Think. Play. Drink. Blank.
I'm engaged in a brazen game where a king card colludes with a few brisk sips of wine and whiskey. After a quick surge, I find myself purging my innards while my awareness begins to blur.
Retire. Stand. Sigh. Plan.
I brush my teeth a few times, mindlessly try a wash and follow it up with a stick of gum. Kind of numb. I can't really feel my mouth, but I can still smile and taste a few flavors, and I'm reminded of that time I was given a low dose of novocaine when the dentist scraped the inside of my cheek. I repeatedly stare at my face in the mirror and gaze away until I find my feet leading me out the bathroom and back to her room across the hall.
Walk. Stay. Wait. Lay.
___
In my favorite painting are three clocks seen melting; one sliding off a table, another draped on the branch of a tree, and the last hanging on what appears to be a face. Are they deceased, or just swept up in a moment that's been slowed to an infinitesimal pace? Dali's Persistence of Memory.
___
Purple and indigo patterns sway from one side of my line of sight to the other as I begin to climb onto a lofted throne, shadows thrown onto a wall and bordered by an amber-golden glow. An adorned heiress with a crown surrounding her third eye glides around the corner in order to reclaim what she's owed, to slowly climb the other side of this private island and to engage this peon with a bit of hopeful negotiation...
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
city living/fast forward
Coked out and blowing noses on a fleece sleeve, struggling to breathe and doubling down, ground pounded by a set of knees. Strolling through the streets of the big city in some loaded jeans, penny loafers and a soda tee, clothes thrown together in the better half of a minute before leaving. Lines railed on a railing in a small hallway, Round of Applause playing flagrantly after banging a stranger in the next room over. Sober and solely searching for some low-priced blow while sidestepping a slice of ice, which might have helped save a life. Flying into the city during twilight, preparing for a wild night out and minoring in a class of applied nihilism.
Rewind.
Rewind.
Monday, September 8, 2014
transience
Star-gazing and soul-searching. Examining the skyline with a blind eye in the nighttime hoping that I might find traces of a creator pervading the horizon. Seeking a sip from the golden chalice during the blink of sunrise and drowning in mounds of formaldehyde with intentions to be, forever.
Is it ok if we make a trade? You can go back to relaxing in Elysium if I get to smother my dried eyes and dehydrated taste buds in your summer rain...
Storm clouds forming overhead remind me that the thunder and lightning never last; that this world I'm shouldering is only finite, and that the pain will pass. If Atlas can shrug then I should be able to lug this dead weight over boundless mountains and through vast valleys in order to get a better view, even if just to see the aether retreat and be replaced by the vacant spaces between me and you, and the places where we lay.
Maybe you can help me glimpse The Unreachable by channeling It through rhythmic contortions, croaking groans and shallow breathing. And perhaps, after your brief meeting, we can reconvene and I can listen to your heart and its transient beating...
Sun-staring and soul-searching. Pursuing a negligent God and looking for Her in the daytime with a flashlight. Tasting the forbidden fruit and ingesting its roots during the arrival of twilight, with intentions to eventually end this charade of resisting decay and to just live, if only for today...
Is it ok if we make a trade? You can go back to relaxing in Elysium if I get to smother my dried eyes and dehydrated taste buds in your summer rain...
Storm clouds forming overhead remind me that the thunder and lightning never last; that this world I'm shouldering is only finite, and that the pain will pass. If Atlas can shrug then I should be able to lug this dead weight over boundless mountains and through vast valleys in order to get a better view, even if just to see the aether retreat and be replaced by the vacant spaces between me and you, and the places where we lay.
Maybe you can help me glimpse The Unreachable by channeling It through rhythmic contortions, croaking groans and shallow breathing. And perhaps, after your brief meeting, we can reconvene and I can listen to your heart and its transient beating...
Sun-staring and soul-searching. Pursuing a negligent God and looking for Her in the daytime with a flashlight. Tasting the forbidden fruit and ingesting its roots during the arrival of twilight, with intentions to eventually end this charade of resisting decay and to just live, if only for today...
