so last night i...

3am

2009-09-17T03:36:00.002-04:00

it's one of those nights when i get the urge to call you.
and i thank god my phone is disconnected and i can't find a pen.

there will be no letters - no texts and no emails.
the cable company never bothered to send a notification of termination, but that's fine.
3am's have never been great times for me.
they remind me of the cell phone you brought me for christmas and the alarm it had that i never learned to set.

and the gifts you buy now - for him - are probably better
and understandably.

so i write cheap messages like this
hoping you happen upon it while surfing through your cookies
and you'll call just to say you miss me.

i love you still.
is that a crime?

called my ex and said...

2009-05-23T01:45:00.003-04:00

his sneakers were sort of worn on the bottoms.

he carry around an old soul.
he smelled like my granddad's sheets.
not the granddad i liked most - but the other one.
the one who wore too much cold spice even when he went to his factory job.

but i love him anyway - i think.
this guy - not my granddad. of course i loved my granddad.

i'm kind of shy and he could tell
so all that came from my mouth was 'so they make them like you in LA?'
that wasn't much of a shy line, i guess.

after he laughed at the corniness i realized there was so much more i wanted to say.

i want to break out into 'darling nikki' songs by prince in the middle of hollywood boulevard.
i want to call him names just to make sure he never takes me too serious.
i want him to hate it when the ignorant throw money in the air in the club.
"why make it rain when the world needs sun," is what i'd want him to say.

i want him to be a basketball fan so i can lie about liking the sport then call out the wrong name. i'd say something stupid like "go lebron" when it's probably really derek fisher.

wait.
derek fisher does still play basketball right?

i want to use pick up lines on the third date just because i know they wouldn't have worked in the beginning.
i'd say:

'i'm trying to figure out how to put you on my roster - you will never know the comfort of the bench - i will always need you in the game'

and after he rolls his eyes - and giggles
he'll say

'all you have to do is ask'

now he up in my spot
telling me the things i'm telling him is making him hot
and we're vibing to the roots

being comfortable on this planet we've flown our matching spaceships to.
not equipped with rearview mirrors.

and he runs his fingers along the dried paints on the canvas above my headboard that i long ago forgot existed - and he swallows - and asks: why does he look like me - with green eyes?
and i tell him the truth

i don't know
i think maybe i've dreamed of you before
jealous of the one who posed for this portrait

and now all i want to do is call my ex and say:
now i know why it looks nothing like you.
you wanted to own the universe.
i was content with a couple of planets and a red sunset tattooed on our inner eyelids.

taught him something.

2009-04-22T14:13:00.002-04:00

he hadn't quite learned everything.

after we fucked - then showered - then faked a few kisses he handed me my shirt and asked if i'd ever return.
i sat back down and we watched frasier.
he was used to niggas who'd flush and go - then become infrequent messages in his inbox and a dick picture in his picture mail.

so when i needed to talk - i'd call
and each picture he had of me had been admired by his mother
"he's handsome" she said

so we stopped fucking for a while so he could learn.
i told him love was a misunderstanding between two fools.
and as long as i didn't give him a reason to love me - he shouldn't.

we became fools who strolled by monuments
and planted sunflower seeds at the bottom of rabbit holes

and i told him:
i do not love you because of who you are -now- to me
or what i believe you may become.

i love you because when i call you - you answer.

grabbed the moon

2009-03-07T01:49:00.001-05:00

so last night i grabbed the moon.

we've somehow managed to lock ourselves in ever room of the house with a doorknob and coexist in the exact same spaces.
i guess we've done what my seventh grade science teacher said was impossible.

today i pressed my back against a beach chair and wrote you a letter you will never read.
at least until i die - or you do - and i have to read it at your funeral.

i pressed my back against the seat and remembered your back pressed against the marble-top island in your kitchen that time we thought we'd create sex stories with our clothes on - and your blinds open.

i opened your letter with: "big head"
in case you find my book and decide to be nosy.

you are not on this island with me.
damn you and your shit to do.
one day i want to nikki giovanni you.
kidnap you like the poets do.

we can eat fish from sticks on islands with names that are hard to pronounce while watching the water roll across your ashy feet.
(i just laughed out loud for real)

i pressed my back against the chair questioning whether or not we'd be able to lock ourselves outside.
build an imaginary box around us, wondering if the the beach-goers are watching.
they will be.

i always seem to capture the sunsets when i miss you.
this time, i captured the moon too.
and grabbed it - hoping customs allows me to bring it to you.

received a call.

2009-03-02T11:00:00.002-05:00

so last night i received a call telling me to call my frat brother's fiancee because there had been an accident, and "he may not be doing so good."

i called.

in fact, he wasn't doing well at all.
there had been an accident and his lung was punctured by his broken ribs,
and had it not been for the cops and ambulance showing up when they did
maybe his heart wouldn't have started pumping again.

-"what?! where are you?! where is he?!"
-"we're in washington hospital in DC"
-"i'm in DC. i'm coming up"

although i don't have as many friends as my facebook profile claims, i do have plenty.
i've been blessed to touch the lives of many, and have them touch mine in return, and they know that i love them dearly.
and many of them know that i will do whatever they need.
i've stood in ben's chili bowl preparing to fight an ex-redskin for a friend.
i've jumped over crowds of pumping fist to help a friend whoop someone's ass.
and my frat brothers already know what the deal it regarding how far i'll go.

i told his mother while i held her son's hand: he's probably the craziest, strongest guy i know. he'll make it out of this. this is much easier than pledging in the south. you know you have to be a special person when one person gets the message, and within seconds hundreds are calling trying to find room and board for a few days because they need to see what's going on with their friend.

and i wanted to write.
but nothing came.
until now.

i'm realizing i've been pushing to hard for the survival of some of my friendships.
so i'm allowing them to fade to black.

sometimes we need to realize when we've outgrown some.
and when some have outgrown us.

for the past few months i've been going to the park alone, finding myself the only big kid on the see-saw, hoping one of my friends would show up.

not the friends i drink with on thursdays at grand central.
or visit the poetry spots with on occasion.
or the friends who give me a key to their house and let me fry fish with the bedroom door wide open, stinking up their clothes...
those are the friends who always show up.

i wait for the friends who have directions to the park
but never seem to show.
the friends who celebrate my birthday without me watching lost episodes of BET shows, attempting to apologize.
i wait for them.

so my brother started shaking a little, and i grabbed his blanket and put them over him, and greeted his father as he walked in the room, and listened while his fiancee gave the updates.
and i wondered how many people he waited for that didn't show up as soon as they knew.

i won't wait for you to show up.
i know who's coming when this happens to me.
because i will pick my friends like i have always picked my fruit.

and in 7 hours and 28 minutes i will be back in my brother's room, holding his hand, telling him that everybody that needs to be there is there, or has been, or will be.

and i pray that he squeezes my hand back and attempt to say the same thing.

walked a few miles

2008-12-15T01:54:00.003-05:00

so last night i walked a few miles

i told him we probably knew each other 30 or 40 years ago before i souls became adjusted to their new lives.
our old lives seem to line up perfectly.
there is something about the outfits he wears that catches my eye - matches my fly.

but he's far.
there are moons between us.
i often catch the moon before he does, giving him a heads up of it's light.
i've sat in my window sill for hours hoping he'd get the right light for his art.

