“And fantasy it was, for we were not strong, only aggressive; we were not free, merely licensed; we were not compassionate, we were polite; not good, but well behaved. We courted death in order to call ourselves brave, and hid like thieves from life. We substituted good grammar for intellect; we switched habits to simulate maturity; we rearranged lies and called it truth, seeing in the new pattern of an old idea the Revelation and the Word.”
— Excerpt from Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye
Sitting in the pad holding a pen and this pad
I know you’re, like, “Who still writes in long-hand?”
I do, it helps me collect my thoughts but it’s sad
At times, I use the pen as a crutch to feel like a strong man
Because I’m not perfect, even though I strive for that metric
I admit I get complacent & talk myself out of reaching
For the stars, telling myself the journey will be too hectic
And that everything I need is here & there’s no use breaching
The atmosphere, the stratosphere, better known as my potential
But then I look around & I’ll see my peers’ work on television
Then I look around & see myself on the sofa, inconsequential
All grinds ain’t the same; sometimes you’ve got to sell your vision
To yourself, as wild as that sounds, it can be the actuality
’cause you can be your biggest supporter and your biggest detractor
Diminishing your wins only puts your mind in alternate realities
Focusing so much on your losses only increases the fear factor
Telling you all of this is helping to give me some clarity
A short jaunt’s in my future, I need to unwind my thoughts
In all sincerity, some fresh air will do me good with celerity
Refocus, redirect my energy so all my work won’t be for naught
Tomorrow ain’t promised & neither is the rest of today
So you must produce and take control, you can not fold
People are hungry for the fruits of your labor and play
Plus, sleep’s the cousin of death, and fortune favors the bold
Listening to instrumentals is essential for my mental
The path’s already charted in my head, I just have to traverse it.
So, farewell for now, as I reorient my steps to this occidental
Trail so that my progress moves forward & I don’t reverse it.
Looking out
Across the nighttime
The city breathes an endless sigh
Hear her voice
Shake my window
Flames reaching the sky
Get us out
Into the nighttime
Four walls won’t hold us tonight
If this town
Finds him innocent
Then we’ll just have to fight
If they say, “Why? Why?”
Tell ’em that it’s human nature
Why, why do they do it this way?
If they say, “Why? Why?”
Tell ’em that it’s just their nature
Why, why? We can make a new day.
Reaching out
Standing with strangers
Police sirens are everywhere
See that girl
She was shot while dreaming
Say her name in the air
If they say, “Why? Why?”
Tell ’em that it’s just their nature
Why, why do they do this way?
If they say, “Why, try?”
Tell ’em that it’s just our nature
Why, why? We can make a new day.
We’re not livin’ this way
We’re not lovin’ this way
That way (The way it is.)
That way (The way it is.)
Looking out
Across the morning
The city’s ashes ride the heat
Reaching out
We all touch shoulders
We’re soldiers in the street
If they say, “Why? Why?”
Tell ’em that it’s just their nature
Why, why do they do that way?
If they say, “Why, try?”
Ooh, tell ’em
Why, why? We can make a new day.
Tasty is only one letter away from being nasty.
You would have to eat about 10 carrots for a few weeks to develop carotenemia, or get orange skin discoloration. The beta carotene in the carrot would do the trick. But we know that is not Trump’s problem. You know he ain’t eating any vegetables.
Is a hybrid apple pineapple called an apple apple or a pineapple?
Is a veteran veterinarian called a vet vet?
I don’t think being cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs means you’re crazy. You may just like Cocoa Puffs.
Waiting for a vaccine to me is like waiting to be seated on a Southwest flight. I always get the last seating group. I usually get the seat by the shitter. And the person standing next to me is usually coughing and I’ll be sick for a few days after arrival.
I can now officially say that I’m old enough and wise enough now to know that when someone says “No rush” that it usually means, in so many words, to “hurry the fuck up, you piece of shit.”
It is widely thought that I hate all dogs. This couldn’t be further from truth. Some dogs I dislike; others I’m cool with. What irks me are dog owners. Why is it that whenever a dog owner sees another dog they act like that’s the first time they’ve ever seen a dog? Some of them need to calm down. If you’ve seen one dog, then it’s pretty safe to say that most of the other members of that breed look similar to it. So just keep your heart rate down in the future and try not to scare the dog by putting your face in its face and belting out your ear-splitting cries of “oooooh” and “who’s a good boy?”
Since we always know it when you see an unmarked police car, aren’t unmarked police cars really marked?
