The first thing I wanted to do
on the day that I turned forty-three,
was to say that I was fifty-seven
and watch your eyes roll to the heavens,
and listen as you boldly proclaim
“My, don’t you look good for your age.”
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A young black girl dressed all in black, shimmering like the ebon sea at midnight. A short black dress barely covers her, temptatious charcoal thighs. She sits — the ebon sea parts revealing a shore of roses, petals spread and glistening of midnight dew. The flowers call to me, urging me to come…. closer, closer….
The news you’re gonna see when you view the evening T.V., The news you’re gonna read in the only rag in this town, is spoon fed pablum for the masses. And if you don’t choke while it’s going down you deserve to sit there on your ass, you deserve what you’ve been passed as reality…
The early morning sunrise makes me think of you, gentle strokes of soft light cross your morning dew. And tender thoughts will cross my mind and ride up to the sky, I never question loving you, no need to ask them why. The morning sun lifts its face above your lovely garden, your budding fruit…
What can be more sobering than watching a drunk in action, with eyes that won’t open more than half-way, ready to kick some ass in a fight that can’t be won, scheming for a sympathetic ear while being schemed for later pleasures by so-called friends, and, finally, in spite of any sense of rationality, in…
Dancing in the flame of life, unaware of the forces that feed, no need to know of the heat or the air or the fuel, and yet — take one of them away, just one, and the dancing will cease. Dancing in the flame of life, controlled and deliberate, not allowed to leap too high…
