cried to the blues.

so last night i cried to the blues.

somewhere between nina simone's wailing about tired footsteps climbing up the stairs and the slamming of the front door i realized that maybe this was it.

maybe this is the last time the smell of chrome and yves st. laurent will walk the same hallways and dining room tiles as my blue sugar man.
the beeswax and twist-n-loc will go to waste.
there are no more locks to re-twist or scalps to grease.

there was no rain to make this breakup a mary j. blige cliche
and no blood red moon to stare at through the cracked blinds as he walked out the front door while my back was turned.

you ever stand in a living room with no furniture in a house with huge windows and stared sadly at a black street in a dark night that should somehow be representative of your emotions, but it's too dry?

and you beg for rain.
if not for you, at least to ruin the drive home for the motherfucker that just walked out with your last spoon and tea mug.

i stood - a black boy standing against this antique white wall staring at nothing. absolutely nothing.

maybe they'll make a movie. or maybe there will exist some white page carrying all these thoughts and words that couldn't find their way from my mouth.

we stood in the kitchen.
a few dishes to mumble under the breath about and a little sugar scattered on the counter.
his banana box filled with dishes we brought and trashbags my mom sent as a housewarming gift.
i was silent.

fuck the little message that hang on my grandmother's wall from that rusty ass nail:

if you love something
let it go
if it never returns
then it wasn't meant to be
if it returns
love it forever

and while we're at it, fuck build-a-bear.
how the fuck can he leave a stuffed monkey with his voice inside:

voice box: (press here) 'unconditionally you and me.'

and now i hate him for that.
and the toenail clippers he left are now in the trash next to the bananas that didn't make it.

the rain never came and his eyes stayed forward when he drove off.

my man's gone now.

and before the song's end
and the repeated gibberish
the tears began to flow like
kicked-over juice

my man's gone now.

and i felt like the old man by the river with nothing but his tears and his music.

yeah.
so last night i cried to the blues.

slept beneath the covers.

so last night i slept beneath the covers.

see - this dude was strange.
this dude reminded me of everything that's right in the world. so it's safe to say he's comparable to that j. holiday song i listen to when shit doesn't go my way.
we discussed his reasoning behind cutting his locks, and my infatuation with the way he used to look, and an even deeper infatuation of how he appeared to me now.

i needed him to know that when his back was turned, my nose became familiar with the smell of black cherry oil sheen and weed.
and sometimes he wears givenchy cologne.

we discussed politics, race and our favorite sex positions.
and between michael eric dyson's thoughts of bill cosby and riding backwards so he could see the flick on the tv, i told him it was almost impossible for me to sleep under the covers when i slept alone.
sleeping under the cover provided a comfort i hated when noone lay beside me taking over the other side of the bed.
he laughed and thought i was strange, too.

whenever he took a time-out to take a sip of his vanilla bean frap. i was able to smile and not be noticed.

a few pinches from my banana nut bread chased by a grande caramel latte
and i was hoping tonight my non existent fingernails would exhaust his shoulder blades of all feelings.
i was hoping my lips would graze the back of his neck where the neck fade met the skin
and the black cherry oil sheen would survive the shower i'd take afterwards.

he's brown. and his skin lights up when he gets excited.
he sat there, eyes locked on the the track and field section and lips locked on the top of the straw.

it was 11:48pm.

him: can i chill at your spot for a few?

me: of course. don't pay attention to the room. it's messy.

him: fuck the appearance.

me: glad you made it sound easy!

him: we can watch the jeffersons and i can dip your oreos in milk for you.

me: word?

him: listen, dude. i don't give a shit what we do. i just want to make sure you're gonna sleep under the covers tonight.

and i smiled.

that night the cold crept under the door, found a lift in the goose down comforter and tickled my feet.

it was cold.
around 4am i found his naked body for warmth.

and i kissed the back his neck so i could find comfort in his scent all of the coming day.

yeah.
so last night i slept beneath the covers.

wrote from beneath the sheets.

so last night i wrote from beneath the sheets:

bebeh...

through the letters - the many letters - written for the many others, i've noticed one constant.
you.

somewhere between the spiritual awakenings and the talks of camping,
i found exactly what i needed.
you.

