One More Piece of Me

Thrust a Heart against a Wall

they say it’s futile

old dog, new tricks type shit

hopeless to the third degree because

everybody knows about vultures

they only love from a distance

fly full circles, swoop down

when the will is most brittle

they can smell the stench of decay

the same can be said of lovers like me, who

force those who love them to hold their love at bay

with ten foot rules

about closeness, loving most nights when you get

the closest, but for the most, it’s time spent

cursing the days that you regret you ever met them

hearts held tight in tender talon hands

a gentle squeeze, it pleases at first

but choking is only a turn on until that moment

you’re aware that you can’t breathe

constricted, emotional agoraphobic and the love

is like open air

panic attacks, exposed, skin peeled back

light headed nauseous feeling

trouble swallowing, lose control

the sickening thump accompanying the sound of

holding a beating heart a few inches from your own

and then thrusting it

against a wall

but I’m no

heartbreaker, just a man with awkward hands

who no one ever taught how to hold a future

and most of the ones I’ve ever witnessed

were bad, long before the tension had passed

I’m talking past tense bad like

why are we still together

as if refusal to be alone weathers more storms than love can

I’ve seen

the bottom fall out

wedded bliss replaced by fists

slammed hard against empty tables, hearts that used to be

a lot more willing, lovers reduced to strangers feeling that their

fabled fairy tale ending didn’t end

quite as happily as it should have

and perhaps I’ve caused more harm than good

trying to love like a realist, cause I’m so quick

to see some coming con and hold onto the feeling that I’m

going to give you everything

and get nothing in return

I learned there are

lies centered between the sweetest thighs and that

pretty brown eyes can reflect more than what’s there

and the best way to avoid being shattered by their guise

was to create a heart that only cares

just enough

so I’ve given and taken love, just enough

like insults, blunt and unforgiving

never quite learning to be p.c.

their love for me too much like oil spills

and I was sadly too BP

meaning

I never really took responsibility for it

until it was far too late

splintered hearts by letting them love me to pieces

but I can only give a piece of me

wondering if maybe I’ve come to be complacent

able to compare the love I give to crying

when it happens, sometimes it makes you feel better

but nobody’s trying to do it all the time

because it drains some things inside, leaving

vulnerable spots exposed

and there’s this sense that it’s all for nothing

cultivating a plot where nothing grows

they say I’m futile

old dog, new tricks type shit

frustrating to the fifth degree because

everybody knows about vultures

we only

love

from a distance

How Can We Communicate, When We Refuse to See

This is a poem that I wrote this past Sunday morning, in response to an incident that left me a bit disgusted, both from my indifference and my neighbor's.  They've lived down the street for well over six months and sadly nobody knows anybody's name.  We go about our lives, a few hundred yards away from each other, as if the other does not exist.  While race has never been an issue as far as who I consider friends or decide to get to know, it's sad that it feels like a barrier still.  You see, the newest neighbors are white.  And it almost feels like this is keeping them from introducing themselves, and likewise keeping members of my family from taking the initiative.  Should it still be like this, in 2010?  If so, it makes me question the progress made in the society that we live in.  I hope that you enjoy this piece, but more importantly, I hope that it makes you think.  As a black male, I feel like it is certainly important for me to remember my blackness, including but not limited to the struggles of past black males.  But there are moments in time when focusing on it seems a bit like a regression.  Just some thoughts.

the Rare Poet



My Neighbor's Wave

he lifts one finger
as do I
it is funny to me, that they are both index
he looks off to the side, somewhere in the distance
as his pickup truck rolls by, and I
try my best to reflect disinterest
pretext, that we both learned long ago
he doesn't know me, I don't know him
and yet
we have a history
my white neighbor, so much of what we see in each other
still dictated by history
too coiled by chains that should be absent but
somehow choke us still
he has a story, and so do I
but I doubt we'll ever feel
inclined enough to learn of a man
when we fail to look beyond past and skin
I learned he covets my uniqueness
he learned I covet his wife
and while these two views are entirely wrong
I can't figure out for the life of me why
we exits as two weathered stones
hardening our disposition
refusing to give the other position to the point where
nobody's gaining ground
I wish I could drown my waves of distrust for him
wish he could see me as he sees his own
but today we wave in awkward fingers
and continue to be neighbors
unknown

Defenders of the Free

Although it was my intention to post this ealier this morning, I'd like to take the opportunity while it is still Veterans Day, to appreciate the men and women who continuously put their lives on the line to protect the freedoms of this great nation.  You are all heroes to me.  To your families go my prayers and support, and to each one of you an undying admiration.  Thank you for doing what you do.

the Rare Poet

And From Restlessness Comes Revelation

The last few weeks have seen a dwindling in my normally upbeat disposition.  Beyond moments of extreme sarcasm and slight cynicism, I believe I am a genuinely optimistic person.  But circumstance has a way of putting chinks into the armor.  Lately, I've been dwelling on the negative.  It's like searching for light at the end of the tunnel, but pausing to dissect the darkness.  After too long, you get caught up in it.

For nearly the last two years, I have been unemployed.  For almost a year, I've had no continuous source of income.  It's hard to continue to grind when it seems everything is gone before you get it.  But I persist.  Maybe not just for myself, because I see others around me, family and friends, who I wish that I had the means to help.  This economy is a struggle for all, and to those of you who are managing to persevere, I say God bless you.  Continue to fight.

Insomnia is an integral part of me, only because it is during my moments of restlessness that the revelations come.  I am more than my circumstance and feel like I'm going to be okay.  In the next coming weeks, I am preparing a drastic change, not only to my current living arrangements but also to my current way of thinking.  No one can take my joy, unless I give it to them.  It's time I stop doing just that.  All things that I seek, I give chase, knowing that, if it is mine, I will surely catch it.  And if not, I'll live proudly with my try.  Much love to each of you.

the Rare Poet




KEEP HUSTLIN'

Cartoons at 3:16 A.M.

Shouts going out to the single parents, because I am more and more impressed with what you do.  I have my son a limited number of days at a time, and while I am very appreciative of every second, I've learned to treasure such godsends as sugar-free everything, attentive grandmothers, and the beauty of afternoon naps.  Solace, my adorable almost 2 year old son pictured below, is a constant ball of energy and motion from the moment he chooses to start his day until the very second his head succumbs to the pillow for a night of sleep.  And as the three-in-the-morning-wake-to-watch-cartoons session taught me earlier, when his day starts, mine does as well.  (I'm considering nominating his mother for the "inconceivable amounts of patience" award, but that is another day, another blog)




Being a parent is a very humbling experience.  You learn quickly that there is plenty that matters much more than self.  It can also be terrifying at times, knowing that another life is in your hands.  You fret because you want the very best for your child, and continuously stress about ways to get it.  But once all of this subsides, you realize how empowering the role can be.  Thoughts of legacy motivate you to be better than you've ever been.  And then, there are the perks.  Ever listen to a child breathing softly, content from just being in your arms?  Ever looked into eyes that truly believe you are the center of the world?  Ever listen to a gentle voice say "I love you", with no motivation other than the fact that it's what they feel?  Ah, the joys of parenting.

the Rare Poet