#9/30 Cough in a house of Phlegm

A cough lives in a house
Suburban house made of marrow nailed ribs plastered with fresh flesh
The cough is wondering how to make a chest homely
He thinks to himself
how nice it would be to paint these red walls phlegm
carry out breath and replace the couch with chairs carved out of heaves
He remembers being an orphan
being oppressed
fighting for survival in the human system
He hates the whooping but loves the wheezing

There's a dusty box filled with pictures of her
and childhood friends
These pictures, black and white, sepia and color memories
are his only tresures
He wonders how sneezes is doing and if he and itch ever got past that hump
separately they were deadly but together they were impossible
he'll hang all their kodak moments togehter later
right after he dusts for cells

# 8/30 Sex God and Rain

Sometimes 

before the rain,

When it grays,

Just before those few sprays touch your face. 

I think, 

That God must be a child ready for tears. 

Ushering from his cloudy lips are thunder 

or better yet ungentle grunts as he back peddles,

one foot clasp in whimsical hands,

and sausage fingers 

picking out lightenling needles 

and... pins....

other times I think,

this,

must be, 

what 

sex 

feels like....

#7/30 Birth Salon

Cobweb glued,
I find myself back where I almost started, a turn close to the beginning but a tad bit late.
Calling this, the place of my birth is as wrong as let's say Adam discovering after all these millennia that eve was actually here first and he, rib given life

Yea that wrong, but listen,
I'm in a hair dryer at a salon in Memphis for the second time in my life,

-a blizzard left a nigerian chilled winter in this salon 2 years ago, he's so used to frostbite now,he barely notices-

Deja vu walks in, memories in her purse, a used cherry chapstick melting its last
Remembrance, trailing her heels, a broken hearted dog longing for the joints of its dead owner. Sad.
She eyes me before sitting in my lap, finger nails map hidden trails to half healed scars,
Peeling back inadvertently forgotten memories

-there was once a poem like a beast let loose here it spawned a poetic demigod -

-a boy once forsook being a man and decided to be poet right where that barbers chair sits, legendary boy-
blackest keloids ache for her kiss, a kiss that fucks more than sex does on long end of ctober nights,.

My hair begins to stiffen but ca a memory be orgasmic?
Can it pull fireflies from a fluttering croller oaster stomach, rumbling freighter that it is
Can it cause you to stumble as you king Kong your way through the dark hole limbo of your mind, searching for the source of its existence

-every line from his mouth has w fish hook mentality, every poem he spits is raw and flushed, he had to have garguled his words, how else did he make souls erupt,

Or can it be simple?
can memories hold you cob webbed trapped, caught in the fragrance of gel the color of crude oil, basking ant, under a sauna dryer that has 30 more minutes of geyser heat to live...to give?

-he was shaved iceberg frost with a volcanic delivery, at a barbershop in Memphis called steppin up he stepped up, he sits under sauna dryer blowing hot air like a geyser, drying his hair in lock patterns-

:( Computer Virus

I'm sorry I haven't been able to post lately, My laptop has a virus and its affecting everything! Again i'm sorry and I can't wait till I can continue blogging again....later

#6/30 For Aaliyah

Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but

I sometimes don't remember you,

Your face, isn't a safely kept image in my memory safe

I hate to admit it but I've failed to feel your impact......

Aaliyah

You were a spiraling kamikaze

A starburst lost, headed for the Milky Way

It’s no wonder; the world felt you when you died

Millions cried when your death was announced

But not I

Not because I didn’t want to,

But I had no tears to share

It’s like skin; you can’t shed what you can’t peel away

I have wronged your memory

So this is my apology to you….

I’m sorry….

I’m sorry for not knowing who you were

For not sun-taning under the heat filled passion of your music

For not finding my place in the note cracks of your voice

For not knowing your middle name was Dana and that your last was Haughton

I saw romeo must die tonight

It was on B.E.T, edited, I’ve never seen it completely and B.E.T was already an hour into the movie

I’m sorry for trying to get a glimpse of your body when the scenes cut

It’s the devil man in me, asking why I should care about a dead star
This poem is an uppercut to the him, Aaliyah
Let him feel, your rage, and anger
Tell him that ghostly punches can land harder than real ones

Can you ever forgive me and him too?

For knowing only 1 line of 2 of your songs

“That boy is mine” and for the other I can’t remember at the moment

If I ever make it to heaven will you be able to look at me?

