Who Am I?

Well,
I must be
that ******,
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.


Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.


You see,
I must be
that ******,
a stand-in
for all other *******.
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******,
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******.

In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.

But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."

And If I happen to be a ******,
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******,
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******,
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******."

Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.

And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******,
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-*******
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."

Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,

not in the ****** way,

but the familial,
species way.

Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.

Search and find "******"
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.

One

There are an
Endless amount
Of Tick-tocks
Between
The tick
And the tock
When I’m looking
In
Your
Eyes

Two

She asked me to write for her eyes
And other things less truer, true
I'm almost certain they were lies
As sure I am that they were blue

The color of the endless skies
A pretty, enigmatic hue
The sea, it rises, then it dies
Is it the color of those two?

You had asked me to write for your eyes
I can't give credit where it's not due
It was a fairly weak disguise-
You wanted me to write for you

shaking your hand like it's the first time I'm meeting you
and every piece of me feels like cement, frozen and heavy.
my arms find their way around your shaking frame, if you were a wind storm
then maybe you could fly away,
but you just look at me from the corner of your eye,
thinking so loud
you're afraid
I might catch
what you mean

what do you mean?
the silence
you stress
between your fingers makes me want to open my mouth
and sing.
already I can feel you
coming in and out
in and out
and out and out and out
and in
and out of my mind
my imagination.

gaining a loss, the loss is a gain
because of what you use to fill the empty space that remains
we're destroying our brains
no no no no no no
we're expanding Out out out more and more and more
more give me
less than you give yourself
you deserve
more than flowers deserve crowns
and kings deserve flowers.
I want
to                  make
             you
smile.

i cry about you sometimes but im never gonna tell you.
i don't try and hide the tears: no one notices.
try and be a little more polite, look at yourself and let the beauty you reflect absorb, rather than bounce off.
get off get up get on get in get OFF get UP get ON get IN
gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme your heart
lemme lemme lemme lemme give you mine

she thought you were desperate
but she was too needy, and she left you greedy
but the wounds that are bleeding teach us how to feel.
You drop on one knee in front of him, hoping that he'll
put his hand on the other one to tell you: everything's going to be okay.
she felt so much but it's all lost.
I'm an upsidedown cross
     trying to forgive you.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Everything feels contrived…  There are too many coincidences taking place.
Everything feels contrived.  It gets boring very quickly, and feels like an imitator.
Everything feels contrived, as if he was following a recipe for success.
Everything feels contrived and designed to sell.
    The bigger issue, however, is that everything feels contrived, maudlin and superficial.
Everything feels contrived and extremely forced in order to get people to play the game.
Everything feels contrived and obvious.
    It’s difficult generating your own inspiration if you’re not used to doing it.  I think kids have it the easiest.  They can pick up and start a game of make-believe with the most complicated rules and ideas on the spot.  Me?  I have to work at it.  Nothing feels natural anymore.  Everything feels contrived and I end up walking away feeling old, tired and jaded.
Everything feels contrived and the laughs are forced.
Everything feels contrived, hollow even.  Is this what happens when you look at emotions from outside the experience?
Everything feels contrived and artificial.
Everything feels contrived and second-guessed, and in the end, you end up with a relationship with your philosophy of what pleases the other person, not with the person themselves. Whereas if you simply speak your mind, you’ll get to know each other for who you are, not who you picture each other to be.
Everything feels contrived.  It is only mildly fun.
Everything feels contrived and artificial.  If you aren’t in a relationship, a pink and white army emerges to tell you that you **** at every turn.
Everything feels contrived and there is no incentive to finish the story, as you already know what happens.  
    It's increasingly difficult to care about what happens, given everything feels contrived.
Everything feels contrived and staged.
Everything feels contrived working towards the inevitable.