. Daisy.
Not really sure if I write because I like it or because my heart is too far to the right. Ever notice there’s no pulse on my left side?  Ever notice how I’m always warm?  And I wash my hands a lot?
There’s a type of poem that’s written in letter form to someone or something.  I heard someone read a series of them to their dog once.  Saw someone write about war cards.  Saw someone get chased with metal tee ball bats.
That really has nothing to do with poetry.  Sorry for getting off track.  I tend to do that sometimes.
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Posted by on August 22, 2011 in Uncategorized


Because They Like It

A poet friend of mine was told some awards he’ll never win because he doesn’t write about blackness subtlely.  Guess I didn’t make to much to show the madam at the last brothel because I wasn’t subtle enough.

Just like how people will compliment me on my writing when I read it.  Just won’t print it.  This sounds familiar no?

This is for the hamster in the bag

Skip to 1994 when my 4th grade teacher gave me a certificate for creative writing.

Skip to 2009 when an institution gave me a certificate in creative writing.

Read a poem recently where someone says a cricket won’t burn if thrown into a fire.

Skip to 1999. I know mice do.  And they’ll make two laps around in a firepit before they give in to teenagers laughter.

Have you know there was one whole paragraph to start this blog.  But I deleted it.  And decided to be subtle.

Picture…left of right?

courtesy of Amara Betty Martin

Is it crazy that I’m think of book cover and the manuscript hasn’t been rejected yet?  I need at least 7-8 rejections before I can think seriously that it may happen.

Mice will chew off their paws if trapped to get away and survive.

This is for flying.  I have a passport with no stamps in it.  But I use it often.

I get sick of writing.  And sick of list poems.  And writing list poems.  I’ve already said this.  Just making sure it’s not forgotten

For you Susan Slavoagfoaidgago.  “That was an awful poem”

For you Shay Shay.  “Whipalicous”

Coming soon… “15 Reasons Why I Shouldn’t Own a Shotgun”  

1)  Sometimes I think like Hemingway

2)  I have no aim.  And I failed at enough already

I didn’t forget about the black bears.  They tuck their front paws to their back paws and roll forwards down hills.

Just because.  Just because they like it.

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Posted by on August 17, 2011 in Uncategorized


Falling Down

I always wanted to know how to play the guitar piano and drums.  I played the clarinet for a few years but things that use my mouth never rested in my me.  I need to use my hands.  Think I always will.

I recite my poems out loud after I finish them and before I do readings.  A practice I just picked up about a year ago.  Figured I was a terrible orator.  Recorded them a few times as well.  But my voice sounds awful to me.  People have called me in the past so I’ll talk to them until they fall asleep.  Not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.  Back to the hands.

Someone told me that they have broken the same hand at least five times in their life.  I don’t think I’ve broken that many hearts.  But my mother told me when I was younger I would break a lot of them.  I did break a hand mirror 4 years ago.  Swore I broke my arm when I was 13.  My moms worked a temp job and my pops just started his new job.  I prayed on it and went to put my Bible away and noticed it barely hurt anymore.  One reason it travels with me.  One reason in the bed most nights.

A few nights ago I was startled awoke thinking someone was laying next to me.  Not sure who.  Just pictured a silhouette.  Grey.  Kind of like the creatures in Ghost that carried Tony Goldwyn away.  There was nobody there.  I instantly went back to sleep.  I had a daydream that felt like a night dream that someone rubbed my toe waved smiled and sat down next to me.  I looked up.  Same scenario.  I keep thinking I hear people upstairs moving around but I’m sure I saw that guy move out.  So maybe I’m delusional now.  Or maybe I’m always dreaming.  Or maybe poetry has me living too much in my imagination.

I often see people who I know don’t live in Chicago in Chicago.  Who I know don’t live in the US in Chicago.  And I know I’m not crazy and the piano keys don’t have knuckles but imagine if they wanted to strike back they then.  They’re black and white.  They make grey.

I keep writing list poems.  Lyrics and leaping don’t want to agree with me.  They just come out as random. Or as list.  I read this in Lamar’s manuscript “God said let there be irony & there was I”

More poetry rejections recently submishmash tells you big red letters “Declined.”

This tarot card reader told me everything is leading me toward Ra or the Sun.  Said I’m doing too much my energy’s low and the path I’m taking is going to weave.  It was kind of like reading a horoscope in the newspaper.  But I did write poem about Ra I should revise.  I should find my basketball poem too.

There was a black bear in Liberty Park where I grew up at recently.  I’m not sure if he rolled down any hills.  I’d like have seen it if he did.  I think that’s what’s wrong with this city.  Too flat.  No hills.  The landscape lacks character.  There is no falling down here.  No time to catch yourself.  You just fall.

This is a beautiful song (I hate the word beautiful) it’s so depressing.  She could just hum this and make it depressing.  There’s some irony.  Beauty is depressing.



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Posted by on August 8, 2011 in Uncategorized