Sunday, July 20, 2014
i.l.y.t.
One day she drunkenly muttered something, and what I thought I heard wasn't pungent, but lovely. And as I felt the blood rushing from my head to my gut I began to wonder; I couldn't muster up the sustenance to utter a comeback, so...
After a second or two of ruminating I negated the ache to move my lips and instead slid to where she was grinning, where she was pinning herself flat against my mattress, placing her chin on a grey pillow, eyes wider than they should have been and pupils kind of dilated, basically aching for a scintillating bit of conversation, praying not to die from the quiet. But I wasn't trying to make it so easy for her, and by the time she opened her mouth to make her case and chase it with an explanation -- maybe even denial -- I was laying adjacent, waist scathing the opaque window; by now I'm sure her mind was running wild...
The verdict was poignant and simple; I moved her shirt a bit and my pointer finger swiftly traced a few straight lines on her lower back in 90 degree angles spelling two letters for her tactile sense to decipher. And after I incited the third, which was a circle, I think she sensed the rest of my message, because right then she began to smile excitedly...
After a second or two of ruminating I negated the ache to move my lips and instead slid to where she was grinning, where she was pinning herself flat against my mattress, placing her chin on a grey pillow, eyes wider than they should have been and pupils kind of dilated, basically aching for a scintillating bit of conversation, praying not to die from the quiet. But I wasn't trying to make it so easy for her, and by the time she opened her mouth to make her case and chase it with an explanation -- maybe even denial -- I was laying adjacent, waist scathing the opaque window; by now I'm sure her mind was running wild...
The verdict was poignant and simple; I moved her shirt a bit and my pointer finger swiftly traced a few straight lines on her lower back in 90 degree angles spelling two letters for her tactile sense to decipher. And after I incited the third, which was a circle, I think she sensed the rest of my message, because right then she began to smile excitedly...
Friday, July 11, 2014
a dance with the devil
A few verses of hurtful curses were blurted out first...
I was a little intimidated by the abrasions I watched being laid across her face. Blatant memories of tears raining on her makeup made me wonder if they ever made up... And that shit still shakes me to the core, now even more than before. Where are they? What the fuck happened that day? Did they ever move past it? I remember she grabbed all of her kids and waited hazardously on the porch; she waited for him to collect himself and order her back inside. I think that was the first day that I died.
A weathered leather belt tethered to the end of a limp limb begins to accrue momentum...
I'd like for the lights to dim but I lack the capacity to black it out naturally. I'd love to back out and backtrack through a back route but I'm afraid the breadcrumbs that were scattered about a half mile back were devoured; I'm stuck on this path. And I hate that the only way I can escape this place is by wandering through a bottle of Jack and occasionally wading til I scrape the base and chase it with a couple bumps of --
A few lashes graze shoulder blades and made braided chasms latch on to my lower back...
I'm not a masochist, but I'll have you know that I'm no longer master of my own domain. And whiskey and coke tend to help me choke down the vivid images that are killing my brain. So basically, if you feel so compelled, you can label me self-destructive or even insane, but just know that I'm already dead and floating through this hell coldly as both an old soul and a new slave...
I was a little intimidated by the abrasions I watched being laid across her face. Blatant memories of tears raining on her makeup made me wonder if they ever made up... And that shit still shakes me to the core, now even more than before. Where are they? What the fuck happened that day? Did they ever move past it? I remember she grabbed all of her kids and waited hazardously on the porch; she waited for him to collect himself and order her back inside. I think that was the first day that I died.
A weathered leather belt tethered to the end of a limp limb begins to accrue momentum...
I'd like for the lights to dim but I lack the capacity to black it out naturally. I'd love to back out and backtrack through a back route but I'm afraid the breadcrumbs that were scattered about a half mile back were devoured; I'm stuck on this path. And I hate that the only way I can escape this place is by wandering through a bottle of Jack and occasionally wading til I scrape the base and chase it with a couple bumps of --
A few lashes graze shoulder blades and made braided chasms latch on to my lower back...
