not good enough to be in your band
or join your basketball team
but good enough
to spectate or be your water boy
not good enough
to pass your classes academically
but good enough to receive a passing grade
for participation that helped me graduate
so I’d be out of your hair
not good enough
to break bread with you at the lunch table
because our parents made different salaries
but good enough
to be put down when you needed a laugh
or to feel better about yourself
not good enough
to answer back when I needed your help
but good enough
to be a nostalgic crutch when you need someone
to lean on
I’ve only been good enough
to stand in front of your machines,
to fill out your paperwork,
to sweep your floors
but not good enough
to advance at this job or in this society
and now I’ve found myself conquering the world
despite your predictions, despite your conjectures
despite your criticism, despite your disparaging remarks.
I have made myself who I am today based on the indifference
towards your humiliation, your rejections, your rebukes
so, if you see me on the streets and I don’t say “hi”
it just means you weren’t worthy of acknowledging
and if I give you the sharp eye and spit in the trash can
it only means I’ve forgotten about you completely
and that is good enough for me.

you awake, and your blood
it’s changed, wrong color,

which color matters not, just,
it isn’t what’s supposed to be,

the wound that wasn’t there yesterday,
won’t/isn't being healed, somethings wrong

you don’t need to admit the admission,
no supposition, the truth, it will out you

wearing the weariness in/on your eyes,
your forehead and anywhere it matters

even strangers double take, cross over the
street to avoid visiting your visage

sometimes it can’t be helped, enormity
seems insufficient to redress overwhelming

gonna give up this wretched writing gig,
recording date & time futile & unimportant

the everything everywhere every day is
well past  the Nevery, but specificity is not

yeah gonna take a breather, a whole season,
put aside the reasons, no more deep cuts

when the portico spaces shout, sorry ,closed,
in spades, but you don’t feel it or care

go off and cater to yourself, knowing in
advance, that work won’t advance you past

the point of return, who, you’re too wounded,
no forward, the past is clout clouded, rough

the word some is a totality, what you got,
is something else, & need another something

taking a break from fools and friends, at now,
ain't any difference, gonna lie down, yeah,

lie down or lie up
because


sometimes it helps

the title comes as easy as water from the tap,
the poem’s body, somehow lost in the prep,
comeback a day later, looking for total recall,
and what my mind meant, intended, by a multi-coloration

and
the notion of humility as my overarching,
modus operandi, adding a filter, that diffracts
pure light into a spectrum of primary

primaries-

building blocks of our most basic
essences; seeing the spectrum not as pieces
but as a whole body blended, a mix, oils mixed into a purified glow and see humans
in this light and only in this light
and
remaking a multi into a singularity
and
this will be my only filter for assessing
the future as far ahead as my vision will
allow

12/18/24

I choose fingers,
among the array
of many wonderful
parts on offer,

the other sensory emissaries protest,
but the multi-fluency of fingers,
fluent in all Romance languages,
nay, in every dialect, tongue,
tippling the balance in their favor

for the fingers are wonderful conversationlists, trumping the
cooing coyness of sweet wordy
verbs, fingers defy nouns, pronouns

and are fingers the finest conjunction
that was ever conjured ot conjuncted?

the ears hear poorly when upom it
a long  slim finger casually traces outlines
slow~sensually and the eyes shut tightly,
reflexively, the tongue froze to the
mouth roof, muted into inaction

even the the sense of smell lies powerless
should we block the nostrils with but
*******, and breathe mouth mightily

we do not diminish the orchestration’s
totality, the blending of sound ‘n sensation,
but the blind and deaf all must bow before the power of fingers speaking to
every part of the bodies totality

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could