forgot about this.

took this screenshot because the sentence about my stanza structure had me. — knowing me I was hype when I took this and was gonna go in about how I appreciate wot was said and that J. Matthews gets it, ["it" being my oftentimes awky stanza structure].

the poem she is referencing is one I wrote because I was bored at work. can’t recall the muse. the book she mentioned is a chapbook I’m simultaneously writing while finishing another called EVOL (Endured Violations Of Lust).

long story short, it’s the little things that make me smile on the inside… which is good I found this lil reminder considering my morning.

thanks @oh_jay_93

eh… fuccit.

it took just a moment ago to realise a couple things.

1. I don’t even need weed to just be like “fuck it”, I just naturally have that ability. my initial reaction to some ish might be off the charts but after a few moments I’m chill again, so much to the point I am not sure if I ever gave a real fuck in the first place.

2. my entire being is pretty much a living breathing visual manifestation of an oxymoron.

down to only one job now, my son I barely saw because I’ve trying to make as much money as possible before my body shuts down. gotta week left before I’m SOL because my bro & I didn’t get the apt, homie got me paranoid, hungry as fuck, got a court date approaching fast as fuck, and at the present moment I feel lonelier than a mother-fucker. kinda wish I could until it’s time for me to go to wot is now my only job.

I miss Shauntay. still love Bambi. I miss my roommates in VA, my second mom in Philly, miss being close to at least a few kin. but, unfortunately, only person here for me is me; “when nobody got my back like me I’m gonna survive” and if you walked in my shoes I guarantee you’d feel just like me.

but I digress … fuck this shit. I’m good.

RBST #16

honestly, I feel immortal, like there isn’t a soul on this Earth fucking with me because I’m me. regardless of all stones hurled at my glass house my shit won’t even crack.

guess you could say I’m feeling myself… if so, your right; feeling myself like a chronic masurbater, a nice change of pace from feeling like a lonely ghost.

this is all. fin.

since I’m no longer adding this to the E.V.O.L. chapbook I figured I’d post it. it’s called “newAGEwombman”

there’s a certain level of wombman;
the new age of digital woman
I shall never understand
a certain level of detachment
no man can comprehend,
so when dishes get thrown
tables get turned
after cell phones are checked
we look stupid and baffled then
quiet when our single friends go

man get yo’ bitch in check.

then the real problem goes full effect
until inquiring about the contents of her phone
taking a little of the eradication out her tone
all the while refusing to handover her phone

a scuffle erupts but later evidence proved
she was rehashing memories over
the night your calls couldn’t get through
yet she never apologized for cursing out
“Lil Boo”
as if you’d ever comit incest.

mild side-effect called epiphany

before church it hit me
i was only 3 hail mary(s)
away from backsliding beyond
2 baptisms outside heaven’s gate
resurrected in Medina one April dawn
discussing nonviolent tatics with Ghandi
&
a kalimat ash-shahadah reciting
from eating pigs wearing badges with specific
clearance above normal civilian lifestyle
carrying out secret agendas
to keep the majority lost, at war,
distracted and desensitized.

one felony away from self inflicted exile
being totally aloof
concerning anything
that doesn’t directly
effect me,
won’t directly
address me,
indirectly
attacking me

for being bullshit-intolerant.

before being forced to go to church
due to an ultimatum where I must decide
between a shower and couch to sleep on
or outdoors fighting over park territory and shopping carts
it occurred

I might need a Lexapro or
Afghan Kush prescription

before creating a false god to worship
make money off &
give human sacrifices
out of people stressing
me.

brainstorm

so my phone’s notepad has various ish like notes, poems, and a bunch other jank I put on the back burner. since I usually don’t post much or whatever, I figured I share the following rough…thinking about writing shorts again.