I'm not a masochist, but I'll have you know that I'm no longer master of my own domain. And whiskey and coke tend to help me choke down the vivid images that are killing my brain. So basically, if you feel so compelled, you can label me self-destructive or even insane, but just know that I'm already dead and floating through this hell coldly as both an old soul and a new slave...
Sunday, June 15, 2014
hesitations and daydreams
i've heard soft-spoken small talks, among which is the topic of life being like a box of chocolates.
see sometimes i like to think what they mean is that either you might discover something ripe, or you might uncover one thing that seems to be an allergy to nuts or jokers or folk who ride on the wild side... on the one hand, you might meet someone you really like and be nicely surprised, and on the other you might surmise that you need not oblige and can opt not to buy the box entirely. and as of late i've been saving my paper, taking the later option, gauging the world with way too much observation and not enough engagement. i don't know if it's because i'm indecisive or afraid to go insane from being exposed to so much bane behavior and making life choices that are strife and trite, but if you look at it from another angle, maybe i've just been trying to find a way to create my own box of delights...
---
outside is where i like to reside at night; i aspire to rise to the sky and take flight. the shuddering thrust of shuttle's throttles don't quite drive me out of the stratosphere as concisely as i'd like, so my imagination is what i rely on to sidestep vile chides and incite wild diagrams of art and
stars made partially out of carbon, gravity packing it aptly until it's compacted into a giant diamond or supermassive black hole swallowing hypergiants whole, but only remaining active so long as they don't evaporate and
novas in multiple modes and wavelengths -- indigo and emerald, amber and ruby, topaz and sapphire -- casting iron atoms across vast patterns of gas until irregular nebulae contract and hatch heavenly masses of matter, and
patches of atoms colliding and seemingly counteracting inertia, abiding by ground-shattering verses and laws rehearsed even by binary and trinal star systems, reminding us that the tiniest particle is hardly visible and
abysmal calculations are being made to trace the way i gracefully skate through this cosmic playscape, scouts proudly taking aim with layers of glass laying in telescope mouths and bases and
basically banal estimations and deliberations deliver too simple an explanation -- leading to the reason i chose not to major in astrophysics and why i decided to leave it be. the imagination is a dainty way of escaping realities that are too crazy; why chase it away with aced mathematics and chasms of looming disaster when you can leave it to a daydream?
see sometimes i like to think what they mean is that either you might discover something ripe, or you might uncover one thing that seems to be an allergy to nuts or jokers or folk who ride on the wild side... on the one hand, you might meet someone you really like and be nicely surprised, and on the other you might surmise that you need not oblige and can opt not to buy the box entirely. and as of late i've been saving my paper, taking the later option, gauging the world with way too much observation and not enough engagement. i don't know if it's because i'm indecisive or afraid to go insane from being exposed to so much bane behavior and making life choices that are strife and trite, but if you look at it from another angle, maybe i've just been trying to find a way to create my own box of delights...
---
outside is where i like to reside at night; i aspire to rise to the sky and take flight. the shuddering thrust of shuttle's throttles don't quite drive me out of the stratosphere as concisely as i'd like, so my imagination is what i rely on to sidestep vile chides and incite wild diagrams of art and
stars made partially out of carbon, gravity packing it aptly until it's compacted into a giant diamond or supermassive black hole swallowing hypergiants whole, but only remaining active so long as they don't evaporate and
novas in multiple modes and wavelengths -- indigo and emerald, amber and ruby, topaz and sapphire -- casting iron atoms across vast patterns of gas until irregular nebulae contract and hatch heavenly masses of matter, and
patches of atoms colliding and seemingly counteracting inertia, abiding by ground-shattering verses and laws rehearsed even by binary and trinal star systems, reminding us that the tiniest particle is hardly visible and
abysmal calculations are being made to trace the way i gracefully skate through this cosmic playscape, scouts proudly taking aim with layers of glass laying in telescope mouths and bases and
basically banal estimations and deliberations deliver too simple an explanation -- leading to the reason i chose not to major in astrophysics and why i decided to leave it be. the imagination is a dainty way of escaping realities that are too crazy; why chase it away with aced mathematics and chasms of looming disaster when you can leave it to a daydream?
