The last day of my project

I've pushed this to the last day I could. I've waited till the afternoon of the last day I could turn this in. I'm going to work, as the sun goes down. All of this is normal except for this is the last day that I have to do this ever... for my undergraduate. It sounds better if I leave the end off, but I'm a realist when it comes to my education. I know they will get my money at some point and time, I'm just lucky enough to have gone this long without forkin' over the doe. Apart from that I've got a good feeling in my stomach and I'm excited for the future. I keep on getting the chronic end of college question, "what are you gonna do with your life?" And I happily reply with a smile, and a I have no idea. I think it's due to the fact that no college athlete wants to be pretentious enough to say, "I think I'll play in the league for a couple of decades, and in that time Ill figure out who I want to be at forty." Now I know that is not the truth for me, but still I have dreams of grandeur when I wake up in the morning before my alarm goes off(always makes me feel extremely productive by the way). But as I look at my future which seems to be only a weekly thing mapped before me, I can say this truthfully, I am excited for whats to come. A couple of my friends have known since the beginning they got to college what "Their Thing" was; one of my buddies is to be the next small town propane tycoon, another, has already procured a spot in the public relations offices of the Minnesota Vikings, and she just graduated this last spring. I see there success and future lives in their respective businesses and I'm excited for them. I have no doubt they will see the returns in there financial sectors while I remain poor, but I'm not to sure I could do what they're doing right now. I have freedom being the way I am; that is astonishingly immature and undecided after college. But the thing I've never understood about the way people, families, and society does with those fresh out of college is try to figure them out and funnel them into a path as soon as the four years of college are over. And maybe I'm sayin this from a jaded perspective, as a athlete in college, we don't get to truly travel and the stuff that we do is so regimented that we are basically giant, beefed up children on a field trip wearing the same bright blue jump suits(if you ever see that, now you know whats goin on). I don't know how it is to be rich, to be able to just take off anytime that i got free time. I have no idea how it is to plan trips, my organization is a little off center and broken. But, I'm getting off topic. The truth for me is I want to really experience life before I decide what I want to do with my younger years. I haven't really been living life; I get catered to for the majority of the time that I'm active in this institution, and while I am more than appreciative for what the university has done for me, I'm ready to try it out for myself. I can imagine myself doing anything really. If I was a bus boy, I would be the most energetic bus boy that ever swiped a table; if I were a construction worker I don't doubt that I would have several referrals for wolfin' it up from time to time, but I'd be excited to be doing some work that shows in the completed product. I can't remember if Ive said it on this blog, but the words of Steve Jobs have been resounding in my head all semester, "Be a Bus Boy[do whatever] until you figure out what you love." Right now, I embody the statement "I Don't Know?" and I think it's odd that I should have to.


Sandpaper Souls

It’s odd to see

The gangs in politics.

Crips and Bloods

In Crisp tailored suits

Allegiances to colors that

Bleed through their cloth,

Animals more savage than

The ones that represent there party.

They don’t give back,

They only know how to consume,

Consume, take, consume

Smiling with there bloody teeth

An Invisible voice gives orders,

The drones follow through,

No questions asked,

Just productivity and money.

What sets them in motion?

What is the difference?

Is it the colors?

Their god damn outfits?

Stripped of those suits,

Removed of their symbols,

Relieved of there beloved colors;

They are monsters.

One like the other.

Brothers playing with others fates.

Square sanded souls

Worn down by years

Of fitting in there cubicles,

Surviving in neighborhoods

Far from the untouchables they banish.

Continually shaving off pieces,

They’ve scarred their faces,

Till the lacerations

Camouflage the mouth

And all that’s left are the eyes.

Hollowed and unblinking

"It's a romantic notion"

On those cold days,

Where the wind sways

The trees that hung over the porch;

Do you think of me

Beneath oak trees,

Can you feel me sink in your pores?

With those soft lips,

And curved hips,

Love me half past midnight

But my cold feet

Slap slick streets

As I loose you to the light

We have minutes,

That’s all we get.

Our time ends

With lips so wet.

Behind your door; discrete,

Laying in a used sweat,

Our love is wrapped in bed sheets.

Dead Memory Collage

“Do you remember the time?”,

Always defined us.

You’d say: “Wake up,

You're sleeping with your eyes open,

Better start dreaming!”

I see you still

In that old blue chair

With the smooth wood arms.

The dusty old blanket

That hung over the back,

The white bucket of walnuts

On the side near the kick-up handle.

