Probability isn’t the luck it deserves for wanting desperately to be noticed by any appeals. Generating new focuses never thought possible. If so… Who is the recipient? Who is the lawmaker? Who being the justice department? Goods to making essential markers on productive velocities. Justification is outweighed by department alone. Growing ever scarcer without benefiting attitudes in place. Conjecturing solvent pleasures across many fields. Fields of accessory dependents ensuring a collective term is agreeable. Except, what if probability is outweighed not by something further from its own attitude? What if it can’t benefit itself? In question, becoming misshaped, mispronounced, or misinterpreted. Depending on who’s right, or who’s wrong shouldn’t matter until claims are assured. Propagating across the many fields of accessory dependents. Dependents outweighing the logic one is misshaped by. Demonstrating probabilities mispronouncing sense of terms for oneself. Wrapping up in a crumbled conjecture. Propagating a newer field of already surveyed products. Truth is in the stream that propagates those fields. Accessory moments dependent on gaining tension through the rise of the recipient. That’s the only way probability will ever learn. Hence why it shuts down if it ever involved itself. Itself without its own recipient. Its own justice department. Lawmaker without any dependent ideas would ever appeal to its own logical making, if it’s never dependent on itself. Only flashing the accessory dependent on other influences. Influences going way down the line of certainties without pleasure. Urges relapse. Furthering its own clustered rut! One without mistakes diverging deeper into uncertainties. Taking risks isn’t noticeable. When probability taking risks enough to (blush) down the line of certainties without an aim involved. Scattering their rut from within. But how does it involve probability? It doesn’t. Probability is the representation of how one constant judge itself for pleasure. When pleasurable actions are dependent with a blank impression never sought out. To focused on probability. When probability isn’t fruitful by its own design either. Only way it works. Never looking back in itself. A reflection of tempted attitudes fluttering in a swift, but rigid wind. Wind never tempted by its own sway. If one is to admit what they aren’t even aware of changing. Another shutdown happens! Justifications for probabilities own reckoning depends on other solvents. Solvents who don’t even understand the probabilities of there own life makings. Able to learn what is dependent onto others. Never within themselves directing their starry performance. What happens when things are finally noticeable within probabilities that will exceed probable actions of the force that dictates fates majority complexes? Complexes without variety. Varieties misshaped by mishappenings of trust. Which includes a basic awareness of some factor never hesitating to judge within the core of being itself. A view fate designs in its weapon of probability very well. What is fate up to…? Never can guess when probability shuts down all appliances out of contact with no one but itself left in the dark. Probability is. Everything has just become disowned. Fate exchanging glances with itself for one last second, before rapping up this little diverse expression. Pinpointing its weapon of probability without knowing why that is? Hinting at fate not being the only recipient to follow in its weapons obstructed desires.

I drank her in with my lonesome stare
I said,
"Give me that good lovin'
darling it don't take work
to turn on your oven..."
First she feigned indifference
then she sighed with deference
and I coaxed her in like a trout in spring.

Honey I'm looking for the hot button to push
some women will holler,
men like me will shush
cause the hot button just needs the right touch
celebrate good lovin' with me, don't fuss...

Politics are all about the hot button.
Men with the long arms ain't seen nothin'.
Law man bows to the law maker.
Hot button respects your journalistic prayer.

Some men see what some men hide,
but you can keep hiding if the law will abide.
Even when the law man says no-no
lawmaker's got a hearse:
'nother **, 'nother **...

Hot button's the only thing you'll see in print.
What your momma's momma says is what will glint.
The bird is the word, I'll say in vain,
but top dollar pays what's at the nose of the vane.

I've wanted to push the hot button all night long
classic poems galore, but mine are all wrong.
I guess I'll go back to where I was born,
chew a dog bone, scraps, with my baby teeth worn.

In the junkyard, I see yesterday's hot buttons
emaciated bells and whistles just struttin'
They've lost their minds and luster, no thanks
I'm like,
"These are the gals you see walking the planks."
Every day more hot buttons walk in line,
heaven is just a misery for these topics of history
but I polish them with chrome
I get desperate, what can I say.
I'll never leave a hot button to rot with dismay.

Just give me another hour, good lovin' can dream.
I'll bring a hot button to you, good Lord! It'll gleam.

If you put the question to, say, one Ben Haramed,
He would, as befits a wily old desert jackal,
Find such notions of faith and fidelity quite amusing--

(Following stars in search of something ephermal,
With no fixed exchange rate?
Will these specks of light find you shelter
Among throngs of shepherds and sundry fools?
Will your mewling, puking infant provide you succor in that cold city
Where no one makes time for you, save the pickpockets or strumpets,
Each of whom would pawn your drum
For a dram or string of brightly-colored beads?)