i reach into my pockets past the dryer lint and pull out my last few compliments to give him.
he pays me back with pictures of beauty taken on junk piles.

one day - when the distance between us aren't so great - we will be.
we've learned to love differently.

there has to be a story of our ancestors we have yet to hear.
a story about a man with a chalk rock creating immortal life with his heart.
a story about a man with a muse writing her into forever.

the story we have yet to hear.

we build a bridge to bring the moon closer.
and we walk.

i want to kidnap him like poets do.
there are road sides with no footprints.
there are photographs that have not been taken and poems that have not been written.

so we walk a few miles and meet in the middle:

26 W Adams St
Crossville, TN

they sell hot wings and lemonade.
that's the middle.

and we'll pull over on the side of the road.
i'll start telling you why the sky sometimes turns red...
and you'll take the picture.

and the distance will no longer exist.

so last night i walked a few miles.

dropped my keys on the table

2008-11-17T12:35:00.003-05:00

so last night i dropped my keys on the table by the door. since locking the doors on the 1979 chrysler new yorker, i anticipated dropping my backpack off in my room, and occupying the bathroom for a few seconds, freeing the mcdonald's sweet tea from within. (side note: i think i just made peeing sound kinda intriguing)

i washed my hands and played the staring game with myself, wishing the reflection was a real twin so i could hit the shit out of him for not asking him to sleep in my bed instead of his own.
or at least sit on it for hours while we play tag around the borders - fucking up the fitted sheets while doing everything but fucking.

fucking's not a thought right now.
i like him to much to fuck him this early.
(side note: this is one of those things that makes a guy realize he's growing)

i run the shower water and gargle with the scope.
between swishes from cheek to cheek i find new hopes.

i want to be home with him when the electricity decides to take a turn for the worst
so i can feed him cheesecake and yogurt with the lights out, laughing because i got some on his forehead.

i want to put a blank disc into the slot and fill it with the 18 songs that remind me of him.

i thought about grabbing my toothbrush and running to my car.
crank it up and pray i have enough gas to get me to that avenue of trees I know exist on the other side of silence.
hoping he placed his phone by his ear so he'd feel it vibrate when i texted.

tell him about the bench i found one night while walking off a creative high.
tell him to mapquest the spot and meet me there.

he'd say: 'why should i?'

i'd say: 'because i was standing in my closet and couldn't think of anything i'd rather be doing than playing a game of spades with the cards up with you at 4:45am - waiting to wake the sun up to let him know it's monday and he has work to do.'

he'd say: 'but i'm half sleep. i wouldn't be any fun.'

i'd say: 'if i was to tell you just how much i need you, would you come tonight?'

he'd say: 'yes.'

and i'd do that.

read something new to him.

2008-10-22T01:23:00.003-04:00

so last night i read something new to him on top of a commercial white comforter and king size pillows.

there's something comforting about warm eyes staring at you when the world outside is frigid.

we put a lock on the door and stripped down to our souls hoping they'd be enough.
we crack the window to let gusts of air in, hoping the goose down white comforter would be enough - and it was.

i closed my eyes and wished for a brick accent wall while he talked about the dog we'd one day get and the size of the tv we'd have to put in the living room for when guest came over.

i opened my eyes.
and although the accent wall had not come in with the dropping temperature, i was still in love with what remained.

his legs found mine under the comforter.
and they became pretzel dough, attempting to bake int he heat our bodies created.

"read me something."

"read you what? wanna hear my favorite nikki giovanni poem?"

"no. i want to hear something you wrote."

i grabbed the smallest moleskin journal from the bedside bookshelf without once removing my legs from his.

and i began.

in poetry i explained to him the need for us to love one another.
i told him about the comfort americans find in men holding guns but not holding hands.
he nodded his head, but kept his eyes on the hairs of his folded arms resting under his chin.
i told him: "i sometimes cannot take the distance so i walk a few miles to lessen it."

he smiled.

and i kept reading.

between the smiles i could feel his pulse against my calves.
between the blinks i could feel his fingertips glide the curves of my ears.

between the beginning of the poem and the end i could feel our souls creating curves and lumpy parts in the mattress.

i folded the book and stood.

i told him:

let us remove the flannel sheets from the bed and replace them with linen.
let us throw out the king and replace it with a twin.
now we have no other option than to sleep close and warm through winter...
but for autumn let us trick off without titles while the leaves act as pillows.

i stood in the window against the coldness
and read him my favorite nikki giovanni...
in a whisper.

wrote my name on his neck.

2008-09-04T01:36:00.002-04:00

so last night i wrote my name on his neck.

he stood in the kitchen hanging on the open refrigerator door, staring at me sitting on the counter beside the old bananas and the apples with soft spots, attempting to read my mind after i refused to answer his question: what do you want for dinner?

i couldn't think.
my mind had been cluttered all day with the thought of him leaving and the thought of my hard ass bed being permanently messy or permanently made because i refused to make it up or sleep under the covers...depending on how he left it.
i couldn't think.

i really didn't give a shit about what we ate.
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and skim milk would serve the purpose.

we hadn't yet gotten out tattoos.
not matching, just at the same time.

he closed the refrigerator and sighed.
he had read my mind.
and although he didn't want to say it, his leaving would be a blow to him.

i grabbed a permanent marker and started scribbling illegible letters on apples and sad faces on bananas, knowing he wouldn't take either of the, with him as a reminder, but we'd remember this years from now, joking, saying things like:

remember that time when...

and we'd laugh.

but nothing was funny.

he stood between my legs - his back to my belly button, and we stared at an empty wall we thought we'd occupy before fall with pictures of music.

i wrote my name on his neck.
i permanently marked him.

i wanted the people who stayed at a distance to know i was once there.
he did not belong to me, but i needed to claim something at the moment, and his neck was present.

before the sky split open he's need to shower and pack and i'd need to grab a few dreams and tuck them away in my chapstick pocket for later discussion.

he towel dried, but forgot a few beads of water in the well his neck and shoulder blades created - and me - in my dehydrated state - drank it.
i prayed for tears when i realized the tattoo i created had broken free and was probably following the water down the bathroom drain.

it was gone.

the thing with permanent markers is they're never permanent on skin.

he removed the towel and wrapped himself in sheets that would never be made again...

then he left a free man.

wrote my father a note

2008-08-06T02:45:00.004-04:00

so last night i wrote my father a note.

hey dad:

i was sitting in a cubicle today thinking about a poem i've been trying to write for you, but nothing seemed to make it's way from my head to my page.
last night i put my head on a goose feather pillow and my body under a down comforter and i put my arm around a boy.
well - not a boy - a man.

it felt good, but this morning i felt a sense of uneasiness because i remembered that one june when you and i walked to the corner store in the middle of the block.
i remember the two men in tight jeans and jheri curls, standing outside waiting on a cab, minding their own business.
i remember nobody really giving a shit about what was going on.
then you said it: 'fucking faggots need to get the fuck on.'

last night i lay next to a boy who will attend every graduation, clapping when my name is called. there will be flowers at show openings and tears at curtain closings.

this morning i stood in the mirror trying to keep my tie from going beyond the belt buckle.
i learned to tie a windsor knot on google.