Quilted Northern isn’t really quilted. Don’t fall for it. Your grandma would kill you if you wiped your ass with her quilt.
There is a such thing as a stupid question. Just know that.
I hear that lethargy is a side effect of some of the Covid-19 vaccines. I don’t want to feel tired. I’d ask them to hit me with an additional shot of adrenaline right afterwards. I’m going to need enough energy to make it back home.
This month marks a year since the lockdown began. It’s been a wild, sad, challenging, infuriating, and interesting year. One thing I’m grateful for is the mask mandate. Well, I guess it wasn’t exactly a mandate. Either way, I’m so glad that I’m wearing a mask. Why? Because y’all don’t need to suffer the punishment of smelling my breath. My breath isn’t what I thought it was. Smelling my own breath in a mask every day has made rethink my role in society and my place in the world. I’ve consumed more mouthwash and breath mints in the last year than in all the other years of life combined. Believe me. My mask is protecting all of you. My mask breath smells like something in between a donkey’s urethra and a donkey’s anus. Believe me. It taint good.
5:45, on the Milla de Milagro
Java going lava flowing fresh from Tiago
No Iago in my Othello, want it Sable Sybil like night
I’ll take a kneecap like Kap if the flava ain’t right
Metropolitans for the crown, Spotify all “Blue in Green”
Zebra shell-toe on the prowl, salt and pepper looking mean
Ducats jingling, we mingling and definitely singling
Out the faces of the weaseling, cases of the Riesling
But who dat over there gracing the tilted apostrophe?
Cyclops on a triceratops, stare down, they keep watching me.
Spread love from the tar to the foxy fairgrounds
To 5-Ring Blvd to 16 breezeway, let your hair down
Soon we air-bound on bikes like we straight Amblin
Not Spielberg, but the footwork, risk taking, gambling
We blitz ’em and say “Bye, son” on some ol’ Grambling
Toast to crowds over easy, stir ’em up, they scrambling
Stepping out on the Shire, wheels all smooth leather
Street classics only, never dealing with fairweathers
Thoughts hydroplane, slide from temple to temple
It’s simple, what kind of drama can we get into?
Moonwalk the boulevard, step in the Hop like royalty
Ticker tape parade status, greetings ’cause of the loyalty
Cake up for the peeps who were bereft from heft theft
Golden waffles crash coma, the prodigal son never left
Coffee cherry pusher next door, been doing it for years
Mix with sugar glory, SK since ’89, tears for fears
Drop buckets of Nantucket, Kirby Puckett with the aluminum
Looming ruckus with the bumptious near the new Jerusalem
Architecture, Googie style, on the way to the Groove
We V-sign as we beeline, Streamline Moderne, so smoove
Two subways left, another underground, overland route
Tout the Ring Shout, shout out to P. Djeli, no doubt
Get it on, El Rey poppin concertos, Busby boogie nights
K-town — annyeong-haseyo — got Seoul, Bev Hills wanna fight
Hollywood to the north, Mid-City repping just below
Milagro hold down the middle, so the center don’t blow
We scrrrtt to the left, grab hangers for dear life
Orange grove by oil fields, they cut it all with a knife
Get the soul windows checked, rush shipping so it’s faster
Geordi La Forge-visor shit, Scott Summers optic blasters
Prosecco got me Picassoing fresh frescos as I settle
Kettle chips, sipping black orange pekoe by palmettos
Art Deco echoes flank you like geckos in the desert
Desert eagles play pattycake while coyotes subvert
Spit shine, they fit fine, the lit sign reads neon
Xenon purple undercarriages, we cooler than freon
Candy peppermint poop emoji looms over the west
Short a dollar, make ’em holla catawampus from this mess
Giant SLR on the street aiming atcha, strike a pose
Jazzy nights welcome weekend, museum use ’em til close
Do your thang, chain swang, dough bakeries stack hard
McMansions clowns, neighbors say “not in my backyard”
Towers in X’s, park of tar, exhale excellent criteria
Gasoline rainbows traverse the block cause exterior hysteria
For specifics, get in the pit for sadistic calisthenics
If you mimic, you might be a statistic in Pan-Pacific
The hieroglyphics of our linguistics be our sig-alert
Razzy Raz shy down, tell her Bezel digs flirts
Every gig hurts if the jig works like gangbusters
But we cool with the tools, long-range hustlers
Jerk the yellow line, the local stops, scan for mellow crimes
360 Deuce, street Peloton, killing fellows all the time
But the mile ain’t changing, Kryptonians keep angling
Reppin since prehistoric, armed like T-Rex and pangolins
Out-of-towners get the downers, we be hard to modify
Metropolitans for the crowners, “Blue in Green” on Spotify
He wasn’t ready. He was beyond unprepared.
