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.