i woke up this morning in little rock next to a styrofoam cup with remnants of parrot bay
and a cold side of the marriot bed.
where in the fuck were you?

somewhere 567 miles away wondering where i was.
and hopefully as lonely as i was.

somewhere around 5am before i left a trail of eeeeeeeeeeeeeee all across my computer screen
i wanted to call you and make a drunk confession:

you are worth my life, i think.
i almost died on the road to memphis last week,
but the sheet of clouds ten feet above the car reminded me of that night on interstate 10 three years ago.

the only constant is you.

so i wrote it all down.
and before my final blink, i started writing your name over and over, and it turned out like this:

braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

p.s. you'd love the sunset in little rock. i took a walk by the water, and went with the flow.

so last night i wrote from beneath the sheets.

pretended i was sleeping.

so last night i pretended i was sleeping.

under the white, goose down comforter i brought for protection against nights like these, i found the warm spots my body made before it found it's way to the other side.

my left foot and toes made sheet angels as they moved side to side in hope of creating a comfortable warmth and drive the cold spot away. i gave up creating the heat source, and decided to crawl into a fetal position until i fell asleep, hoping i'd wake up in a bed as warm as the chai tea i drank fifteen minutes before.

i was sleep before the second episode of 'the golden girls.'

my hands met on the back side of the pillow, and my bed was empty when closed my eyes.
who owned the hand that applied tempting pressure on my knee?
i didn't move, nor did i open my eyes.
i lay there, still partly sleep, not knowing the day, hour, place and barely my own name.

'wake up!' i yelled at myself.

i pretended to wipe my eyes in a sleeping manner, and cracked them.
damn!

of all the fantasies to have
and all the dreams to cum to
this one could actually happen if i stayed still long enough for the hand to find it's way from my knee to dick hole in my new boxer briefs.

two days before this eye-cracking discovery, this dark-skinned cousin of a distant god and i flirted across a dinner table over a plate of sweet potatoes and fried oysters.
it was a potluck.

the obvious flirting stopped when i got my masters.
this flirting happened through the frequent 'ooohs' and 'ahhhhs' while we each explained our life goals at a table four other people also occupied.

'maybe we should link up. a lot of what you want to do really interests me, and i'd love to help you accomplish that,' he said, mixing more brown sugar into his sweet potatoes, while the others talked loudly about their excitement for the upcoming election year.

my body began jerking nervously.

how had he gotten in here?
why was he here at 4:00am?
what was his name again?

fuck all the answers, i figured.
i really didn't care.

what's going to happen now?

i remember his nails.
he handed me a basket of jiffy cornbread muffins, showing off his clean, self-manicured nails and fingers.
they were beautiful.
clearly a man's.
i licked my lips, hoping he'd think it was for the muffins.

now those fingers found their tips worming their way under the elasticity and fabic covering some of my thigh and i still hadn't moved.
my breathing changed.
the heaviness of it, i prayed, hadn't given me away.

i cracked my eyes again.

this gorgeous, six foot two inch man with the body of an olympian track star lay there with his eyes closed as though a dream had taken over his sleep.
his arm, although achieving a goal at the moment, looked relax - and the veins drove me crazy.

he wore a small white tank top and the rest of him was swallowed by the thick white blanket i now wished didn't exist.

i closed my eyes and remembered all the great parts of sharing a bed - all the beauty in finding warm spots in a cold room and cool spots in the summer - all the reasons i wanted this to happen days ago.

his hand found the part of me that, in my nervousness and numbness, had grown rock-like.

i opened my eyes and remembered all the reasons i wanted this to happen days ago and i moved in closed, finding the cool spot between us.
my arm was no longer behind the pillow and my hand was beneath his tank top moving to his breaths.

and as the air began to thicken between us, and the space it occupied grew smaller we both managed to whisper:

'hi'

our eyes shut.

the morning came, forgetting the sun
but brought with it a cool wind left no space between him and i

and we opened our eyes in the afternoon.

yeah...so last night i pretended i was sleeping.

longed for sunday.

so last night i longed for sunday.

the thing i miss most is the sweet tea my mother would make in a large pot and pour into a kool-aid pitcher.

i found my flip flops and howard university sweatpants and made my way to the front door to begin my mission to obtain a bottle of arizona sweet tea; country style.