I still crack them,

They smell like you.

The aged inside crumble in my hand

Joining the dust in the carpet.

Being a child

Defined our world.

We stomped on eggshells

Spilling the yokes,

Dirty up our pant legs,

Painting Red sports cars yellow.

Laughing so hard we can’t breathe

So hard we forgot how,

Hard enough we forgot why.

When I taste vodka

I know it’s you.

Running around in the night

Driving around in the day.

Loving, living

Joking, falling

Fucking, swearing

Just –ing-ing.

Spinning in while standing still

Calling out for anyone

But needing no one.

"He's a strange one, that boy" 

You can’t scrub me away

My dark skin protects my soul

I am Black,

I am White ,

I am both. The same.

A Biracial clusterfuck,

The child of God’s eventual Progeny

With a Black/White name.

Not a chain wearin’ thug,

Not a white collared tennis player,

But all things in between,

On a scale from Rick Ross to Ralph Nader

I reflect the mean.

People call me Oreo

Halfy, Swirl

Vanilla Chocolate Love Sandwich.

Makes me laugh to think

How hard it must be,

To catalogue something like me.

I’m a god damn S’more!

An all American Staple!

Crisp toasted Brown outside

Inside, a fusion of gooey and smooth.

I’m an indulgence.

Begging to be consumed

Pushed on the taste buds

Growing on your preferences

Until I’m your favorite.

The way I look

Has always been a means of joy.

My lips (these Lips) are apples

Big red Juicy apples

That pull in curious little white Eves

To day dream about

Their father’s nightmares.

But what comes from these lips

Is ironic social Humor from above,

I speak with the clarity of a meteorologist

In the middle of the summer

Northwestern Tight diction

From my quick togue

Barely slower than my wink.  

Oh, how the days blend together... to hell with it, here are more products.

I sit in front of this screen so much, I'm startinging to think its weird during the day when the pale white light isn't shining off my nose. but I guess when you sign up to be a writer you reap what you sow. It's a strange contradiction to my writing style though, I'm all about figuring my life out through interraction, creating joy in my life through that odd thing we call face to face communication. But today I woke up in a glorious mood, maybe due to the fact I am mear days, hours of papers, and a presentation away from being done with  my undergraduated; or possibly its that I woke up refreshed at 11:15am, skipping my class that has an amazing ability to deflate me intellectually and leave me with a sneer and a distaste for litterature. Whatever it may be, I think today I will finally sit down, bite my lip and put the last of my poems down and complete this project. Through this project I've realized something about myself; I can spew a whole bunch of shit before I find something that I think speaks true to the Human narrative and in a more self-centered view, myself. these last poems were longer and I spent a little time with them. they started more raw and I formed them over November and now I present them, content with my product. Enjoy.

Convalescence/ Your Ekphrasis

I

This was never…

Staring at the Floor,

Two lucid minds,

Aimlessly avoiding the eyes

That once had…

These clothes confining

What we used to keep warm

Your arms crossed with nothing

To hold.

The empty space

Grows

With the tick

Of my golden alarm clock,

You’re miles away from me

In this room, we... are undignosed

II

The absence creates reprints

No blacks or blues

Only whites and reds.

Wipe off the dust

Enough

To see what we created

When we created it

A romantic picture

With several copies beside it

Corroding in the dust among

The skeletons in the attic

"She heard the message from the bottle"

I

Drink up, little Girl

You’ve made it where you wanted.

Here, amongst the wolves

Frolic in your short meat skirt.

And baby, they look hungry

But

Don’t fear, I’m hear

So Drink up, little Girl.

Taste the world, little mama

Savor the nail polish,

The flavor of watered down pine trees

Learn to love the burn

That coats your throut,

Restlessly sturing in your chest.

Feel your freedom sweetened or tart

Enjoy the familiar smell of your father

Of your grandfather

Of me.

Drink up, little one

I will always be here.

II

Drink up, little girl,

Take me down fast and violent

Spill me, my love,

From the corners of your mouth

Sliding cross your cheek

Rolling down your neck

Blotting your shirt with wet.

Don’t worry what they say, love

I’m here for you.

Drink up! Drink up!

Fuck their whispers,

We sing badly proudly.

Let’s dance, My baby, Just dance

I’d catch you when you get dizzy

But I love rollin’ in the grass

And on the carpet.

Drink me, lovely girl!!