i remember you telling me how much you hated faggots and how you only had two girls - not three.
and i remember how your face was never in the sea of faces at track meets or plays.
your voice was never heard among the hundreds screaming for the children with numbers on their back as they ran the bases.
i've walked across a few stages in a cap and gown, taking pictures with proud strangers and smilings moms and stepfathers.
i don't remember you there.
i remember you at that corner store in the middle of the block hating faggots.

i must be a faggot.
i must be one of those men you've hated because i don't remember you loving me outside of occassional tickles and the "my son's in college" line you'd blurt out in conversations with equally irresponsible friends to make them feel bad about their children.

they went home to their children, and woke up with their children, and walked their children to school.
and because they knew high school graduation would be the apex of their child's life, they made it a priority to be there when their name was called, because they knew that their child would thank them for everything.

so i must be one of those faggots.

so last night while i slept i held the hand of a boy who will not hate me.
even if tonight finds itself alone in the 'good memory' section of his brain, he will not hate me for anything.

i've thought of jailing you in my head in a cell with large homosexual sex offenders with syphillis.
then i figured this note may do what they are unable to do:

reach you.

it's not a hate thing.
i do this for love.

signed...

me.

and i closed the notebook, hoping the ink and tears wouldn't create some sort of chemical bond and stick the pages together. i needed these letters to be sharp in case the razor enclosed isn't.

so last night - after kissing a boy and letting him know that i am who i am because my father is who he is - i signed, sealed and delivered this letter to my father.

missed my stop.

2008-06-26T01:52:00.004-04:00

so last night i missed my stop.

i sat across from the tired mother in her nursing uniform and her three year old daughter who seemed to be wide awake for the 5am A-Train downtown from harlem.

i thought about everything.
i thought about how great the day would have been had i opened my eyes this morning and he was snoring lightly beside me, smelling like old spice shower gel and usher cologne.

i thought about how slow this train was, and how little i cared because i had nothing to do when i got home or no one to tell about the pretty little girl across from me who kept plucking her half-sleeping mother's kneecaps then looking at me for a laugh.

i smiled.

in a 45 second nod i dreamt of biddi.
we sat quiet on a couch, smiling.
he'd look at me when i turned my head to look out of the window
but i could see him staring.
he wanted to a kiss.

so did i.
i turned from the window and his eyes shot to my tightly tied sneakers and not-so-skinny jeans.

i kissed him hard.
i kissed him to let him know he'd never have to ask 'how do you feel about me?'
i kissed him because i needed him to feel where i was coming from when i said 'i'm really feeling you.'

he kissed me back.

i woke up craving a red starburst from the blue pack.
the conductor announced my stop was next.

i pulled the pack of juicy deliciousness from my bag.
(yes...juicy deliciousness)

i chewed fast.
this was the taste on biddi's lips when i drove eight hours to find out for the first time.

this is why i craved the blue pack of starbursts from time to time.

the little hand of the little black girl across from me stopped plucking her mother's knee and began reaching out for what i had.

i gave her the purple one
and began telling her all about boys and which ones to look out for.
her mother would smile between her eyes cracking open slightly.

i told her:

'one day you will find yourself speeding down some major u.s. highway hoping that your phone's battery survives the distance, because once you arrive at your destination you will want to call him and let him know you're outside.'

she sat there with a sticky chin, but focused.
this little black girl was funny.

i told her:

'someday you will smack yourself and cringe with shame because you didn't really want to put all of your emotions out there to be left vulnerable.'

she laughed.

i finished:

'never enter a relationship with used emotional baggage. buy new.'

she giggled with no clue what was being said.
kids have always been my best audience.

the train began slowing.
i pocketed my starbursts and stood up.

the little hand of the little black girl stretched further and she giggled:

'one more please.'

i put on her her hand and one on her mother's lap so she'd smile when she opened her eyes.

the train stopped.

in the few seconds that passed i wondered what it would be like to take a train with someone you love. to stand waiting for the stop, holding on to his neck as he grabbed the pole to keep from falling hard.

in the few seconds that passed i missed everything.
falling on the bed kissing.
staring out of the window holding on to his pinky.
him.

she opened her eyes and smiled when the doors opened.
she said:

'someday - when she grows up...
she's going to fall in love with men just like you
and not know why.
but i will'

the door shut.
i missed my stop.

i wondered what the sun was doing.

so last night i missed my stop.

painted a short note on canvas.

2008-05-26T16:52:00.000-04:00

last night i painted a short note on canvas.

the blank canvas sat on my wall for months bearing witness to the millions of dreams and hundreds of lonely nights taking place on the bed below.

i searched for paper to write him a letter.
i had thrown it all away when my thoughts seemed to team up with my inspirations and boycott.

i chose the canvas.
orange peel and cherry cobbler colors would bring it to life.

i painted the last kiss.
somehow this paint would need to explain how our lips seems to fit perfectly together.
there would be no footnotes to explain how we felt.
no similes could give the true feeling.
I kept painting.

I needed whoever read this painting to read:

---
biddi...

this is you.
yesterday.today.tomorrow.

I will gladly drive 9 hours
to spend a few minutes with you again.

this is us.
---

I kept painting in an attempt to not appear lazy.

love has become a lost art because most of the painters are lazy.

I painted all night.

so yeah...
last night I painted a short note on canvas.

played in the rain.

2008-05-12T14:36:00.001-04:00

so last night i played in the rain - with biddi.

atlanta had gotten to be too much
so for a few days, he said, he wanted to check me out.

the weekend had been spent with sheets covering what's important
and every so often we'd put on backpacks and move among the millions
in manhattan's union square - 5th ave - canal street - chelsea.

monday morning he'd leave as though he had never come
and for what could be months we'd both be semi-single again
and that life wasn't designed with me in mind
so under covers and over bowls of captain crunch and lucky charms i begged him to stay.

he couldn't so we broke the hours into seconds so it'd seem like we had longer.
in those seconds we made as much love as possible, creating pleasant smells on my new mattress, and new focal points on each each.

we left the window open, and turned the heat up high
because we both love to sweat.

we listened to etta james and tweet
and tried to seperate the tears from the beads of perspiration.

the tears never made it to my chin.
they fell into his.

i begged him to stay longer.
he couldn't.

sunday night we sang on trains
and danced in streets.
the walked close to skyscrapers - me behind him
hoping the rain would be considerate and go around us.

the streets found themselves empty
but no longer thirsty.
i presented biddi with arms around his waist and lips to his neck - then ear.

he squeezed my hands back and we stood under the scaffold watching the new rain introduce itself to the old.

i released him from my arms and ran into the rain laughing.
i refused, this time, to let the tears and sadness show.

he joined me
and we kissed at the corner of WALK and DON'T WALK

he promised to return soon
and i laughed louder and longer as the rain ran down my face.

so last night i played in the rain - with biddi

moved

2008-04-23T03:55:00.000-04:00

so last night I moved.

i sat staring at lights from the back seat of the chinatown bus - behind the sleeping brown skinned man with locks who could have very well been someone famous. but it was late, and my ability to care was missing.

i wanted to write something to my biddi (that's what i call him) but nothing came to mind. I hadn't talked to him in what seemed like forever, so I had no new inspiration...at least nothing that would pop off the page and make him call or text me between his packing and hugging his people goodbye. see...he's moving, too.

I wanted to ask the asian lady three seats up if she could tell me how far mahattan was from my new newark townhome...but I knew she had no clue.

newark. newark is now going to be the place where sunday dinners occur. the place where the bed becomes crowded and the wine bottles fill the trash can.

