Call Him Crazy

You see dirt man circling bags of shit and flies

Singing insanity and fling piss whip like a majorette swinging a baton

Wearing dirt suit, slime stupor and alleged bad choices manifested.

Could be crack, could be karma.

Lady tell your kids not to look his way or they’ll turn to stone

Or he’ll probably eat them with

monster teeth designed like broken piano keys

Vacant eyes wide as saucers

If one really paid attention, they’d see

But-a-man dressed in courage most envy

As they hold onto their drapetomania [dreams of freedom] til the only

Escape is their demise

He dances to his own private jam

In the middle of traffic, eyes shut to people laughing at him

He is the center of his galaxy, entertaining  gods and constellations

Escaping a reality that has him homeless, dirty, hungry, alone, and damaged.

Everyone else is crazy,

Rushing to unfulfilled lives,

Ignoring the voices in their heads that tell them they are special

That tell them to dance, laugh, wild out like happy-go-lucky children

Chained instead to a life that keeps them fat, unfulfilled, and far from their core.

Freedom is the lens that he sees through.

Settled into him like the staunch of rotting shoes.

No pill could take this away from him.

You see dirt man circling bags of shit and flies

Singing insanity and fling piss whip like a majorette swinging a baton

Blissfully happy. 

He is the envy of all who wish they had the courage

To be his kind of crazy.                                                  

Ensconced

Ensconced

Ensconced in the crevices of a beat up thrift store couch

And soaking deep in a bowl of soggy cereal,

Her reflection peeks through false idols on a tv screen

She is the pealing off from an eggshell colored wall

A mark on a barren journal page

And a tear in a random newspaper.

She is the breath between heartbeats

And the heartbeat between breaths

And the interruption of tears that make their encore appearance during

Moments such as this.

She is one with her pillow and bed,

Hiding from the sun.

A bottle of Bev Mo she kisses softly before

Opening herself wide to its magic. 

Instead, it puts her in a deep slumber…a place where she is protected

From the burn of the sun and shaming faces.

Its so much easier to slumber.  To hide. To soak in a dream where she is

Beautiful and bold and smart and thin and together.  And loved.

Reality, like San Francisco fog, slaps her gently on the face.

She awakens and decides she is all of those things…

…beautiful and bold and smart and together and loved

and fearless.

She takes a deep breath, steps forward, blessing the trees and the sun

…and the city lights and the people

With her presence.

A Love Worn-In

Love comes in all kinds of cliches

Like raindrops on a broken heart

Or stars in one’s eyes.

I used to want that but

Just like the rain, that kind of love is too fickle

For my taste.

What I want is a love worn in.

Like an old apartment with a scent of old coffee and lilac

Like a reused gallon of milk

Like a broken record playing Coltrane

Like vintage revolution t-shirts now kept in glass cabinets for display

Like a room with too many old books instead of a kindle or a nook

Like warn in shoes that feel like heaven when you step in them after a long, hard day

Like the graying of one’s lustersilk locks

Like fading sight but growing trust

Like a rocking chair with a dingy throw

Like I got you, baby, but you already know

Like everyday you always leave first, then I turn off the lights and lock the door and follow you downstairs

Like I know you like milk with your tacos. There’s a glass for you on the table. And your heartburn pills, in case you forgot.

Like an older couple giddy about a Cary Grant film

Like I can’t see you but I can feel your essence

Like I love you without hearts and flowers

But I got you and I’m listening to you,

Even the words you do not say.

Like two wholes creating one whole.

Yes.

That’s the kind of love I want.

A love worn-in.

Oh Bay Bay

Oh Bay Bay (Sometimes I Don’t know Why I Stay)

I’m a sucker for some Bay Bay

Like a fool with his hand out

Waiting for empty promises

Like a girl waiting for her abusive lover

To love her

Like an outcast hoping to belong

I love my Bay Bay

Like a wife loves her disconnected husband

Like a child loves his narcissistic mother

Like a diabetic loves their soda water

To death

To death.

I contemplate leaving  my Bay Bay

For some other who can provide for me

All the vices in the world

To bury my pain and distract me from this solitude

A continuous quick fix beyond my best interest.

A ride or die but don’t let die

Someone/someplace full of sunshine

Rarely ever any gloom.

But with a dark side that shows itself once a year,

Threatening to flood you and all of your comforts.

Now that I think about it, I feel a certain comfort with you,

Bay Bay.

You’re predictable and balanced and you’ll never

Freeze me out of my lungs or

Suffocate me or

Twist me high and spit me to the ground.

You may shake me up a little, every once in a while,

But I’m used to that.

I’m used to you getting me all excited only to forget all about

It a day later.