They are numb, you are alive,

We are amazing!

 

III
Drink slow,

Wait for me, baby

You’re swimming out to deep.

I can’t see you anymore

Over the swells of drunks.

I Hit the floor, near empty.

Without you, Im naked.

What happened to you

When I got left behind?

IV

My dear,

Put your hands round

My shoulders.

Don’t Cry, love.

Tonight marks the beginning

Of our love affair.

I know its true,

By the way you kiss me

In the morning.

"Purge" Day 2

These ones are weird, but that's just the way she goes some times. Sometimes I find the weird ones are the most creative and fun to do. The Coleridge poem I created with Amanda, my partner in course on the romantics where we decided that Coleridge didn't quite understand there is a fine line between love and stalking. I didn't think it was initially poetry but as it is now. why the hell not?

Passing Notes: Coleridge to Sarah

Sarah,
You are lovely,
Do you love me?
                        -Coleridge
Samuel,
Sorry, but no. Please,
Stop writing about me
                        -Sarah
Sarah,
I can't.
You are my muse.
Your every movement
Is the twitch of my pen.
I love You.
                         -Coleridge
Samuel,
Do not doubt that I will
call the police.
If I see you through my window
once more, I shall
strike you with a willow branch
                        -Sarah
Sarah,
Oh Sarah, That would
Be splendid,
for so long my heart
has been frozen in sleep,
Awaken me with your willow branch
                        -Coleridge

Love is a Crossword Puzzle

I hate the way you bitch about my hair,
Literally can't stand how loud you snore
Only you would think it is funny to see you in pain,
Verifying your status as succubus.

Everyday I wake up fantasising that you don't.
Yet, you keep on ticking like Satan's clock
On all that matters, I will never understand how
Unbearable you are, but I still love you.

"Little Boy you're goin' ta Hell"

This just in:
I'm goin' to hell.
I danced too badly,
I drank enough
I have been an avid practitioner
in premarital sex.
I stayed up past 2
to watch nothing but shapes
and bad dialogue.
My only steady relationship is
with Internet porn.
I lied to my boss
and said that my auntie died,
but don't judge me
to lightly, cause she did, later.
I've motherfuck'd
a fair amount of authority figures,
physically and verbally,
I've passed the offering trey
The majority of my life,
And I've said I love you
when I didn't mean it.

So I guess I'm headed down,
taking that fiery fall past
the bottom of the bottomless pit.
I'm cool with it though.
Have been since I found out.
I figure,
hell is packed with
good people and assholes,
the outliers of society
that where too cool to live into old age
they passed on using
the ole' free will card.
Choosing to defect from the restrictions,
with drugs in their veins,
flying through wind shields
without restraint.
I see them in slow motion,
moving loosely between
a swirl of crimson and clear.
they took side-winding roads
off the sides of mountains,
ending up consumed
in one of Mario's red mushrooms.
I can see them down there;
Hemingway is down there
blasting demons with a mossberg pump,
unlimited shells, cigar, and a smirk.
Hendrix is probably in hell
shaking the whammy bar
on his sinner's bone guitar,
a sold out crowd listening to
the greatest there's ever been.
You know Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin
are standing next to the inferno,
Maitai in one hand,
tightest little hell cat in the other
not a drop of sweat on them,
cool than the other side of the pillow
could imagine.
Yeah,
I'm cool with that.
And for Satan,
I figure he never was good
at listening to god,
bet he's loosened up a bit.

Dec. 1: the day I put it all in the Blog! damn it!

 November has passed us by and I have all of the poems written down. So now I go forth with the final movement of my "30 in 30" project; "The Great Purge"!

"Blackberries have thorns for a reason"

a worlds roundness,
soft flap of wings,
dimples with no imperfection
you are the greatest link
in my short thick chain
poised in your silence
cold in your anger
you  are
the sleekness of water,
the warmth of the fire.

Mad/Sad

I was in a different room
when I said that.
you were miles away from now.
still I ask that you come back and finish the job
Violently rip my Ribcage,
Tear wildly through my flesh.
Take your beloved trophy,
Made at home  in my breast
/
wind can't get through my hair
but it tickles my face all the same
the burn in my thighs
comes with no pain to my soul,
I run to forget/remember
where/who I am.

How to seduce a Hippie

I am a man of history,
past and present
world of opinions
views from the outside
my facts are from
grips, sniffs, stares, tongues, music
my structure is a tent
hy address is everywhere.