I sat in the closest seat to the restroom hoping noone needed to shit bad enough to use it.

the sean john hoody across from me came hints of the man beneath it. had it not been for the weed and cherry blunt smell, he may have gone unnoticed. his bag strap was tied tight around his arm so he could sleep in peace.

he is formally educated on basic economics. whatever he carried in his bag would feed him for months, I hoped.

and between playing 'where's waldo' with the moon and checking for attractive faces within 5 feet of me, I could think of only my biddi.

I want him.

and the bridges came and left...

and newark was no longer just a thought.

last night...I moved

put my face up in...

2008-04-06T15:40:00.003-04:00

so last night i 'put my face up in his neck and breathe(d).'

he and i connected on more than the random conversations after midnight while 3000 miles apart. this was one of those 'wow...you think this could be HIM' type things. but i never wanted to say it out loud because shit can easily be jinxed. feel me?

but now the distance between us was much less than the 3000 miles that had existed before, but i miss him the same, and me having to skip to new york on a humbug mission didn't make that any easier. but i had to make the trip for work.

there's always that one song that reminds us, at least me, of that person we're trying to one day create a joint account with, buy a dog with, fight over who ate the last corner of the lucky charms with. for me it's j. holiday's "bed." i know...i know the song is old...but it still has that feel.

and it's not the whole song...it's more so the second verse. 'i'm staring at you while you sleep. irreplaceable beauty. put my face up in your neck and breathe. take you into my senses. wake up it's time to finish round two. 'round two. matter of fact it's closer to three. she's like "how long i been sleep"'.

damn...it does it even when writing this.

so i have that some placed randomly throughout my ipod playlist so it will play repeatedly and i can think about him and smile.

the flight attendant spilled a v8 juice on my express button up, but j. holiday forced me to give her a smile and my eyes went back to the ground thousands of feet below.

the white walls in the hotel room blew me. the bathroom was a joke. it wasn't bad at all, it was just too big, and the tub had massaging jets. the punchline was that i stood in there alone...no one to sit behind and breathe softly on his neck because i know it makes him freeze up. no one to stand in the bathroom while i brush my teeth, then kiss me afterwards to make sure i did a good job. i stood there alone.

i was supposed to call him from the plane once i landed, but talking to him while so far away only makes the loneliness that much more real, so i put that phone call on hold. i needed time.

he answered on the first ring, "you just landing?"
i lied, "yeah."
and we did the cliche after flight conversations about the comfort of the flight, the loud ass babies, and the white man beside me who wants to talk the whole flight to whoever listens.

then he says "i miss you already. how long are you away from me again?"
i smile and frown simultaneously somehow.
"a week or so. no longer than two."

then silence. he sighed.
we talked about the rain in atlanta and how it probably had something to do with how sad he had just became.

i didn't want to talk about the perfect day in new york.

the call was dropped.
i called back, but it went straight to voice mail. his phone must have died.

i called the airline.
there was one seat left on a flight leaving atlanta in 2 hours.

"my bad. my phone died."
"it's cool. where you at?"
"about to leave the mall. probably go home and take a nap. not feeling too up to do anything right now."

for a second i forgot i had just brought him a ticket to come see me before the sun set, so i was feeling sad, too, and was prepared to lay down on the king size bed and stare through the lace curtain from my 17th floor miniature suite.
then it hit me.

"take your car home, and get a ride to the airport within the next hour. i've been sitting here on this bed by myself listening to j. holiday."

he laughed. "are you serious?"
i laughed back. "yes. gotta be quick though."

i would have sworn the rain in atlanta had stopped. the first class ticket was worth the excitement.

"i don't have time to pack, though"
then a pause.

"just grab your toothbrush and your charger. and maybe a pair of swimming trunks. we'll go from there."

i ordered 'coming to america' on pay per view, and a shrimp and lobster pasta from the restaurant downstairs.

the bashful sun was attempting to hide behind a few night clouds, but it had not yet disappeared. it was beautiful. too beautiful to witness alone. no one would believe the sight.

and then the knock.

everything became blurry between the walk to the door and us laying on the bed, our legs locked, staring out of the window as the sun changed into her moon dress.

and i put my face into his neck. and breathed.

this was the life we asked for.

drew a picture of him.

2008-02-16T01:25:00.004-05:00

so last night i drew a picture of him.

winter had began packing her bags to make her way to the other side of the world and i began unpacking mine looking for short sleeve polos and light denims.
the sun had put his foot down and claimed the day and begged me to open the windows to feel the heat.

and my phone rang.

his voice was hoarse and low, but excited. He reminded me of my promises to swim a few laps once the temperature went up, and i reminded him of his promise to find the secluded swimming hole with a sauna close by.

"i already have that taken care of. i'm on the way to scoop you."

it was still kinda cool, so an outdoor pool was out of the question, but i didn't want to ask because i'd swim in the atlantic in mid december if he were a few strokes ahead.

we were indoors.
his sister was out of town and her pool was empty.
and the sauna had just been fixed.

we raced to each end of the pool remembering the good old days of summer camp and getting darker. we laughed as we swam through each others legs, pretending it was an accident when our hands grazed leg hairs.

we played until our fingertips were white and our eyes were red.

we crawled out of the water, out shorts becoming airtight bags, and our eyes becoming voyagers as they trekked every bulge, groove, curve and lean on the other's body.

i could no longer breath.
i closed my eyes and reached out for the towel not far in front of me.

"how about that sauna?"

i opened my eyes and he stood four feet in front of me pulling down his shorts, not once removing his eyes from mine.
i closed my eyes again.

somewhere between my first five steps towards the door of the sauna and when the heat first discovered my skin i had removed my shorts and wrapped myself in a towel made with egyptian cotton.

he sat across from me where the two walls met.
his head down, his legs up and his thoughts deep.

i could still smell the soap he used when he showered earlier that morning.
the powder he applied after the cocoa butter lotion was lavender.
i could smell it all.
his skin was edible.
his hands and feet were stolen from gods.

i sat there...quiet...sitting.
my feet brushing against the floor and my hands to the side..

the heat began building.
i inhaled deep once i remembered to breathe.

i sat in that sauna holding onto a feeling i can't describe.
a feeling i wouldn't share with my closest friend.

and in my mind i drew a picture of him so that i'd remember this feeling always.

sat and waited.

2008-02-05T01:22:00.000-05:00

so last night i sat and waited.

i placed the well-worn, low-sitting ikea chair beside my bed and rested.
this chair remained my favorite because of the deep dip.
the blinds had been raised earlier once the sun had been defeated. my favorite part of the day had long passed, and i found myself feeling some kind of way.

it's been weeks since i've fulfilled the human need of touch.
it's been days since i've licked my lips to get the attention of the cute one riding the metro every morning at 5:45am.
and my breaths have been slower.

i sat in this seat with my legs on the bed staring through the blinds at the tops of trees and beyond them into a gray abyss...
and i prayed with my eyes open that this wouldn't last always.

i prayed with my eyes open, asking that this feeling was as temporary as the few sips of cappuccino left in my only mug.
i prayed out loud for reassurance.

i could still smell 'black love' body oil in my tshirt and i could still remember the last day he wore it.

i watched mute bodies rush across the screen, and listened to the neighbor's toilet flush.
i wished i had onions in the fridge to chop so i'd cry to release this hold.

and i played sade's 'jezebel' and it happened.
i cried and realized he was gone.

mr. right will be here.
but right now he's in africa...and he's walking.

so last night i sat and waited.

was inspired to write again.