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
insanity pt. 1
Despite the fact that it might be too late, he continues to habitually insulate...
More like an isthmus than a peninsula, the bridging of gaps and the attempts to collapse miscommunications are as basic as the realization that there's no actual gradient between sand on a beach and infinite sea. In pieces he is but keeps pleading to the heaps of unreasonable beings til he retreats. And heeding a breach to his peace is pretty easy...
Can you see what I mean?
Actually that "he" is me, and I hastily scrape away at relationships as if they were thin sheets of ice, spiting out trite lies and driving blindly like I'm trying to breeze through midnight fields with hail striking the windshield. I might as well be in a pile of thigh-high snow, mulling over what I know while taking a bite of some potent frozen delight til I achieve that delightful brain-freeze.
What the fuck am I reciting?
And why do I keep calling me "he"? And what about my sea of arrested, repressed and arisen memories of things I used to see when...well, I'm hesitant to expel these, and I'd much rather digress than dive head-first and wade up to my neck in this hyperbole of a mess. And now I'm backpedaling, but fuck it, I regret even mentioning anything in retrospect.
And why the fuck can't I forget?
I'm shaking in the wake of this scene; next to me is my remote so I'm tempted to surrender my attention to the tv because I'm not quite ready to concede and tell you all why I'm defeated. Despite this I might just proceed to dress the whole thing up so you don't judge one of the people I revere...
But what's the point of continuing to write if none of you even care?
More like an isthmus than a peninsula, the bridging of gaps and the attempts to collapse miscommunications are as basic as the realization that there's no actual gradient between sand on a beach and infinite sea. In pieces he is but keeps pleading to the heaps of unreasonable beings til he retreats. And heeding a breach to his peace is pretty easy...
Can you see what I mean?
Actually that "he" is me, and I hastily scrape away at relationships as if they were thin sheets of ice, spiting out trite lies and driving blindly like I'm trying to breeze through midnight fields with hail striking the windshield. I might as well be in a pile of thigh-high snow, mulling over what I know while taking a bite of some potent frozen delight til I achieve that delightful brain-freeze.
What the fuck am I reciting?
And why do I keep calling me "he"? And what about my sea of arrested, repressed and arisen memories of things I used to see when...well, I'm hesitant to expel these, and I'd much rather digress than dive head-first and wade up to my neck in this hyperbole of a mess. And now I'm backpedaling, but fuck it, I regret even mentioning anything in retrospect.
And why the fuck can't I forget?
I'm shaking in the wake of this scene; next to me is my remote so I'm tempted to surrender my attention to the tv because I'm not quite ready to concede and tell you all why I'm defeated. Despite this I might just proceed to dress the whole thing up so you don't judge one of the people I revere...
But what's the point of continuing to write if none of you even care?
Sunday, April 27, 2014
psychosis (pt. 1)
...toast to us growing close and I'll be sure to boast about how you chose me. I'll brag until it's snagged in the back of their brains while their fingers dance and sway to the gaze of their iPads as they pass and glance occasionally in disdain. I'll say it til I'm blue in the face and waving at plastic trash bags that blow past us standing here in front of some vacant police station, cardboards complacent in their replacement of windows. They'll bend those ankles, anchor the brakes as I almost break my ankles evading cars just to face jaded snarls and stares of hatred for how I made the banes disguised as executives late for a big business meeting or a rendezvous with a missed mistress. Mrs. Me follows fleetingly as I creep across the street on a mission to meet an ordinarily meek retailer who was borne on a corner in a poorer part of his borough; he's standing there bearing forbidden fruit from which I can choose and smoothly my lucid lady swipes 5 vials from his blindside while he's eying the 5-0 flying by on my right so he pulls out a 9 and fires 4 shots as passersby duck like someone belted "FORE" and I'm sure you can foretell what my flash forward will report before I even tell you that--
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
untitled
Can't sleep; past actions are blasting past where sheep-clad feet should be as logical paradoxes toss and turn and yearn to be set free. A cold breeze is needed so I can be left drifting like a quick e-brake squeeze. Squeegee my daemons and leave me be to wean off the shattered fragments and broken mirrors of my dream...