Yeah, you are disappointing to me.

With you, I see no opportunities.

You never get excited for me, and you

Make me feel like I’m not special.

Like I’m only a small part of this big ass puzzle. Rat race.

But you keep me grounded

And you keep me balanced

And you keep me healthy

And you keep me real

And you keep me paced

And you keep me waiting

For those promises…

…and someday, perhaps when I’ve matured down to my grave,

You will come through on those promises.

Asset

While you got her selling the one thing she knows she's skilled at,
her diamond in the rough, if you will,
while you got her on display like a candy cane
poised up to do tricks not even meant for a circus dog,
while you got her working her barely legal assets
only to receive a browbeating by the moral majority masses
while you pressure her to bend over backwards and forwards and sideways
makin' that rent happen,
what are you doing besides standing behind her
and being a dried up pussy?
Why not give her a break,
better yet, why not set her free
so she'll be forced to find a less than demeaning profession
while you take her place working your only asset...

your

    mouth.

Cappuccino Girl

I have a date

And can’t be late

With my cappuccino girl.

I know not her name,

Or much about her at all

But she’s sweet on me.

I can see it in her eyes and her smile

And her touch when she makes my drink

Oh so sweet.

I can feel a connection every time we meet.

She knows me by name and

Greets me with an eagerness that no one else

Can match

She always makes sure I am satisfied

And always asks me to come again.

The next time I see her

I’mma bring her a rose.

And why shouldn’t I? 

She’s the apple of my eye.

And if I don’t act now, it may be too late.

She’s not just doing her job and I’ll prove everyone wrong.

She’s really into me.

I work hard at a job I hate.

I live alone in a bleak apartment.

No one greets me. Not even a pet.

I watch the news.

I do laundry.

And I sit aside watching the world carry on

Without a care about me.

And then I see her, my cappuccino girl,

Waiting, just waiting for me.

Just one conversation about the weather

Or about my drink

Or about my hat-she likes my hat-

And my day is complete.

So I’mma seal the deal

Bring her a rose and who knows.

Maybe her eyes will glisten and her mahogany cheeks will blush.

Maybe a flash mob of customers will dance with glee

And Heaven will play a sweet symphony

And the passersby will clear the streets

While I lead her in a waltz. 

And the moon will twinkle in approval.

And the world will see that she’s not just doing her job.

She’s in love with me.

One day we’ll walk down the aisle and she’ll be mine

In this harsh world. 

SHE GETS ME! 

(emotional) We are meant to be…you’ll see.

So I went by there.  Didn’t see her.  They said she was on a break.  So I decided to wait. And there she was, behind the café, smoking herself away.  She caught my glance but this time there was a coldness about her.  No cappuccino smile.  Just a tar-stained snarl.  I greeted her but in return, she gave me a cold nod.  She threw her cigarette butt on the ground, spit, then went back inside and put on, what evidently was a fake cappuccino smile.  She was cordial with every person in line.  I had the rose in my hand and was going to give it to her, but it died, so I threw it on the ground.

And instead of getting my cappuccino, I left.

I waited and waited, frantic in my room. In the prison of my mind.  Then I decided to go back, just before it closed.  And then I saw her, my cappuccino girl.  She was about to get into her car, but I surprised her.  Never seen a girl so scared.  She lied to me. The kind of bitch that rips the hearts of lonely men, puts them in a blender, and shakes them soul less.  Having them think they are the most important person in the world.  But only doing it for a tip.  No different than a whore. A whore with a coffeehouse apron on.

So I taught her a lesson, that’s what I did.  I pulled the trigger and at her heart, an explosion of red stars fell to the pavement.  As she slumped, I lifted her up. Among a flash mob of customers, Heaven playing a sweet symphony, and men in blue scattered about as we waltzed one good time, just like in my dreams.

If I never see the light of day again, I know I at least found love for once in my life.  With my cappuccino girl.

My cappuccino girl.

Letter from an Inner Sex Fiend

To the fella in the paint stained jeans,

Fuck me.

Signed,

Inner Sex Fiend

I’m a bright eyed package of lust and wonder whenever I see you and your blue collar casual grace.  I see a hint of a smile in that pensive gaze.  We don’t say much but hello to each other and have a nice day.  But I know you’re feeling me and, like me, you would like to collide in a black on black war of body and soul in a dance as the sun beams on us, glistening sweat and desire.  Powerful like the scent of jerk chicken or the sounds of Georgia Anne Muldrow or this desire that teases me now and then to be the answer to your question, the space between mundane thoughts, and the sweet release to your awesomely painful long strokes.  

To the dude in the  paint stained jeans,

Fuck me.

Signed,

Inner Sex Fiend