2008-01-14T02:46:00.000-05:00

so last night i was inspired to write again.

over the hill is the highway.
i sat against the pillows that stood against my wall and let my fingers discover the keys all over again.
this was unfamiliar.

the last three weeks have been filled with jazz songs, newports and whiskey sours in shady lounges throughout the lower southern states.
i'm home now.
back to sunsets through the blinds and not the windshield.

and i could still smell him on my shirt.

we left the curtains open and kept the track lights on so anyone with a view of our fourteenth floor room could watch what we did when the road became too much.

they could watch as our breathing grew heavy and the windows grew white.
they'd see the tattoos on my back as it pressed against the sliding door and my head unable to remain calm.
they'd see our dicks go from one extreme to the other - repeatedly - mine often disappearing into his unknown.

then the kissing as though only one of us were leaving at checkout in the morning.

and then they can watch us sleep as though checkout would never come.
this is how we love.

and i remembered the picture i took from the highway when we pulled over to talk about our future.

and last night i wanted to write about it.
so i did.

so yeah...last night i was inspired to write.

blushed for the first time.

2007-12-20T02:50:00.000-05:00

so last night i blushed for the first time.

my fingers became numb from typing.
this was my fifth attempt at a myspace message to the one i used to love.
and i don't think even this one would come out right.

as i typed i couldn't help but think of the lovers somewhere else doing what i wasn't.

there's a hallway somewhere close by clothed with photos by gordon parks
and paintings by ernie barnes.
somewhere in that hallway, right now, two people are making love-
creating some sort of synergy.
sweating, breath funky and carpet burns.

they are fucking like their lives couldn't exist outside of this coming together.
and for those minutes - they can't.

somewhere in the other room wynton marsalis is blowing on his trumpet...or sax or whatever it is he's playing.
and when the screams have been muted by sock balls and dry hands that smell of diesel cologne and fabric softener, he realizes the musician is now coltrane, and everything, regardless of this cramped space and the argument earlier, is going to be okay.

my train of thought crashed as the phone i thought was muted rang.

me: hello.

him: i like you.

me: well...

him: and if you don't interrupt me, it'll be easier. i like you and i really want you to like me to, because if you like me to then we can spend days together watching absolutely ridiculous shows on television and laughing at each others laugh.

me: i do.

him: really?

me: how did you get my number?

him: i'm a determined man. so you like me too, huh?

me: yes. but can i call you back when i finish this letter?

him: yes, but please don't forget.

me: i won't.

---
the letter:

dear you,

i think we should stop before you begin hating me.

friend and sometimes foe,
me.
---

i found my imagination again.
we greeted each other in my window sill -
my right hand giving life to a cigarette i'd been saving for a monumental occasion.

in the street below the heaven i created in the cramped studio apartment sat two men like me
writing poetry on each others scalps with their fingertips.
breathing life into each other with their lips.

and i smiled a bit harder than usual.
and through my reflection i realized this was blushing.

so last night i blushed for the first time.

welcomed him home.

2007-12-05T02:33:00.000-05:00

so last night i welcomed him home.

he left his shoes at the door and his pride on the stoop before coming in.
i hung my pride up beside the summer jacket i knew i wouldn't be wearing for a while.
i longed for the foolishness to be done.

all communication up to now lived in our palms as we checked old text messages and the new alerts.

he was beautiful.
and we had yet to make eye contact or so much as a sneeze.

he doubled up on his basketball shorts and wore a tank top under the white tshirt i had given him five months ago when i wore hanae mori cologne and showered with irish springs with aloe.
i could still smell the younger me.

he was beautiful.

his thumbs moved fast across the qwerty keyboard and my eyes moved faster across him being.

'so...i missed you.'
he looked up.
what the fuck was i saying?
i don't miss people.

i'd sooner bite through that skin that lives between the pointer finger and the thumb than confess a longing for anyone.
but shit, this was the type of longing that went further south than the heart.
this was the type that managed to build a fort in one's groins.
shit!

and he smiled.

and as much as i hate the fact that the sun disappears at 5:00pm it didn't seem to bother me anymore.
i now found more time to enjoy laying in a bed with the remote on the floor and my fingertips creating a maze between the strands of hair he promised to grow so i could grab.

and between the last few bites of baked sweet potatoes and the first few minutes of a massaging shower
we found ourselves omitting all fuck-ups we caused in madness.

and with paid programming happening in front of us and the remote too far
we lay there in satisfaction
but no words.

i missed him.

so last night i welcomed him home.

watched him cook.

2007-11-17T15:39:00.000-05:00

so last night i watched him cook.

after a fantasy fulfilled on counters and stove tops, our appetites were as big as our eyes.
it began by the guest bathroom door next to the stairs as my head rested on the first step and his head moving slowly between my legs.
one of those moments where God magically appears on the ceiling.

the mirror behind the mail table allowed me to watch
and he could see me seeing him enjoying parts of me i needed him to enjoy.

we next moved to the old couch with the torn pillows right across from stereo pumping out janet jackson wailing 'but i didn't even get to cum.'

neither of us would use that line this night.

my tongue, as short as it is, managed to find that one great spot and moved in a circle watching his head do the same and his lips part and come together again as though he needed to speak.
this time there were no need for words.

his back pressed against the old onion and green pepper pieces on the cutting board from out dinner just 56 minutes prior to this spontaneous session.
but it didn't matter.
the back of his thighs pressed against my chest and his head on a side tilt into the sink.
but it was comfortable.

i made all the right moves.
in and out and side to side.
but all slow.

there's something about the kitchen that prohibits fucking.
you have to make love in kitchens or at least show a deep infatuation.

his chest pressed against the refrigerator and my chest pressed against his back we danced naked to the southern hummingbird.
me inside him.
slow.

'i swear i'm spinning. i'm on a merry-go-round.'

with the left side of his face pressed against the freezer and his lips held captive between his teeth he showed his deep infatuation with me in the refrigerator door.
and i followed but remained inside.

after the bleach bottles disappeared and the kitchen was clean again, i sat at the bar listening to tweet's track number 9 and waited for the smells we created to fade away while the smells of the potatoes, pancakes, salmon cakes, eggs and turkey bacon took over.

so that's what i did last night. i watched him cook.

wrote him a poem.