Broken mirrors.
--
Last night I awoke in fear that I'd never see another threesome, perhaps with people I haven't even met yet. Two PYTs and a mess of a me, just directionless, but recklessly I'll confess I've been asked to have one three times prior to last night's overdue tripe. And I'm sure more lucid dreams pace and await beneath the loosely-lit floor like a basement of peons waiting to do labor for a feudal lord...
Reckless confession.
--
But affection is what She has to offer, and that's all I think I need. She's devotedly independent though, and I'm often either cold or the opposite of emotionally sober. Fuck it: control me. Console me. Come hold me til I fall out and the pen falls right out my hand, obviously inoculated by Your innocuous toxicity...
Logical paradox.
Broken mirrors.
--
Last night I awoke in fear that I'd never see another threesome, perhaps with people I haven't even met yet. Two PYTs and a mess of a me, just directionless, but recklessly I'll confess I've been asked to have one three times prior to last night's overdue tripe. And I'm sure more lucid dreams pace and await beneath the loosely-lit floor like a basement of peons waiting to do labor for a feudal lord...
Reckless confession.
--
But affection is what She has to offer, and that's all I think I need. She's devotedly independent though, and I'm often either cold or the opposite of emotionally sober. Fuck it: control me. Console me. Come hold me til I fall out and the pen falls right out my hand, obviously inoculated by Your innocuous toxicity...
Logical paradox.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
obsession
express. relax and recollect. reflect on the connections between perceived dreams and what to expect next.
--
i want to see with you.
i want to eat and drink with you.
i want to think with you. blink with you...
i want to be on the brink with you.
--
seek your beasts. speak with ease. piece together your demons and dream of a decent scene 'til you leave feeling serene and inebriated with heaps of peace.
--
i want to believe through you,
to achieve through you,
to people-please through you,
i need to seize through you...
--
don't choke, grope the strongholds and hope for the ghosts of the past to blow over, overlook transference and the urge to purge and brand this person with a damned version of another, please remember, she's not HER yet, and you're not perfect...
--
i need to dream from you
blow bogie smoke and steam from you
i need to breathe from you, see from you
to bleed from you...
--
i need to BE you...
--
i want to see with you.
i want to eat and drink with you.
i want to think with you. blink with you...
i want to be on the brink with you.
--
seek your beasts. speak with ease. piece together your demons and dream of a decent scene 'til you leave feeling serene and inebriated with heaps of peace.
--
i want to believe through you,
to achieve through you,
to people-please through you,
i need to seize through you...
--
don't choke, grope the strongholds and hope for the ghosts of the past to blow over, overlook transference and the urge to purge and brand this person with a damned version of another, please remember, she's not HER yet, and you're not perfect...
--
i need to dream from you
blow bogie smoke and steam from you
i need to breathe from you, see from you
to bleed from you...
--
i need to BE you...
Thursday, March 13, 2014
free association 6
joke
laugh
cackle
cattle
beef
eat
drink
drunk
party
hard
diamond
carbon
life
earth
water
fire
magma
nickel
dime
quarter
half
two
piece
whole
hole
chasm
canyon
grand
majestic
purple
haze
daze
craze
crazy
insane
creative
genius
smart
clever
quick-witted
laugh
cackle
cattle
beef
eat
drink
drunk
party
hard
diamond
carbon
life
earth
water
fire
magma
nickel
dime
quarter
half
two
piece
whole
hole
chasm
canyon
grand
majestic
purple
haze
daze
craze
crazy
insane
creative
genius
smart
clever
quick-witted
word salad
lately I've spent many days wasting away in the basement of a place adjacent to my Escape, basically abhorrent and, moreover, agoraphobic, but tryna get back to a state where I used to be. and my attic is fiending for me to take a stab at leaving but the lack of fencing actually kept me from vacating to my neighbors' oasis and left me snarling and on guard like a barking dog-guardian.
gotta get away from all the haze and fog and awful memories to keep from fleeting in this bog and being replaced by a doppelgänger of a tall, lanky, half-attractive, gifted-but-also-daft young bastard. faux valiant, oft galvanic -- I could go on... I'm not being self-depreciative, but just speaking the only things I think I believe to be true. and I need to subdue these unbelievably narcissistic ruminations, too...