And, indeed, if you happened upon a certain wise and well-off trio
Ensconced comfortably in their lodgings several streets distant
From the temporary residence of the object of their pilgrimage
(It is only fit that we pay obeisance,
But to actually stay in such a place, well...)
They would certainly forswear any notion
Of the primacy of the gold piece and the blade
But if you caught them in a more comfortable, unguarded moment
You may able to infer quite correctly that,
While they would express themselves more elegantly
Than some rude wilderness bandit,
You could no more expect them
To exchange their coin of the realm for philosophy
Than you would expect the fold and kine
To keep perfect four-four time.

And yet we believe, in spite of the first-hand knowledge
That the descendants of Balthasar and Melchior can elbow their way
Past whomever they choose, and be greeted, all smiles,
By the bank manager, the lawmaker, the chairman of the board
That our works and our constancy
Shall be recompensed at a sound rate of return
(How could it be otherwise, for didn’t Our Story Teller herself,
Through stiffness of upper lip and fealty
To all things bright and beautiful,
Weather the Blitz as beautiful, as inspirational,
As a cross-Channel Joan of Arc?)
If only we are as steadfast as the chant of the Dies Irae,
As unwavering as the straightforward beat of a single drum
Which follows the procession down the main thoroughfare
As we make our final homecoming.

Mother was the lawmaker
the love giver
She
took our pains away
from the childhood ills
and hurts
of yesterday.

She Provided for and brooded over,
soft and stern in equal turn
no favourites there.

We were her children
Her pride and joy
Her girl
Her boys

Then we grew
flew the nest as
grown ups do,
but Mother knew
that we'd be there at
the closing of her day.

Desire went walking down the street
Open sandals around bare feet


The chains and bolts snapped and buckled
Ropes tore exploding tiny explosions
The lawmaker looked on keenly
Invoking words of power that stood fixed into the cold stone


Desire moved with a steady intent
Like the sun rising under the sea


I want to kiss you inside of your mind
On this happening of you and I


We all watched, taking into account the circumstance
Thought of the children of tomorrow
The way we came and what it made


Taboo and touch
Gathered invisible words and sounds
Making themselves heard
Desire would come to stay
The bed was already made


I want to kiss you inside of your mind
On this happening of you and I

Does My Blackness, My Queerness, My Status Offend You?

Then sit with it. Let it sear into your skin like the heat of a Southern sun, like the sweat that dripped from backs that built this nation, backs that bent under weight they never asked to bear.

I know what you see when you look at me.
You see the broadness of my nose, the thickness of my lips, the fullness of my thighs, and you want to consume me.
Not love me.
Not hold me.
Not claim me.
Just take me—under the cover of night, between the sheets of your shame, in a room where no one can witness the truth of your hunger.

Because isn’t that how you like us?
Hidden.
Indulged in secret, denied in public.
Turned into a craving that you pretend not to have when the sun comes up.

So I let you enter me, and for a moment, you are nothing but breath and heat and the rawness of need. For a moment, you call my name like it is the only one you have ever known. But in the morning, when reality settles like dust in the corners of the room, when you pull on your jeans and tuck away your shame, I am nothing more than an inconvenience, a memory you need to wash away.

You go home. You wake up beside her. You pour your coffee, kiss your children, shake hands with the world, and tell yourself that last night was nothing. That I was nothing. That what happened in the dark does not exist in the light.

And yet, I linger.

I linger in the way you look at men like me in public.
I linger in the way you bite your tongue when someone calls me a slur.
I linger in the way you vote, in the way you pray, in the way you clutch your righteousness like a shield, hoping no one ever finds the cracks.

You took a risk, didn’t you? That’s what you tell yourself.
You let your body betray your beliefs, and now, in the harsh light of morning, you must repent.

Because I am undetectable, yet you still see me as a danger.
Because I cannot pass it to you, yet you still pass me off as your sin.
Because I am not the one who is *****, yet you are the one who scrubs your skin raw when you leave me.

The irony is poetic.

But let’s not pretend this is new.
No, this shame has lineage. This shame has roots deep in American soil.
This shame is generational, passed down like heirlooms wrapped in guilt and denial.

It is the overseer sneaking out back to the cabin.
It is the master entering uninvited.
It is the preacher gripping his Bible with one hand and reaching for flesh with the other.
It is the lawmaker decrying sin by day and indulging in it by night.

And still—still—you wake up every morning pretending your world is righteous, pretending you have built something holy, something clean.

You ask why I make it about race, about queerness, about history.
But tell me—who wrote this script?
Who made Blackness a thing to be bought, sold, discarded?
Who turned queerness into a whisper, into a crime, into something that exists only in the corners of your hypocrisy?

This is not my shame to carry.
This is your inheritance.
And it is heavy, isn’t it?

So tell me—does my Blackness, my Queerness, my Status offend you?

Good. Let it.

Because I will not shrink.
I will not be your secret.
I will not let you rewrite me into something small enough to be swallowed.

I am the morning.
I am the reckoning.
And I will never again be yours to deny.