2007-11-13T04:06:00.000-05:00

so last night i write him a poem.

when the hardwood floors were silent and the sun's high began to fall i sat next to dying fire on a marble floor in my black briefs and white t.

i stared at him attempting to kidnap his thoughts and hold them captive on this blank sheet in front of me.
but he kept those thoughts locked and his eyes on the floor that lay four feet in front of him.

the struggle for power between the scorched wood in the fireplace and the raw air that crept under the door ended when the last flash of an orange-red fire vanished.
the heat was gone.

we sat there, cold.
my camera and my pen occupying my hands and this thre-quarters naked man occupying my mind.
i took the picture.
i sat down my camera and formed a death grip on the pen as if for dear life.
and i began to write:

-----
i’m trying to do that other shit with you
the type of shit we daydream about during commercial and cigarette breaks
there will be no reruns this time
just original thoughts and new places to kiss you
places that have gone undiscovered
and I want to be that breath that never made it to your lungs
so this time when you exhale it’ll be slow and forever
i want to become familiar with the hairs on the back of your neck so when they tickle my lips I’ll laugh
i’m done with just kicking it too
i want to picnic inside by fireplaces on days when it rains
so the sunshine will be never be missed
and dance between bites of lumpia and glasses of grapefruit
I want to lose you between the sheet and discover you all over again
this time starting at your toes
taking your heel into my palms
so your sole’s in my hand
and whisper
‘you alright?’
-----

and one day, when the furniture arrives and we're sitting comfortable and warm on leathers and suedes i'll read it to him, and watch his eyes go from the fallen moon to me.

i folded the poem and slipped it between books on the shelf.
baldwin and hughes.
how appropriate, i thought.

so last night i wrote him a poem.

cried for my friend.

2007-11-09T03:34:00.001-05:00

so last night i cried for my friend.

a few back-to-back episodes of good times couldn't create enough laughs to cover up what came next.

with a little more than a smile, i answered the phone hoping it was cereal buddy calling to ask for another bowl of cinnamon toast crunch.
but not this time.

the sadness of a person's voice before conveying a message gives the brain too much to work with.
i began thinking of him and her and them.
and i couldn't get a tight grip around any one though, so the 'hims' and 'hers' and 'thems' were everybody.
my eyes prepared themselves for the tears.

'i just got the call from his mom. he died an hour ago.'

and in that second, florida evans wasn't so serious. jj wasn't so funny and michael wasn't the revolutionary they hoped him to be,
i found fault in it all.

all the cliched thoughts ran crazy:
'i just talked to him. he can't be dead.'
'he's in a better place'

fuck all that. he wasn't hear now. there was nobody here right now to eat my last bagel and drink that last little bit of vodka that's been in the freezer for weeks waiting for someone special.

there was nobody here to cuss out for turning from the golden girls to something stupid on discovery health.

had he called me tonight i would have ignored his call and called him back in the morning and listen to him cuss me out for not answering in his time of need.
his need being food or liquor.
and for not being here now i hated him.

on my couch sat the cherrywood brown man, looking me in the eye as i watched him through the mirror.
the tears remained hidden.

'are you alright?' he removed his glasses and stood up, paused the movie and stretched out his hand, requesting mine.

i held onto the phone that whispered its dialtone in my right ear.

he checked for a voice on the other end of the phone, then hung up, not once removing his eyes off of me.
'i asked if you were alright.'

and before i knew it, my fingertips were begging his spine for comfort.
and he hugged me back.

and there i stood, a crying man mourning the loss of my friend in the arms of someone comfortable.

and later he watched me sleep during the flood.

so last night i cried for my friend.

took a deep breath.

2007-11-05T03:42:00.000-05:00

so last night i took a deep breath.

the last box of tomato and spinach pizza found it's way to the garbage and i found myself lying face down on the febreeze-scented carpet.
i was full.

this was no stranger's house, so i lay there with my shoes off, listening to Janet Jackson blow the last chorus of 'let's wait a while' through headphone in the kitchen.
and the sound of faucet water and the clinking of glasses being put up to dry.

i smiled.
this was that comfortable feeling i missed.
that feeling of being able to just chill and kick it and not be bogged down with 'what are we doing tonight?'
this was relaxing and going with the flow.

those water wrinkled, well manicured and lotioned hands were now on the back of my neck while my eyes pretended to be shut.
the smile gave away my secret.

i could feel his heart beating on my spine, and the grooves of his fingertips on my neck.
i could feel him blinking and hear him thinking to himself.
and he could tell i wasn't sleeping.

'there's something i want to tell you. there's something i think that you should know.'

and each syllable and note would have caused each hair on my neck to rise had i not just gotten a cut.
i missed this.

the lips i had been watching chew gum, then pizza crust were a breath away from my ear.
the lips i watched move up and down and then curve frequently during jokes were now a whisper away from mine.

'let's wait a while. before we...'
and i kissed him.

and between the bottom lip biting and tongue sucking, i found my eyes open watching him, making sure this wasn't my imagination running wild.
the 4.5 cups of pomegranate juice and vodka would do one of two things:
1. create a false sense of confidence, and make me go that extra mile that i normally wouldn't sober.
2. act as a mind eraser, leaving me dumb and wondering in the morning.

his tongue tasted like hawaiin punch and his shirt had been sprayed with bvlgari.
i'd find him in the dark if i needed to.

and in the dark we created snow angels in the carpets (if that makes sense).
and when the light broke through this morning i remembered everything about him.

but more importantly, i remember how comfortable it was.
and how deep i breathed.

and then i fixed us a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch.

yeah.
so last night i took a deep breath.

cried to the blues.

2007-10-29T04:09:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-21T08:51:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-15T04:06:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-11T03:28:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-07T22:30:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-06T05:22:00.001-04:00

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.

2007-10-03T00:50:00.000-04:00

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.

dripped sweat.

2007-09-20T03:22:00.000-04:00

when the last episode of will and grace left my screen i found myself sitting on my bed, staring at the computer screen...bored. this was the times of the day/night i hated most.

doing this during the day was cool because there were options after the good shows went off, but at night the options seemed to disappear with the credits.

approximately 46.5 minutes before my face became fixed on a screen saver, i somehow managed to finish off half of an apple pie and a pint of soy milk i brought a while back. thank God soy milk doesn't expire, i guess. the rumbling in my stomach this time had nothing to do with hunger, but everything to do with me walking that thin line between 'skinny boy' and 'nigga, put your shirt back on.'

my eyes made a move for the closet and located my three-year-old sauconys and my hoody.
i got up, adjusted my dick in my sweatpants, put on my sneakers and my hoody and made a move for the door.

i adjusted my dick because i began scrolling through all the emails i had in my 'biznass' folder. emails with dick attachments from seemingly millions of anonymous potentials.

outside was cool, dark and empty.
the streets were mute and the wind couldn't seem to muster up a whisper.
i put in my headphones and started my walk toward the park's 1.4 mile trail.

the park was just as empty as the streets i'd seen on my short trek en route.

i was wrong.
i hadn't even made it a half a mile when in the corner of my eye i noticed something bouncing.
then i noticed who was bouncing it.

i stood there for ten seconds and the words of the ying yang twins popped in my head:
a closed mouth don't get fed.
i was hungry.

'you ball?' he asked. it was too cold to be outside with no shirt on, but thank God this dark brown, hairless boy found a reason to remove his.

'i mean...i can make a few lucky shots.'

i placed the ipod on the bench beside his duffle and motioned for the ball.

the score was 9 to 7. he was ahead and i was having too much fun.
my shirt came off around point 4.
well...my hoody came off. i kept on my white t.

i found every excuse to guard him from behind, and he seemed to find every excuse to take forever to make a shot.
this game quickly became more than who won.
i think somewhere around the time i was lucky enough to level the playing field, we both made the decision that we'd both win in the end.
at least i hoped.

he won.

a few cars whipped past 500 feets away on the street and there was silence again.
i began dribbling the ball as he leaned against the post playing with the string on his shorts, looking at the ground and every once in a while stealing a peak at me.

