Economics.

Beautiful people

Nonchalant in their existence.

Cigarettes properly placed between fingers,

With postures slanted upwards toward dignity;

Floating among themselves,

Gloating.

Basking in privilege,

Yet secretly despising one another

And the wealth that has them all

Entrapped.

Silver spoons gleam brightly from

The mouths of babes;

Blinding the common man,

Straddling the fiscal fence

In the middle,

From seeing the dirty, disgraceful taboo

Of flies in destitute eyes & vacant, desperate appetites.

Search the world and find

1,000 impoverished pair of hands for every rich man.

And the ratio is allowed

So that the odds towards maintaining wealth are more favorable.

Therefore,

The backs of the poor are adequate commodities

For cheap labor,

Who will continue to build up the

Collateral of nations.

Routed slaves and desperate immigrants

Are testaments

that

The contradictions of the world

Are horrid, indeed.

And Then (Mini-Series. Part 5)

one day I will

fashion the words that

will make this love

tangible.

write the poem

that will

finally

give my pain

a purpose,

and

A hope to hold me;

making me brave enough

to wait for you.

Haiku #4672

women silently

giving birth to corpses. Who

will speak for the dead?

"Tommy,...You Ain't Got No Job Maynnnn!!" (Haiku)

worse than laziness:
disguising idleness or
work without progress.

Stick-Up. (Mini-Series. Part 4)

I came to you:
Level-headed and
Whole-heartedly
With
Flawless diamonds hidden behind my eyes,
and
a pure, expectant smile.

But,
you took what didn't belong to you.
And I want them all back,

you Thief.

Left-Out for Leftovers

I’m the girl made for
Second thoughts,
Lukewarm hand-me-down gestures,
And affections in the form of
His leftovers.

Figured I would be first in line
For
His fondness;
Yet I see that
My place had the stability
Of quicksand.

The [intimate] nickname I displayed proudly
Was not gold-plated or permanently mounted high,
Rather,
One of those thin, interchangeable
Plastic tags that can be switched
With another,
When there’s an adjustment in personnel.

I certainly have my pride.
So, I will quietly gather
What rightfully belongs to me
And love myself,
From now on…

Back to the Future

I wish to accelerate time
Defy natural law
Fast forward
To the moment where you
Love me better.
Wistfully you realize
That your Present Self is
In need of the Future You
A Prospect
In your former skin.
A Prototype
Of your future self.

You.
Powerless to give
And
Incapable of containing
Me.
Lacked essence
Meanwhile I spend mine into a void interdependence.
Loving the Idea of You.
I’m
Miserly with Moments
Courted by Glimpses
&
Wooed by Potential.

You are left dazed
By my excess
And ashamed
By your lack.
Quick trips to a hidden reservoir
Leaving me behind to
Maintain our Masquerade.

But I shall wait
Here.
Denying the traces of them
Who pale in comparison
To the You
That returns.

Patience. (Mini-Series. Part 2)

peculiar. it is.
while you
drift from
fear to love's folly,
and
one beautiful possibility
to another,
I.
stand next to you,
frozen in a solitary
teardrop,
and wait for you
to notice that it's
me
[holding your hand].

Dry Eyes (Mini-Series. Part 1)

I have stared at you
for so long,
my eyes are
beginning to tire.

They are dry from
focus.
And I am afraid
that if I
blink,
I will miss...
...something.

But I cannot keep this up
for much longer.

Please,
love

...look my way.

Love Jones For a Poet

The women of the world

May swoon

At the sight of ripped chests,

Arms,

And a statuesque frame

Molded after a porcelain David.

Others interests are sparked

(Along with that sparkle in the eye)

At the sight of a man

Nice at ball-handling or

Possessing the stamina of a

Tri-athlete of sorts;

A superman donned to

dodge bullets and

Leap tall buildings.

But I.

Stagger and stumble over curbsides

Over He

That can take vowels, nouns, and stanzas

And compose them into pure fire.

Spit a flame into my ear

Instead of a pick-up line.

My eyes will not follow the direction

Of a 5K runner or a tall, unblemished figure…

Nothing turns my head like He who can

Run circles around me with

The prose that He scribes.

My heart palpitates for the master of the 16,

The king of the manuscript,

And the ambassador of words and thoughts.

Not the muscular, wife-beater-wearing novice

Who will sport the shades, grip the mic,

Ransack the words,

But will say absolutely nothing.

No, not him…

But He.

Who wears justice as a belt

And truth as a cloak.

I will stand and applaud for him,

nod along to his beat,

study his verses and

commit them to memory,

apply the Truth I feel

to my every footstep.

Big.Brother's.Shadow. (For Michael)

On February 22, 1999, my older brother Michael passed away in an automobile accident. It's amazing to me how something that happened 10 years ago still has a way of being a sensitive area for me and my family.
But God is so sovereign because it was through my brother's passing that I found poetry...which isn't just a hobby to me, or a talent I claim to have...but it is a way I worship my Father. And whether or not anyone cares or clamors to read a word I care to write, it is a gift that I was given to express the deepest pain one can experience: grief.

