True Dat, bitches (An ode to hopelessness)

I was born two legs. With ability, I stood.
Practice, soon, they became hungry chopsticks.
You might catch me before the bullet hits the air,
hopeless.
I believe in pessimism.

Should you wait, sound meets the ear
yet again, hopeless.
There are many beliefs,
also, romance.

Lines are full, so unbelievably full.

Walking from a vendy at night, thinking of you.....

So goes the rice,
in their neatly drawn rows,
tucked soft away in their gently tanned clothes
charmed by the dance of a windy night blows
just as the writer of these faulty words knows
that the beaming just above the crook of your nose
holds the same facination, as knowing love goes
when she knows,
she knows!

Missy's House--An ode to the fact that I have never been in charge of anyone

She might remind you of a baby Kornicova
Beat you straight down like a kind of supernova
We’d all admit that she didn’t even know ya
Didn’t care or think nothing of ya

I dreamt of my best friend in a pool at night
And she was also there
Not quite as fair, but still floating there
With nothing but some leaves in her hair.

Coming down from something or another
I heard the wind stab, grab and otherwise drag
a couple syllables from her other mother
and there she stood with her hands around another

I held my drink and shifted eyes
Back to the baby under my thighs
And throughout the sass and broken down ass
I lied back in my chair and wrapped my arms around the cutest
Little thing I could find.
Right there, a piece of mind.

Those three days

Blue and red threads pump life through the seven hundred and fifty two dollar check sleeping in your letter box. Oxygenated by the driver of your 11:15 bus, and the Hindi speaking hand dropping down your Bali Shag. Breathing out what you think are anecdotes and false diagnosis. But we saw you on that balconey. Your Dean white shirt told us everything about you. Liar, ja nai. Liar, no puedes.
Those three days opened every door and window, along with every mouth and eye. But it was I, that time, who finally caught you red eyed and empty handed.
Left-handed and stranded.

If you're anything like me, then....

you'll wanna see what these babies can do. Will they free your mind, kill the blind or hide your hunger? A hunger for what, I'm curious to ask us both, you and I?Pretty little things can slice your in-betweens. And again, i might ask, of what exactly are you hungry for? Those things of Spring, that everyone sings and dances for
who loves it more...
who splashes spore....
Why is Spring such a special, luscious and beautiful thing?
I find it such a bore!
As if digging through the floor
in hopes of finding a trace of steel, or gold, a whore, or more...........

What else more can babies girgle for?

Dueling Tangos

Two anonymous quotes lying naked on the page
one singing love while the other squirms with rage
dueling for the eye to lift her shoulders up in praise
while the one bleeds in pink and the other stains with grey

while size and shape tend to give chase, punctuation plays her cue
as the only source of movement that is shared between the two
and with the passing of day, the words rearrange
yet the overall tone remains,
the same.

"Let's dance, put on yr red dress and dance the blues."