She just wanna dance in the living room
but her booty so big it take up the walking room
I be trying to make space in my life to fit her in
but that pussy so tight that I cant seem to fit her in
I mean I like the Broad and all
but that girl sloppy like eatin in the mess hall.
I be spendin
she tells me money is on her mind
so I tell her my dicks made a money
just so I get that neck one last time.
HAHAHA! A shaqila that is me and I don't like me. HAHAHA!
Hate my dumb glasses and my ass getting fat.
Hate being called ugly though it's true.
Hate not getting a white man to screw.
What does it take to get me a rich white man?
I kiss and I slurp face I will screw and screw white men.
How do you like my new account FUCK YOU COMPUTER P.?
I like being a bitch suits my 30 personalities.
In the Fall, when the temperatures of the Bay would drop and the wind fell to ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Gondel's room. It was not a heavy frost, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The seen was reminiscent of old gallows. Henry Moore had been living this routine for 20 some odd years
He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and the three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything, except one, Leo, said there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Gondel, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. Henry had never heard his father talk about fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk and not paying very much attention to anyone, anyway.
"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "Booze and Johnny Cash.
Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. Santiago met her through a friend and after a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. But, Santiago being Santiago, chose not to listen to anybody and only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.
Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 20 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical. The third followed suit. Henry Moore, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurant owners, the laundry mat lingerers, the cops, the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation, the guy on the corner and the guy behind the black, grated fence, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after them.
Henry Gondel looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and sunlight streaked in through the blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at the most with short, skinny legs but with a wide barrel chest. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his ass would peek out. And his deep, brown colored hair was long, like that of an ancient Native American, nearly touching the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way.
They all have the right lines
But it doesn’t taste as sweet
Rolling off their lips
They call me sexy and gorgeous
But it isn’t as flattering
As when hearing ‘you’re beautiful’
They all have the right moves
But they have their own rhythms
That don’t sync with mine
They pick up on the things I like
But they don’t make anything of it
To remind me that they still notice
They all have the right ambitions
But they have their own agendas
That are opposite of mine
They like the things that I like
But never the little things
That mean the most to me
They all have the right reasons
But they don’t have the safety
That gives me comfort to approach
They all have the things I should want
But they just don’t measure up
To all that they should be worth
They don’t stare into my eyes,
Smiling, with admiration and intrigue
They don’t find subtle ways to compliment,
Their own way of flattering me
They don’t call me “young lady,”
Make me smile for no reason, laugh without trying
They don’t keep me coming back for more,
The sarcasm, kindness, the ease of being myself
They don’t give me the nervous feeling,
Make me clam up, make me happy, all at once
They don’t give me a fire to ignite, to pick the pen up
Be the fictional character in a story inspired by them
They don’t see my insecurities, the flaw in personality
Try to make it beautiful, dare me to embrace them.
They have it all,
But they’re just not you.
I could have him,
But he’s just not you.
Poor is not caring enough anymore to clean the nasty blue molded dishes in your South hood apartment. Poor is going in your brother's room to scrape the last bit of deoderant off the bathroom counter in order to pretend like you still have at least enough dignity not to smell like a homeless person, because you aren't quite that poor (yet) Poor is knowing that rent was due today, 12/11/2013, or was it yesterday? Either way it hasn't been paid. Poor is trying to make $10 last 3 days so you can try to feed your family one meal in that time span. Poor is being in love with a girl and not knowing if that love stands a chance, but promising, somehow you will make Christmas happen, but there are less than 2 weeks until that stupid fucking holiday and the likelihood of keeping that promise without selling your soul is getting slimmer and slimmer. Poor is where the poet draws inspiration, but instead of masterpieces, each poem grows less poetic, and more pitiful. Poor is the tears that still catch me off guard when the moisture hits my cheek. Poor is the loneliness of sitting in filth while your roommates are at work, because once again you are unemployed. Poor is wondering when the fuck poor ends.
The first time you told me you loved me, I was drunk
And I cried
Because I felt like my heart was having a panic attack
And my god damned cigarette wasn't helping
And the air in my lungs was revolting
The first time you told me that you loved me,
I couldn't say it back
Not the second, the third, or the fourth
I didn't say it the night that I told you you bring out the best in me
Or the day after that, when I realized your dimples
Feel like the parenthesis around my own laugh
I didn't tell you, even when you pointed up toward the full moon, just like the night we had met
Or in the morning after that, when I woke up from nightmares about being thrown in jail
And found myself so grateful to have you next to me that when I rolled over to wrap myself around your still sleeping body, I almost whispered the words in your ear, just to give you a sweeter dream than mine
The first time I thought it was when you first got out your guitar
In that warmup chord, I saw what my body already knew your fingers could do
And for some reason, it made me think about how you always put away your leftovers, how you ask me, little darlin, where was I going with that
Every damn time you tell a story, call me your steel trap
While you played my favorite song without me even asking, I thought about
How long we stood in the aisle weighing the pros and cons
And how easily we laugh
But still I can't say it, not yet, no matter how good you look in the yard, chopping wood
We need more words for love because
I think maybe we see it differently
If we were on the same page, you would never put forth something so easily
That could take us so far
And drop us so hard
Because the love that I want between you and I
Is the kind that takes time
The kind that knows how to see in the dark, that forgives all of the embarrassing things
Like maybe someday I'll show you my poetry
I see the kind of love that has learned to navigate the world through four eyes
Like a spiderweb touching
The bark on our adjacent trees
It requires you to forgive yourself the knowledge of me
And that is not easy
You joke, tell me you l-word me
Tell me that someday I'll learn how to love, just a joke, but
I don't know if you know it's not nice
I do know love
I know love like the backs of my teeth
Like the way it ties strings across time and death and seas
I know love like the way I have so many people in my life who give it to me for free
And I am so god damned lucky that you feel it for me
I know love in how much I want you
To be happy
And yes, I know how to love between lovers
But most of what I know is about how it goes away
I remember how to fall out of love, so well
How to lose myself in the swell
Of a dying tide
That for you I will dive back into that ocean
And that when I say those words, I will mean them, I will believe them
And I know that I love myself far too much
To do anything but trust my own tongue because
Sometimes when you smile I feel like I've waited for you my whole life
So, on this, I can be patient
You talk the talk
but do not walk the walk
I love you so much
but my sister she mocks.
She mocks what you say
it kills me inside,
I know your disorder
it's also affects me inside.
So angry you can be
it hurts those around,
it kills me too
like I have been drowned.
You mean so well
but it hardly goes right,
I'm so glad for my step mom
she has no fright.
Not like my mom
who you hurt so much
why did you have to touch?
You did it to me too,
you put your hand on me.
How could you do that, dad?
I was sixteen.
I love you to this day
and my helper says to me,
is it your dad that's mad
or the man he wish he could be?
I can smell the blown out candles
It smells like
And a little bit of bitterness
All rolled up into passionate flames
Sadly snuffed out
Much like my heart
This is confusing and none of it makes sense
It's how I feel
kiss me love
love me tender
strum my heart like a fender stratocaster
I took a sip of my coffee
and i thought to myself
"i wonder what her lips taste like now"