'air ball' he said as he caught the ball i purposely tossed at the basket weakly.

'it's cool. i missed on purpose.' i was walking over to get the ball. he placed in under his foot.

'no more basketball tonight, sir' he said. he looked up at me and smile.

we stood 2 feet apart with nothing between us but the air that was becoming cooler as the sweat began drying.
my lungs pulled in more air than ever before and i could smell the acqua di gio he sprayed somewhere, some hours ago.

before i realized it, i had found where he sprayed the cologne.
my tongue found that all his teeth were in place and perfectly straight.
my hands found that my eyes were correct: he had no underwear on and the movement in the shorts earlier wasn't the wind.

against the post, i discovered new territory. i became christopher columbus under the court light that flickered in the dark.

this was something for the books. something for the journal. something so exciting, i couldn't make it past two minutes of warmth and tongue flicks on my dick.
he remained squatted, his back against the metal post, my knees about to give in. my head looking around in case the streets changed their minds and decided to fill up.

'i'm about to...'

and he sped up, not even giving me a second thought...
and suddenly the basket didn't seem so out of reach and the flickering light didn't seem so dim.
and not a drop touched the asphalt.

his dark gray, watering eyes across from mine, and his smile unlike any other.
the veins in his arm turned me on even more as he grabbed my right hand and placed it on the part of his shorts under which his dick found refuge.

i attempted to grip it, but my hands were too small.

'next time we play, i'll let you win. and this will be yours.'

i smiled and pulled him in closer as his eyes followed the last drop of sweat from the tip of my nose to the blacktop.
'next time we play, there will be no ball.' and i slowly slid my hand from his dick to my sweats to comfortably adjust my nuts.

we headed in seperate directions, him dribbling his ball, smiling back at me.
me, blasting common's 'testify' in my ears, putting his name in my phone.

yeah...
last night i dripped sweat.
tomorrow night i think i'll do the same.

i was kinda disappointed.

2007-09-14T03:28:00.000-04:00

on the nights when most of the possibilities have been exhausted i log onto my yahoo messenger account to exhaust the final possibility.

my buddy list consists of guaranteed dick swallowers and riders and the occassional bed mate.
apparently something was happening this night worldwide because there were only three buddies signed in.
two had the pleasure of tasting the natural juice my body created when overly excited.
the other had the pleasure of sitting on the stiffness and rocking back and forth while his eyes rolled to the back. this one claimed to have loved me at some point.

i summoned one of the dick swallowers and hoped for the best.

me: what's up?

d.s.: sitting here. was just thinkin' about you.

me: true. come over.

d.s.: i'm about to get dressed to go out.

me: damn. i need my dick head in your mouth with your tongue swirling around the hole.

d.s.: fuck! you making me wanna say fuck this party. you wanna see me on camera?

me: fuck it. i guess. if i have no choice.

the camera came on.

the zipper was being pulled down and suddenly i remembered why he and i hooked up seven times already.

never have i sucked his dick, but everytime he pulled it out i had every want and a small need to do so.
i could give a shit about this brown skinned, five foot four inch almost-pretty boy, but i was in love with his nine.five inch dick that had a tendency to stare me down on command. i mean...it was beautiful.

he began stroking. i never knew how he did it, but his dick always had a natural shine to it which made it look lubricated at all times, making my mouth water and my dick jump in my boxer briefs, leaving a crusty cloud near the dick hole.

my dick began knocking on the zipper of my pants, but i wasn't in the mood to pull it out and mock his actions. i was in a staring mood.

with each down stroke i fell more and more in love with the muscle his hand held.

his speed increased and each time the fingers passed the head, the dick seemed to grow more and more.

and my dick refused to cease.
my breathing was insane and a wet spot began to appear just below my zipper that i was debating opening.

he type:

d.s.: i'm about to cum.

and just like that, his hand tightened around the brown steel and the lava began flowing.
i imagined him laying on his back, and my hand replacing his squeezing the life and juice that remained from him.

and watching his face go numb.

he typed:

d.s.: i gotta go wash up, man. hope you enjoyed it. luv ya.

i wrote back:

me: it was cool. be easy.

and my dick seemed to wither away from the zipper.
and i closed the laptop and then my eyes.

so last night i was kinda disappointed.

made her dizzy.

2007-09-12T03:17:00.000-04:00

she sat there playing that shy role.
i saw her hands jitter a few times when she attempted to turn the channel, afraid to talk.

in my thoughts she was already naked on my bed with her knees pointing to the celing fan and her eyes bearing witness to whatever was taking place on the other side of her eyelids.

but in reality she was beside me sitting straight up with her eyes on the television - fully clothed.

i made a move for the kitchen just so i'd have an excuse to come back into the room and lock my bedroom door and turn out the light.

i did just that.

everything happened in a blur of motion: i locked the door, hit the switch and my hand was on her bra hooks and my lips on her neck. all i could hear were sighs of relief. she loved it.

i've been with many women who could give a shit if i licked the nipples, areolas and breasts all together, but this one moved as though my tongue created nerves on her titties.

'shhhh. don't wake up homeless motherfuckers down the street,' i told her.

i created a maze on her belly, made of wet spots and fingerprints and it disappeared under her panty line.

then the panty line disappeared under my bed, to be found later, after a hot shower and a lie i always told moments after the screams and moans: 'i should be free in a couple says. call me.'

justin timberlake's new album and a black love inscent took up just as much room on my bed as we did.
between her fingers were my egyptian cotton sheets and a piece of the matching pillow.

between my top teeth and my bottom lip was her clit with my tongue writing her name in cursive on the pulsing flesh.

a chorus of 'right there's' and too many 'oh my fucking goodness's' passed and my tongue was tickling her ear while my dick tickled the back of the pink abyss.

'please don't stop. please don't stop'

i had every intention to follow her instructions, but this was different. this was new pussy.
my dick hadn't learned the curves, tightness or the wetness of these walls and was about to mark it's territory for later return.

'i'm cumming,' she screamed from beneath the pillow she held tightly over her face.

and in silence i came.
not even a shake or shiver.

and before pulling out i decided i'd have to return.

she lay there. the pillow still on her face with her arms reaching for me as i made my way to the bathroom to wipe off my dick.

i helped her dress in silence. i had fifteen minutes before the grocery store visitor would pay me another visit.

as i walked her to the door, she let out a sigh - and then: 'damn. that tongue and that dick got me feeling dizzy.'

'i know,' i said. 'i should be free in a couple days. call me'

yeah. last night i made her dizzy.

leaned against a wall.

2007-09-06T16:47:00.000-04:00

so last night i leaned against a wall in my living room and almost died.

she never showed up like she had promised me she would, so i sat at the dining room table picking over a dried out filet of whiting and sipping wine through a straw while j. holiday made his voice rise and fall.

i was pissed.

between slurping the last drop of pinot from the flute and tuning out the guy with the panty-dropping voice,, my hand found it's way to my zipper. to the dick hole. to the dick.

how sad would this night end if i began stroking my erection at my dinner table over a piece of dried fish and few african violets?

i stood up. i'm not sur eif it was laziness or pure love of my dick, but i let it swing as i walked to my silenced phone and began cruising the texts for a certain message i hoped would still be there.