if the almost-night's drizzle didn't change my mind about the walk to the corner store, neither would the three junkies that sat on milk crates two feet away from my stoop engaged in indecent conversation about old lady fannie's big ass drawls.

something about these old men reminded me of my father.
i walked a little faster.

between the aisle where the bread and transmission fluid were kept and the candy section, i fell into a deep yearning for tomorrow.

there's something about this time of the night that made me want to sit under a tin covering while it poured and the wind blew, leaving drops of rain just inches from my toes.
my hand hugging a sweating glass of cold sweet tea and the other hand engaged in instant message conversations with whomever.

there's something about the not-so-light/not-so-dark sky that makes me want to do better with my life, but at the same time it lets me know that i'm where i'm supposed to be.

...and then i snap to.

'ready for the rain?' the short, grandmotherly persian lady asked from behind the counter, taking my money for the tea and a pack of california fruit starburst.

'yeah.' i walked out eating one of the blue pieces.

the sky reminded me that i never cry.

i sometimes listen to the sad songs on my 'i feel like crying' itunes playlist and try to conjure up a few tears, but it never works. i always end up writing a new poem, or starting the newest great american novel. and then i feel better because i've gotten out my frustrations.

the sky reminded me that tonight i promised to sleep alone.

snap a photo, pass the junkies, through the fence, over the welcome mat and through the front door.
i found myself on my bed listening to 'a bitter song' by butterfly boucher...

and crying through ink.

the rain began...and the clock tipped into a new day.

germany must have known such sundays.

wrote from the road.

so last night i wrote from the road.

somewhere between mile marker 256 and 298 i found a blue pen in the junky glove compartment and a hotel postcard and began to gather a few thoughts to put down across the pictures of the little ducks.

this road thing was nothing new.
i found myself cruising the aisles of strange and unfamilar gas stations and convenient stores on a monthly basis because of work.
and when shit like this came to be, i miss my bebeh.

so i wrote:

----------
october 5, 2007
10:29pm

dear love,

you'd really like this little city the rest of america calls dallas.
i haven't found myself in any of the tourist traps, so some would say i haven't seen much, but what i have seen you'd appreciate.

bebeh, we would come here and hold hands and be in love like we planned years ago when we first began doing this.
in that little room, on that almost-mattress.
you pretending to come through and watch hotel rwanda
and me pretending i knew all about the crisis.
well...i did know everything, but i didn't really care at that time.
and when i began yawning, it was just to cover my face with my fingers so i could secretly peek at your pulsating zipper.

who knew i'd miss you this much?

you in atlanta
me in the rest of the world

maybe next year we can find ourselves in the same place.

regardless of what you've come to understand about me:
you are 78% of the reason my freedoms have been compromised.
who would have thought it?

from that little room
to this world!
who knew?

all the stupid things i do have absolutely no reflection on how i feel about you.

i miss you
i love you
meet me when i get home, bebeh.

p.s.: i woke up with the pen and postcard in my hand and the camera on the dashboard. i caught the sunrise for you.
----------

so last night i wrote from the road.

was bored...and reflected.

so last night i was bored, so i decided to just sit in front of the television and think about a few things.

under my bed was a box of old journals that hadn't been pulled out in months.
in my boredom i felt the need to write.

i found a pen and the journal with the fewest number of used pages and started writing.

this is what i wrote:

*there's something about maxwell's voice that makes my cumming a very memorable moment.

*i'm definitely an exhibitionist. i love it when others are watching me.

*of all the sexy motherfuckers i've been with, girls and guys, i still can't decide which is better. and i'm completely okay with that because it keeps me open for the possibility of love. i'll have more options than the average person.

*there's something about bathroom stalls that make me horny as fuck.

*if i could find a mouth that makes my dick feel as good as my hand make it feel, i would settle down immediately.

*i don't masturbate often...but when i do it's so good, i feel like killing myself after so i won't come down off the high.




and after i finished writing i sat there and read the words, closed the book, and placed the journal back in the box and pushed the box under the bed. i threw the pen across the room.

i flipped the channels and found the dvd input, found my favorite flick on the screen...
and found my lube on the headboard.

no suicide to follow...but i considered it.

yeah - last night i was bored. and reflected.