…

     she said she had a thing for super villains but said that we could be friends. my heart was broken instantly. — I stabbed her in the cheek with the pen I had been writing with, tore out the page I was writing on, flicked it at her screaming self, then walked back to my bicycle and rode home.
     upon arriving close to home police lights let me know word travels fast. in an attempt to flee someone spotted me. all I heard was
“there he is!”
the jig was up. police came and snatched me up, the news was there, her dad, my parents, and a plethora of miscellaneous spectators. it was really brutal, y’know? I mean I had to be, maybe, eight, and hadn’t ate since lunch. a little kid like that, heartbroken and hungry and some girl dad yelling and cursing at me in front the fuzz and my community …that’s a lot of stress for a little dude, and it seemed no one cared.

“was it the girl’s father?”

     huh?

“the girl whom you stabbed, was it her father that was cursing at you?”

     oh yes. horrible fat black beast is what he was. inferior really. thankfully, even as a young child I was very forgiving, not one to hold a grudge.

“but you stabbed his daughter with a pen.”

     yes.

“that doesn’t strike you as, well, unforgiving, irrational even?”

     I beg you’re pardon …

“what I mean is…”

     no! no! you do not speak! I did not give you permission to continue. how dare you, how dare you disrespect my intelligence after first having suggested I am a liar? who are you for me to lie to? stupid cunt! I’ll answer your stupid ass question.
what happened was in the heat of the moment. subsequently, however, I immediately forgave her poor judgment. hence me still giving her the poem I was penning the moment she verbally deficated. and no, I don’t believe it was irrational in the least. now, I believe the hour is up. summon the guard to have your pathetic self removed from my presence.

“my intention never…”

     save it, quack. fucking $2 whore of mental medicine. where did you graduate, DeVry? did you get your criminology degree offline and print it off at the local library? get it together.

“what of your evaluation?”

     you’re not that stupid.

to be continued …

abathinggaia/vshukr

i’m not sure wot her name is yet but i liked this print/artwork by her.

lately i really haven’t had time to lurk through any blogs but what i have seen of both of hers i like.
there is a sensual intellect that just drives me wild.

abathinggaia.tumblr.com

http://venusshukr.tumblr.com

it was all good just a week ago

*here is a throwback joint i did*

i wasn’t blind before the sky opened its mouth to scream,
breaking wails from its teeth of clouds.

and from the midst
white light took the form of angels
and one rode saddle-less on a bright steed
reaching out its crooked hand…

my rejection found itself in bruises and burdened with a jagged cross thrown
onto the back of open wounds…

but that was 360 sun and moons ago, while i was still bound by,
Queen Egypt.

now i stagger with the weight on my shoulders through
back streets and alleys lost
wandering around struggling to make my way back to Israel…

to sit and wait on Joseph to receive my word and come forth

for the interpretation of my dreams.

without a gun in my mouth (quarantined thoughts of a street statistic)

quarantined thoughts of a street statistic
blow out the back of my skull,
ink and pen fragments
vomited along wallpaper
where crooked lines indicate
the age
and
height I
should have been;

second hand cigarettes,
porn thru the eyes of a 10 yr old,
a flirty middle school teacher,
(closest I ever to came a white girlfriend),
marijuana with bitches,
several failed attempts at trust,
Bill Clinton as the White Ranger
way too many honey buns,
crime and punishment,
& no condoms lead to condemnation
stunting my growth.

Campbell’s soup spelling
out propaganda in the bowl
placed in front o’ me.
watery shit they expect me to
slurp up and be thankful I’m
only malnourished instead of starving,

meanwhile,

later,
I’m
homeless sleeping on my parent’s
living room couch
once everyone is done absorbing distractions
from the high definition flat box.
I could take the easy way out but
cars only hit you when your eyes are open
and you don’t want them to and
I dismounted the pistol from my
bottom teeth because
it didn’t taste like chicken nor watermelon
plus
a poem started up small talk asking:
isn’t that bitch-made?

these and more thoughts I think
in my mind’s mist, I sink
my quarantined thoughts
of a street statistic.

to be continued…

to be continued…

by streetpolitik