When the walls came down, he was beyond scared.
Way out of his depth, his confidence withered to ash.
He had written a check that his ass couldn’t cash.
His name was Jacques, but everybody called him Jack.
A bit of a spitfire, basic tact he did lack.
Nicknamed Pepper because he had a spicy demeanor.
His heroes were villains, and he aimed to be meaner.
Pepper Jack had an knack for spinning a yarn.
He’d lie about anything, didn’t care who got harmed.
Now as your narrator…hmm…how can I make this slick?
Like they used to say back in the day, “he was lying on his dick.”
Swearing he’s a ladies’ man, we all know that type.
Bragging about his libido, believing his own hype.
Said his bed was never cold at night, double time on weekends.
Said they’d line up for miles like the Dalai Lama was speaking.
Of course, you know, my friends, none of this stuff was the truth.
He’d get vindictive if a woman told him he was long in the tooth.
Drag her name through the mud ’cause he had mad insecurities.
Cloaked himself in a façade of cool that masked his immaturity.
One day, he met his match, her name was Anise Ambrosia Lucas.
Just as braggadocious, but about 100 times more ruthless.
Then one night at dinner as he poured wine from the carafe.
She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna break you in half.”
Pepper Jack laughed and laughed, trying to hide his *gulp*.
Then his face got all screwed up like he tasted sour pulp.
Never had a woman smacked him in the face with such gall.
Relishing the challenge, he told her, “Soon, you’ll be climbing the walls.”
When she turned out the light, it was so dark he couldn’t find her.
She body-slammed him on the bed, which really made his spine hurt.
She said, “Now you are my bitch, Bitch, prepare for this Sidewinder”.
“Then, I’ll hit that ass with my finishing move, the Pepper Grinder.”
Boy, Jack didn’t know what hit him; it was like, BOOM! BAM! POW!
One thing was for sure, Pepper Jack wasn’t talking that shit now.
“What did I get myself into?” he thought, losing focus on the clock.
And drifting out of consciousness from her Thighmaster headlock.
Limbs flying everywhere, Jack did the most moaning and groaning.
Pretty sure they violated some city noise ordinances and public zoning.
She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Is that all you’ve got?”
He crawled up into his brain and his soul died on the spot.
Ever since then, Pepper Jack has been a shell of a man.
Doctors say he’ll never be able to use his pelvis again.
He endured so much, got smacked around and hog-tied.
She put it on him so good, that man’s permanently cock-eyed.
He lost a lot of his motor skills, and he can’t talk a lick.
Gentlemen, remember Pepper Jack’s tale, don’t lie on your dick.
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
By James Wright
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
The man from o’er yonder
Sold his soul to the devil
One autumn evenin’
Behind the juke.
Ol’ devil counteroffered
And said, “Why ‘on’t you
th’ow in that nice car of yourn, too?”
The man from o’er yonder
Snatched back his soul
From that demon’s hands.
He stepped back,
Took his pointy finger and
Pushed up the brim of his pork pie,
Peered them eyes right at that rascal
And snapped back,
“Look a’here, buddyrow,
now you want TOO much.”
Little Jack Horner sat in the corner
Watching people struggle and the world rotate
He saw problems & thought he could solve them
His oratory skills he decided to donate
He thought he knew what they wanted
He thought he could speak for them all
He thought he could predict the future
He thought he could make the call
So he stood up for them and spoke on stages
He talked on the small and silver screens
He spoke for people of all classes and ages
He talked everywhere, anytime, by any means
Slowly but surely, things started to change
Soon all of his rich allegories and stories
Became less about them and more about him
He began to enjoy the limelight and glory
He became a household name, he wasn’t the same
Once a champion of issues, he ignored their gripes
He didn’t need to listen, he would tell his new friends
Mesmerized by the allure, he believed his own hype
His strongest endorsers morphed into abhorrers
They had come across his type before
He had no equal, he kept selling out his people
He couldn’t resist being a political whore
Soon he lost support, the people abandoned him
Left only with his ego, he’d have to buck up
He begged and pleaded that his services were needed
With the public’s trust gone; his demons finally snuck up
He was found one gray day swinging from an oak
The shame and the pain he never could suck up
He thought that he was the voice of the people
When they just wanted him to shut the fuck up
I can pray
all day
& God
wont come.
But if I call
911
The Devil
Be here
in a minute!
—Amiri Baraka
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 