So, I write.
And every year around this time, I write something for him. About him.
So that I can rest in the fact that he is still missed...and not forgotten.
I can sit with most anyone and tell you about Mike, if given the time...
But there are only two things that are essential at the moment for you to know:
He was my big brother, and I loved him.
Enjoy....


Smiles and
Bright eyes.
I regard my youth with
With a bit of fondness
Because I had you.

I followed you closely…fascinated,
Because your manner
Hinted at a strength outside
Your years…
…and inconsistent with your “kool-aid” socks
And high-top fades.

I.
Big brother’s shadow.
Never leaving your side
Unless the sun was down.
[Your bedtime was later than mine.]

Grins
And high-fives.
I hated dresses
And itchy tights in my youth
Because I had you.

I mimicked you faithfully
Through basketball jerseys,
Blasting my Outkast cassette tape,
To mastering the final level of
Super Mario Brothers…

I was
Big brother’s shadow.
I wanted to be great,
Just like you.

Sighs
And broken hearts.
I learned of love early
In my youth
Because I had you.

You showed me unintentionally
What a man is and isn’t
Meant to be.
From sneaking peeks into that little black book,
Finding dirty letters in the laundry piles,
To your care for probable offspring…

I miss being
Big brother’s shadow.
Where I found safety
To openly abandon myself in innocence,
And a growing hope
On which to gaze and glean from...

He.Be.Revolution. (Personal Fav)

I've touched the hands

of a revolutionary.

a man.

and a catalyst

for change.

I've kissed the lips

of a revolutionary.

a force.

a potential name

for legacies.

Not one amongst

the legions of those

bound by the streets

and chained to a mindset

he pumps his fist

yes

but he's holding

a pen.

a mic.

He's the epitome

of Black Pride.

Malcolm's Pride.

Martin's Pride.

Mother's Pride.

Nonviolent Verocity.

Knowledgable Grandeur.

Confusing the masses

Because he manuvers just fine without

The gun on his hip

And the chip on his shoulder.

Never whining.

Pointing no fingers

and expecting no hand-outs.

He moves.

He molds.

He is.

With feet firm.

His convictions are deeply rooted.

Eyes focused.

His sights see beyond the Struggle.

His age inconsistant

of his wisdom.

But oh. How his father

would be so proud. if only

his eyes were just as clear.

He doesn't just know of revolution

or hope for revolution

or front with the cap wearin' and slogan shoutin' revolution.

But

He thinks revolution

Sees revolution

Speaks revolution

and

IS revolution.

I'm loved by the spirit of

a revolutionary.

A heart

too good for this world.

The Ol' Ball & Chain

You

Attribute me

Not to life’s greatest adventure

But to a prison sentence.

Or a stage in life that is a

Necessary evil for procreation

And guilt-free monogamy.

You

Associate me

With the nagging to fix kitchen cabinets

And annoying jousts over remote-hogging

…instead of a life-long friendship

That transcends its titles and obligations.

You

Fill bars and hardware stores

Till after hours,

Secretly envy single men,

And excitedly attend bachelor parties

To relive your glory days…

To recall when you were that free…

To recapture the smile that was lost

Somewhere between the rehearsal dinner

And the 50^th soiled diaper that needed to be changed…

To remember when

You weren’t weighed down by the ol’ ball and chain...

You

Cheapen me

And then blame me for

Having desires beyond the biological.

Past our released endorphins and sweaty limbs.

You

Connect me

Directly to the journey’s difficulty

Instead of seeing me

As an answer to prayer.

["It is not good that Man should be alone..."]

You

Flee.

So I

Will wait.

Def Poet (snippet)

Vibrations of plenty

Like boom –bap

And broken syllables in scatted form

Resounding on & on

And on again.

My life is bordered by pulsations

The soil throbs with anticipation

And whimpers with

Discontent from the hoarded debris made of

Parched parchment paper

I exhale in agreement

And pray the

Dry air will ignite the rubbish.

I lend my ear to the ground

To this faultless beat

And prepare the words to release

Into the earth.

Choke the weeds

Before I choke on this burden.

Birds.&.the.Bees.

Each time we become
Dissatisfied with our slow passage
Into a
Lifelong intimacy,
Our desperate grasping leaves us
More discontent.

Stumbling into moments to
Devour one another’s sweetness,
Only to grow increasingly
Hungry and malnourished.
We starve ourselves.

It is then:
A door is opened
That leads outside to
Greener Pastures…
…but we are so caught up in
Our indulgence of this paradise
That we don’t stop to think:
“How will we maintain the land…with no tools?”
So
We linger momentarily,
Stare at our own immature, bare members,
And then sigh; heading back towards
Our original dwelling...
…praying, on the way,
That one of us remembered
To keep the door unlocked.