'i hope you don't mind me going off subject, but i thought i'd hit you up. you and me should kick it sometime soon. hit me up if you down for it.'

and like that, the promise-breaker was forgotten and this messenger was the thought of the night...and if shit goes right...the morning.

i responded to the 3 day old message.

after the alarm beeps, doorbell buzzes, and mandatory exchanges of 'hello' i found myself pressed against a wall, his tongue pressed against my teeth and my dick pressed against the inside of my jeans, wishing i would have left it out.

my breath felt short each time he flicked his tongue on my ear lobe.
my hand felt small each time it gripped his dick through his pants.
my heart almost exploded.

i blinked. when my eyes were opened, i realized my shirt lay on the back of the recliner and my pants were under the couch. my socks were still on and my boxer briefs were between his teeth, slowly descending to the hard wood floors.

my back found unfamiliar spots on the wall and arched with the coolness of them. the only light shining existed from the other side of the partially opened blinds. i needed someone outside to see this, because i needed this to be real.

the heat escaping from his mouth and his body made me shut my eyes and remember everything that's good in life and hope for everything good to come.

the head of my dick found it's way through the entrance of my mouth and went straight for the back. repeatedly. any flies that hung around, sitting on the walls would have figured i was an absolute dummy. all i could say was 'damn.'

a small puddle of saliva began gathering on the floor as he took control of what i gave him full ownership of for a limited time.

i wanted him to have hair so i could grab a hold of something. so i beat on the wall a few times.

he began picking up speed, sucking and sliding my dick in and out to a non-existent beat.
he began swirling around the head, then take it all in.

how did he know this was what i loved?

my knees began to wobble and my voice began to faulter and i was no good.

'i'm close.'

he kept going as though he hadn't heard me.
i grabbed his shoulder and squeezed and i created a flood in the heat of his mouth.

i stood there as if pinned between a tree and a 15-passenger van.
this gorgeous black man with the body of a prison yard god slid my dick from his mouth after his tongue searched for anything extra he may have forgotten.

my heart may have exploded.

my right leg gave out and the two of us found ourselves eye-to-eye.

this was my first time seeing his eyes.
this much, i regretted.

me leaning against the wall with my dick in his mouth was beautiful
but me on my knees looking him in the eyes was love.
damn.

last night i leaned against a wall and almost died.

worried a little afterwards.

2007-08-31T04:09:00.000-04:00

well how does one begin to explain what you may consider a 'fuck up'?

like this:
the tip of my tongue was stabbing her clit as though it has broken into my mouth to steal my tonsils.
i mean, this shit was violent. her body jerking with every tongue thrust, head adjustment, and tickle my my middle finger.
i prefer the middle finge because it's the longest.

just five minutes prior to this act of...um...romance, my head was on her shoulder while she explained her reasons for thinking darrius and nina should have never gotten back together.
i didn't give a shit about neither of them.
after a few sighs, laughs and squeezes of the titties, i unbuttoned her skinny jeans with my lips and teeth.
i created a heated sensation on the already moist panties. right where the pussy was waiting for me.

in a blur of motion, the panties lay on my floor next to my new air force ones with the argyle shoosh. custom made.
i made eye connection with the pink abyss and went in for the kill.

i digress.

while my head was on her shoulder she asked 'what do you get out of eating my pussy?'

without a breath, hesitation or even a blink i answered 'the hardest dick you've ever seen.'

'oh.'

back to me stabbing:

i was right. my dick was throbbing.
the under-vein made it kinda resemble my arm, minus the elbow.
if i were her, and seen my dick, i'd go crazy.

side note: i'm probably the only man who loves his dick like this. i can go on for hours describing the beauty of it.

my teeth bit down softly on the growing clitoris and my lips had fully taken in hers.
she was gone.
somewhere between me attempting to swallow her uterus and her delivering a sermon on her back with her face in the pillow, she had released the sweetest lip-licking nectar.

and immediately after that my dick went numb, but still erect as though it were preparing to break through iron.

'i...want...you...in me now!'

white lights, shoulder shaking and toe curling is what followed.

my down stroke was to a non existent beat.

her spot and my spot somehow became the same spot, as we both yelled 'right there' at the same time.
i was afraid to move from 'right there,' so i didn't.

cross-eyed and stuck-faced, we both yelled for whatever god appeared in the room at that moment.
and she cried, her nails in my back making me want to say 'i love you forever,' but settling for 'i'm done.'

i managed to snap a photo while she bent over to put on her panties.

looking at myself in the bathroom mirror i remembered the condom i had brought through. ribbed for her pleasure. and mine.

it's cool. this was going to happen eventually.
i searched her medicine cabinet for birth control bottles, pills, pill residue.

nothing.

so last night i worried a little afterwards.

finally met him.

2007-08-29T15:29:00.000-04:00

it wasn't the same ol' run to the neighborhood grocery store.

this time was different. this time i was buying all fruit, thanks to a few helpful hints on the internet and in a few cosmo magazines letting me know how to taste just a little bit sweeter. not that the juices that flow from within aren't already sweet. just wanna be able to offer a full meal to this who choose to bypass the real dessert. feel me?

i had on a pair of college sweatpants, a wifebeater so the tattoo i like the most would show and my favorite pair of timberland boots. i wasn't dressed to impress nobody except the not-so-attractive cashier who swipes the card for me when i'm unable to provide mine. truth is, i don't have one.

at some point, between picking up the 5 cans of sliced, diced, and mashed pineapples, something caught my attention. not really something, but someone.

the heart begins to beat extra fast, or really slow. you never can tell in these moments. the eyelids get a little lower than usual and the breathing stops all together at this point, and you just feel empty. like everything you've done up to this point was for nothing.

in his basket was everything i hoped we'd be eating tonight.
fuck the fruit i was about to buy.

i made a few rounds through the aisles waiting until i saw that butter pecan tan man with the bald head and eyes of god wander to a line so I could get behind him and say a few 'hallelujahs' in my head.

'you can get in front of me if that's all you're going to buy' he said with a smile.

so after the pool and when the shower water stopped, i let him step out first to repay the favor.

last night i finally met him.

imagined her.

2007-08-29T02:19:00.000-04:00

and not to sound cliched or anything of the sort, but her pussy has powers.
i've never daydreamed of fields of green shit and white flowers before until fucking her on her living room floor at 3:12am with the TV all the way up. we figured we'd rather wake the neighbors with infomercials than with calls to a god that existed somewhere between the ceiling and the coffee table.

i digress.

because it wasn't her pussy on this day that had swallowed 'mr. russell the one-eyed wonder muscle.' it was the jaws on...the strange white 'lady' whom i had just met some 44 minutes prior that took up space around my midsection. her one hand, invisible under the folds of flesh pressed against the blankets and her other hand appearing tiny, gripping my lil' buddy as her suctioned and unsuctioned jaws slid up and down in a twisting motion.

now don't get me wrong.
i'm no fool and that did feel good as a motherfucker.
but...something wasn't right about this.

this was like a bad book, i guess.
the beginning sucked me in.
then as i went on and on and on i realized that a climax wasn't close.

right before all hope was given up on, the brown woman that once delivered god to me appeared in the corner of the room by the window looking into the back yard. it wasn't her face so much that caught my attention.
it was the beautiful, delicious, watery eye staring at me from between her legs.

...and splash!

the jaws of the white 'lady' was pleased as i lifted myself from the comforter and found my shorts and sneakers.

so last night i...imagined her.