I don't know where I was going with that, just had to vent like a night spent grilling catfish and trapped in a kitchen with windows but no gaps...
gotta get away from all the haze and fog and awful memories to keep from fleeting in this bog and being replaced by a doppelgänger of a tall, lanky, half-attractive, gifted-but-also-daft young bastard. faux valiant, oft galvanic -- I could go on... I'm not being self-depreciative, but just speaking the only things I think I believe to be true. and I need to subdue these unbelievably narcissistic ruminations, too...
I don't know where I was going with that, just had to vent like a night spent grilling catfish and trapped in a kitchen with windows but no gaps...
Saturday, February 15, 2014
reunification
one day I plan to stand in a little village where faces of fans brand the film in camera canisters while the bands deliver pillars of verses and fillers I can't even begin to understand. and, on demand are candid photos on postmarked postcards holding bold ampersands and folk catching glowsticks flipping through the air...
aerial shots of polyglots dropping molly and hashtagging "acid" in ultralavender tattoos on lower back chasms casually zoom out and allude to a sea of congruent blues and congenial greens. freed cosmologic apparatuses hack away at brain matter as The Universe searches for an Emergence called "Earth"; turns out it's tucked away in a couple synecdoches known as "People" and are far more potent than a black hole engulfing the whole of a golden supernova...
novice Rastas proceed to swallow a bottle of ayahuasca and follow a squadron of newts and iguanas until they morph into an ouroboros; churros thrown at a hole in the tree quickly mold into a symbol of infinity.
effectively, acceptance, diminishing timidity and succinctly increasing instances of idiosyncrasies leave People unrigid-ly thinking of The Universe... while The Universe secretly dreams of me...
aerial shots of polyglots dropping molly and hashtagging "acid" in ultralavender tattoos on lower back chasms casually zoom out and allude to a sea of congruent blues and congenial greens. freed cosmologic apparatuses hack away at brain matter as The Universe searches for an Emergence called "Earth"; turns out it's tucked away in a couple synecdoches known as "People" and are far more potent than a black hole engulfing the whole of a golden supernova...
novice Rastas proceed to swallow a bottle of ayahuasca and follow a squadron of newts and iguanas until they morph into an ouroboros; churros thrown at a hole in the tree quickly mold into a symbol of infinity.
effectively, acceptance, diminishing timidity and succinctly increasing instances of idiosyncrasies leave People unrigid-ly thinking of The Universe... while The Universe secretly dreams of me...
Monday, February 3, 2014
shifting paradigms
bright skylights strike from sky-high, scintillating chaotically like
lightning while in the midst of 25 degrees fahrenheit, minus a blithe
humidity...
indigo pigment visible as the wind whips my lips and skims vivid blisters on bits of my fingertips...
mind taken to scathing and surfing a neuro-web of treacheries as hopeless bones lie silently on piles of falsified turf, snow angels birthed as I watch and await the latest vacancy of my latent demons...
I mean, what if Samara proceeded to squeeze from out of YOUR tv?
--
an avid autodidact with a superficial lack of reaction;
the result? brain beatings abound like a ball bouncing around in a bountiful round of ungrounded jai-alai. but I never seemed to be too tired from high-tailing it for the better part of my life; now, if I could just try to convince my mind to retire into a bit of blissful hindsight...
--
until I cease breathing I believe I'll keep living betwixt the sheet of a dream; a place beneath the spaces allocated to the partaking of elated awakenings; underneath spaces being waited on by beings with an innately complex compilation of light beams and pieces of aether...
