and rotting quickly,
each wrinkle on
her silvery black face
tells tales of years
stacked upon years,
tears piled on tears
joy and pain
toil and bitter rain Read the rest of this entry
This is for the feelers
The drug dealers
The muthafuckin dope feigners
Runnin round naked like a streaker Read the rest of this entry
Love is not a war film
like Apocalypse Now where the hero
goes through the depths of hell and
returns drenched in blood from murder;
he’s psychologically ruined. Read the rest of this entry
What sour sweetness fills the air?
What mixed flavors spur these thoughts?
What song moves us closer?
What forces wedge in between?
What stench still lingers. Read the rest of this entry
I remember what my father told me:
There’s only one thing I’ll take with me,
all my women and their memories
But I knew he’d take more than just that. Read the rest of this entry
We tug and pull each other
There’s never rest between
The ropes we pull are bruising
Sometimes they make us mean Read the rest of this entry
*Originally written on a Hyatt Regency letterhead, this poem was turned into a spoken word house music track and released on Fluential Records (UK) in 2002, with music produced by Wilson and Steven Mestre.
It was about 6:15 in the morning I’m drunk and I’m high and I’m in Chicago now, I had just stumbled out of some club, somewhere I can’t even remember, and um I walked to the corner to hail a cab and after five empty cabs just passed me by one finally stopped Read the rest of this entry