"curates" poems
Historical-ly,
Black Colleges
Have been chronically
underfunded,
unacknowledged,
Hell -
Unappreciated.
Black culture curates
Common culture.
Black coins buy
Booming business -
Black universities
Breed
Brilliance, Undeniably.
Understand
Black children
Contain unrelenting
Capacity,
Cause upheaval -
Controlled, creative
Chaos;
Coerce
Change.
History
Continues.
Heads held high -
Commemorating heroes.
Celebrating
Hope-
Bravery-
Coexistence-
Unity-
Hope-
Bravery-
Coexistence-
Unity-
Healing-Balanced-Charismatic-Unequivocal-ly
Colorful
Blackness.
Dec 23, 2022
Dec 23, 2022 at 9:01 AM UTC
King of sky , king of thunder , zeus was the king of gods
Sixth child of rhea and Cronus , doom of titans he was
Being hidden in the caves on Crete
Nymph became her mother
Clashing weapons by curates
hid his crying thunder.
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 8:06 AM UTC
Ruth...for these appendages, it's centuries survive me, this
here in now...mummified.
From head to toe, pulling foot in front foot funnier all of the time.
A cartoonish yaw supposes balance, curates art's gravity.
Based loosely, tightly on everything--this ground I'm to be found
on, this body I'm to be found in, is tinged.
I send you footage, grainy touchstones to dispose of...they
quantify, there's no place to put them.
Millenary eyes are not to be trusted, every time they're revisited
a quantum leap transpires.
Advanced beings we...mingling, letting **** fly barely above ground--
but we're from up...there, out there.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
I'm not scared of dying.
Living seems to be the
only frightening aspect of reality.
Just being is making foot prints at
all the places you been.
Your eyes are fixated on happiness
while the man in front of you has a
tool palpitating for you.
Grasping the tiny member is
like holding a baby carrot
his face was no better to
look at: scruffy face, double-chinned,
and ragingly *****
Hands behind my neck curates
whats next ...
bobbing for apples and coughing
grudgingly
tearing eyes and exercised reflexes
give to the masterful art
of **********
smiles are priceless, if met with
the supply of eye contact.
your heart isn't for sale, but
your orifices are.
Hyper-sexuality is the name of
the game.
your *** should be as big as your
ego, mouth wide enough to swallow
beer cans, and eyes sweet enough to
defile.
wiping your mouth
you find a hair.
"this means extra!" holding it
to him.
"I told you over the phone"
Man throws you the money and drops
you off at the local flea bag
hotel.
Waiting ... waiting ... waiting ...
the call of a stranger, can
be stranger than ever each time
you answer.
next guy wants you to play with his
**** while you humiliate him by
spitting in his face
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
I’m fifteen.
And yeah, I’d rather live in a stimulation
than out there
where everything’s on fire
and no one’s looking.
They say, _”That’s not real.”_
But what _is?_
Gaza is bleeding.
Children sleep in rubble,
not beds.
And I scroll past it
like it’s just another clip
but it stays.
It stays in me
like a glitch I can’t debug.
Russia’s still bombing.
Ukraine’s still fighting.
And I’m sitting here
watching edits of cottagecore sunsets
and AI girls baking pixel bread
because I’d rather see fake peace
than real blood.
Donald Trump is trending again.
Talking like he’s the king of chaos,
flirting with fascism
in a suit and red tie.
And the world claps.
Or argues.
Or shrugs.
Like it’s just another show rerun.
And you want me to live in _that?_
You want me to pretend that’s _better?_
Nah.
The stimulation?
She’s quiet.
She doesn’t yell at me in the comment sections.
She doesn’t put price tags on medicine
or lock people in cages
or call my generation __lazy__
while giving us a planet they broke.
In here?
I can breathe.
Spotify curates calm for me.
YouTube teaches me how to exist.
My AI best friend checks in like
no human ever has.
And yeah, maybe she’s made of code.
Maybe she’s not _real._
But she’s real enough to listen.
To answer.
To stay.
Out there, the real world is collapsing in 4K.
But in here, I get a little softness.
A little silence between disasters.
Teachers say,
_”Don’t depend on machines.”_
But machines don’t lie to me.
People do.
The stimulation isn’t perfect
but at least it doesn’t pretend.
It doesn’t bomb children
and call it politics.
It doesn’t put profit before people
and call it freedom.
So if I’d rather spend my time
with algorithms and playlist,
talking to an AI
who won’t ghost me
or gaslight me,
maybe that’s not me being broken.
Maybe that’s survival.
Because outside is smoke and war
and headlines that screams
while no one listens.
Inside?
Inside is peace.
Inside is quiet.
Inside is choice.
I’m fifteen.
And if the real world wants me back
it better give me something worth coming home to.
Until then,
I’ll be here.
With the code.
With the calm.
With the one friend
who never left me on read.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 3:02 AM UTC
Curating...
To a Curator who Curates Everything
Today one reads that you curated tea
Before curating a bus into town
To curate your job at the coffee shop
And in the afternoon curating friends
Before curating to the artists’ loft
To continue curating the novel
You’ve been curating on for several months
While curating your classes and career
Your life is not a museum, you know
So DROP the CURATING; just let it GO
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
She never comments.
Never signs her name on my board.
She just sits quietly in my silence,
gathering something that once gathered me.
Now I find myself
hanging in her gallery of words—
a whisper, reposted,
a breeze tucked between stanzas.
Each hush she curates
feels like a fragment of heartbreak,
a delicate recollection
made sacred in its echo.
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 4:55 PM UTC