--
...and if i forget from time to time, please be kind enough to remind me that self-depreciation has no reason or rhyme...
indigo pigment visible as the wind whips my lips and skims vivid blisters on bits of my fingertips...
mind taken to scathing and surfing a neuro-web of treacheries as hopeless bones lie silently on piles of falsified turf, snow angels birthed as I watch and await the latest vacancy of my latent demons...
I mean, what if Samara proceeded to squeeze from out of YOUR tv?
--
an avid autodidact with a superficial lack of reaction;
the result? brain beatings abound like a ball bouncing around in a bountiful round of ungrounded jai-alai. but I never seemed to be too tired from high-tailing it for the better part of my life; now, if I could just try to convince my mind to retire into a bit of blissful hindsight...
--
until I cease breathing I believe I'll keep living betwixt the sheet of a dream; a place beneath the spaces allocated to the partaking of elated awakenings; underneath spaces being waited on by beings with an innately complex compilation of light beams and pieces of aether...
--
...and if i forget from time to time, please be kind enough to remind me that self-depreciation has no reason or rhyme...
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Get it off my chest
I've left some reckless messages and sifted through more texts than a quiet suicidal depressive should have read on an icy friday night. It's kind of like five below outside and i've barely even managed to disclose to you a cold debt that was only ever meant for my eyes to see, or for my mind to read. The kind that seems like it's for my life to be.
A black guy who's actually mixed but can nay say it maybe because this point in time is one that's slightly after the days of slavery where the one drop rule dictated whether you'd lie in a pool of blood for laying with a maiden of a "greater" race or lay on a blanket in the midday haze placing the whip on your great-great-grandfather's other great-great-grandkids. My mother's not white but she looks either latina or amerindian, and granted, even if i made the time to explain this, it's like i might as well have scathed the bittersweet layers of obsidian off my distant kin's withered skin. I'm sorry, i never meant to dig the splinters even deeper in...
I've never admitted this, but the real reason i took flight is because i'd rather be the one leaving than to have seen my ex pleading with me to not make a scene when she decided to beat it. And i hope she's forgiven me for my misgivings and misplaced traces of anticipation; our relationship was never wasted, and i especially miss those lazy days laying in bed gaping at netflix til the grey grazes that lie above us dissipated...
But anyway, i'd rather the evil chatter be blatantly racist than concealed by tongue-biting snidely-speaking lies of people. The latter tend to have me out of my mind finding bytes and bits of invisible lines that make me slowly die inside. If you're gonna hate me, do it in plain daylight; i've never been alright with trite mind games.
And for threatening to end my life, i immensely apologize. Race and gender and rendered separations aside, i might surmise that it's stifling how much i really love you guys...
A black guy who's actually mixed but can nay say it maybe because this point in time is one that's slightly after the days of slavery where the one drop rule dictated whether you'd lie in a pool of blood for laying with a maiden of a "greater" race or lay on a blanket in the midday haze placing the whip on your great-great-grandfather's other great-great-grandkids. My mother's not white but she looks either latina or amerindian, and granted, even if i made the time to explain this, it's like i might as well have scathed the bittersweet layers of obsidian off my distant kin's withered skin. I'm sorry, i never meant to dig the splinters even deeper in...
I've never admitted this, but the real reason i took flight is because i'd rather be the one leaving than to have seen my ex pleading with me to not make a scene when she decided to beat it. And i hope she's forgiven me for my misgivings and misplaced traces of anticipation; our relationship was never wasted, and i especially miss those lazy days laying in bed gaping at netflix til the grey grazes that lie above us dissipated...
But anyway, i'd rather the evil chatter be blatantly racist than concealed by tongue-biting snidely-speaking lies of people. The latter tend to have me out of my mind finding bytes and bits of invisible lines that make me slowly die inside. If you're gonna hate me, do it in plain daylight; i've never been alright with trite mind games.
And for threatening to end my life, i immensely apologize. Race and gender and rendered separations aside, i might surmise that it's stifling how much i really love you guys...
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