On June 15th I heard drakes’ “unforgettable”

And didn’t realize that was a sample of you

Till Jamie mentioned it

They say your vocals where the good kind of sickening

And that you could dance a tsunami onto its toes

I never saw and barely heard

But if you're floating by dreams tonight

Please, stop by for a bit

Break me of a speck of your angelic halo,

Let it become my new soul

And maybe that way

Just maybe

I'll give you the tears you deserve for your death

#5/30 Iffy Death

When my heart stops pumping tomorrow

Open up my chest and take out my heart,
Cut a clean laceration through the middle
Whatever you find there, is yours forever
Memorandums are thumps you can always touch

When my soul blows as a light bulb

Smash the glass that kept my light burning to pieces
Break the pieces to bits,
Pulverize the pieces to particles, particles to powder
Then swallow it, for it’s the only way to keep my memories close

When my spirit simmers to cloud

Let it go, that’s me still searching for a silver lining
That’s me still looking for a home, a place to call my own
If you ever miss me, find you a patch of grass and watch me float by
And if your loneliness becomes too much, ill touch you once more…rain

When my brain is the color gray

Rejoice for me, gray is the median, the middle point
Combination of good and evil, black and white, ying and yang
My brain was never happy pink but would love being gray
For it would mean that my internal struggles are over

When my body breathes it last call

Raise your glasses and get your backs off the wall

Understand the meaning of what’s occurred

I’ve started another journey where the simple things aren’t needed

Where breath, does not mean life

#4/30 Robotic Haiku

We breathe robots life




Using A.I like street whores




They'll take over soon

# 3/30 Far From Forlong...But

I will die an unhappy man, 

a dream unachieved 

still clutched in fist, 

a lust pang still thumping after death, 

an abstract act never seen so never understood...

I will die a dethroned god, 

powerless, 

a conversation too scared to be had or heard,

But, yea

my veins will live forever, 

a memento of my wasted life

# 2/30 Interrial dance floor

Last night,
was the call I had been waiting for
The call I would answer
without looking at your collar or callers I.D

The beckoning of your hips sang
just the way jimi’s guitar did when strummed
Tuned channel, you were live
and abstract
and gorgeous as tainted sunsets rocketing across a Nigerian sky
right before the moon in lust
takes off her night studded small clothes
pealing her skin back,
cynical beauty so ugly

We can see her stars,
the moon,
you remind me of her
the moon
She nicknames her scars “stars”
to hide her imperfection
but imperfections,
are what makes me undeserving
and you
Beautiful

You smile joy
Hands weaving tighter coils around my spine
as we color the dance floor “us”
with help from wande coal
and d’banj, sunny ade and kuti
A pioneer in a room full of strangers
You are awkward in your dance stance
But unbalanced grace has never looked so luscious

Tell me
What becomes of shyness
when you let loose
on a galleries dance floor on front street Memphis?
Does it drown sinking?
A fetid black hole
tied down by the very ball and chain of its construction
Does the sinking becoming a womb delivering your freedom?

Dance with me to the music of my birth
Hold me closer, alcoholism has seized my legs
So when I stumble 
Searching for a bathroom, go with me
When I sit on an old armchair begging to caress my body
sit with me
But on my lap,
I am a jealous lover and won’t allow the armchair to share you

Tell me you love me
Share a kiss with me
Then go
Go back to the dancehall of your freedom
And let your scar/stars blind
Be free to grove, love
Fly free love twig stuck in lips of a dove
As you dance the dance
of songs
you know nothing off

# 1/30 Old and Fresh

The days are colored sweaty hot and damp

with a mixture of heavy humidity too hot for sneakers
not even ray bans can keep the sun at bay


But it’s the night life that catches these eyes
Where the aura of neon lights
shines bright on history's lost ideas


Urban city Memphis,
where beale is spelt with “ale”
not “ill”


So ill,
we be tight packed bodies,
slanging dreams you feel


They say the sounds of symphonies are beautiful,
they must have not heard the melodies of these youthful people,


Its bone chilling these southern songs our bodies compose
Yea, it’s grimy out here,
its rot out here
Guess that’s why we can grind anywhere,
jaun


Known for having more stories on first 48 than any other city,
We die every day,
to bring family time to your dinner tables
and flat tv screens
And it seems,
the sun simmers like bbq coals,
turning darker toned folks charred black


It’s not a lack of money that’s got my city suffering,
It’s a lack of leadership,
of fresh ideas,
of people willing to become the box they think in
so they can break out the box,
there’s a key to every lock,
and one day will find ours


See, I know what makes jazz so soulful,
What makes the river look gray during the day


It’s the people;
it’s this city,


its
Memphis

Poetic Workout

Discovering what poetry is suppose to be is pretty much impossible, and so is defining what a poet is suppose to be, but Auden says "A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language, Yevtushenko says "A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote." Therefore, a poet must learn the language of poetry to enable him/her to write his/her autobiography, he/she must learn the art to paint his/her footsteps permanently into any surface. With that being said I want to start a journey I noticed a lot of poets go through, a "30 poems in 30 days" journey, It's going to be hard considering that inspiration doesn't just hit you in the face, you must find it. With school, a beautiful relation, life, and defending my slam championship and etc its going to be hard but i'm going to try my hardest starting with poem 1, tomorrow


"Fear of failure must never be a reason not to try something.” Frederick Smith

Welcome

This! is not going to be one of those blogs, were I ramble about my daily life, or where I post random "cool" things from the internet. This blog is simply for poetry, the advancement of a much needed cultural movement and also for my growth and what i'm doing around the city and personally as far as poetry....Thank Me Now