Tag Archives: blogging

Long Hallways (Falling For Forever)

I’m falling forever
They pulled the ground right from under my airs
I’m falling forever
Friendly skies please teach me how to walk on air
I never hurt you with my fist
My punches landed one hundred percent
I don’t know what could be worse
Then “hold my beer” is what I heard …

Long hallways
Don’t know how I got inside
Long hallways
With no ending in sight
Long hallways
No door to put my foot in
Long hallways
No window for the rain to hit up against
Long hallways
No corners to cut at all
Long hallways
Gotta crawl before I can walk
Long hallways
I’m tired of being lonely and googly-eyed in my search
Long hallways
I wish I could listen to a picture with a thousand words
Long hallways
It’s dark and I wanna bump into something
Long hallways
Maybe if I dance like Michael Jackson these paving stones will start glowing?
Long hallways
I’m never gonna get outta here
Long hallways
Because I was cool with being a hot head with a warm heart but I hate cold hands and drunk all its beer

As always,
Long hallways

Today is my birthday, and I’m riding high …

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WordPressident #13

Our bottom lips sticking together as we pull away from the kiss
The hug dies in our arms
Scratch on our ring fingertips as we let go of each other hands
Walking away from each other backwards with clean backgrounds
Not taking no L’s, falling in the hole of the O, getting hit by a V, crashing into a dam snake oil salesman who claims his Dell didn’t always have a tilted E
The barbecue sauce on my ribs
So I know you’re the HIS in Memphis
Okay, well, maybe for a season after I saw too much skin I bundled up and got my meat cumin spiced on a spring mattress
She was leaving before you entered the picture
Don’t act picture-perfect as if you’ve always been the lady on the other side of the noodle
Not a put-down of your frame but you know the real reason I place my hand on the small of your back in public
Sometimes to guide you to a first-class seat
Sometimes to guide you down a flight of stairs
The apple bottom of my eye is rotten sometimes
A worm on the inside, a real pain in the ass, you know
But, but, I love her to the core
Not just when she’s a snack, Apple Slices
Not just when she’s breakfast, Apple Jacks
Not just when she’s lunch, Apple Bee’s
Not just when I’m thirsty, Apple Cocktails
Not just when she’s dinner, Apple Jacks
Not just when she’s dessert, Apple Pie
When the groceries fresh I don’t need plastic
When they pass the expiration date I double bag it
Let’s eat …

WordPressident #12

Waves crash into hourglass
Life’s a beach with sand between your toes you harp
Or life’s a bitch when you step on something sharp


Ferris wheel lights when dad carrying you on his shoulders doesn’t meet the required height

Scoop of ice cream falling out the cone in slow motion, splat

Because my baby thought it was a upside-down head wearing a birthday hat

A child’s melting ice cream makes up the white lines in the street

Her ice cream cone the traffic cone

I kneel for my young and tell her the streets were paved with the heart of gold

To pick up the pieces I hustle man

Move my feet to the saxophone with the kazoo stuck to it

Kick a bar of gold to Kimchi

“Daddy, why did the free-range chicken cross the road?”

Why?

“To get to the other sides.”

I guess you didn’t like daddy’s raggedy ass peas?

“Everything else was hitting.”

Pass the peas like we use to do.

“Did you say pass the peas like you use to do?”

I say pass the peas like we use to do.

“Whoa! Pass the peas like we use to do!”

I grab the pea from the microwave with my thumb and my index and passed it to the doctor at the head of the table. Bowed my head, said grace, “God please don’t let him ask for the deviled egg too.”

Ehh, what’s up doc’?

“Honey bunny, you know it’s bad table manners to talk with food in your mouth.”

I spit the carrot pieces in her hand

“Mr. Bunny, I’m sorry, forgive me for not having a petite appetite, but if I don’t take this off your plate I take off my white coat and throw it over your body.”

My boo caught the Holy Ghost just from hearing that

“Baby, we already made our Miracle On 34th Street and she need you present in her life. I’ll support you if you get sacked from your job for needing more than 2 weeks. I don’t like football no way and the effects of being sacked. What you have in the sac won’t affect what we have in the sack.”


Then I woke up.

WordPressident #11

The half-moon is the apostrophe between the Z and the S. The heavy breathing of the monster and skeleton sent the bed-skirt flying upwards, covering my exposed legs. The howling wind came through the opening of the glass like a straw and ripped the sheepskin right off my hide. Sleep is the cousin of death because I woke up sweating bullets hearing “ant ant ant” from my alarm clock. The time was handcuffs, handcuffs, handcuffs. 3:33. The colon between the numbers were batting it’s eye lashes like it wanted a conjugal visit. I had 13 inches free; my other foot and both my hands were tied up. An imperfect 10 was getting even with me. It’s like the lump transferred from the oddball to the throat how I was engaging in emotional eating. I couldn’t swallow because I knew this She-Devil stuck her forked-tongue in my breakfast in bed. The blood is the only part of the steak the vampire likes. Why does Cupid shoot arrows without good directions attached to it? Because everywhere I go makes me weak in the knees and I keep falling for a head over heels, whose favorite piece of the shoe is the shank. Maybe I wouldn’t be in these situations if my favorite part changed from breast to sole? Skeleton hands wrapped around her ankles and pulled the little closet freak under. The time I copped I spent wisely freeing myself with the 3rd little piggy. Got out the big house and the first thing on my to-do list wasn’t a brick house with wolf pussy.

I want a check sign next to a signed check. Number 2. I wanna walk in the bank like my shit don’t stank. 3:33. I want fuzzy handcuffs slapped on my wrist by Fine M. Banker for not taking off my hat and shades. You see, the hat for the one-eyed-monster I call Mike Wazowski. The shades to block sonny boy and little miss sunshine. But I’ll gladly take off my pants to show you I don’t have a gun in my pocket. But I do keep a pair of red striped white socks stuffed in my pants; Get your mind out the gutter. I know what you’re thinking. “Them there socks make up 9 inches of the 13 inches from earlier.” Yeah, you’re right …. because I was referring to my shoe size, not my penis, genius. And I know what you’re not thinking judging a book by its cover, “He gotta put ‘em somewhere since it’s a fashion faux pas to wear ‘em with Sperrys.” This reminds me of how much you and your girl got in common. My ensemble was the topic of our conversation last night on the phone. She asked, “What you got on?”


Fisherman hat

Navy blue shirt

Anchor print boxers

Dockers

Boat shoes


Translation: Wave goodbye to your relationship.

And nahhhh N word y’all can’t still be ‘endzzzz!

Computer Love <3

I typed H-E and paused by pressing the equal sign on the keyboard.

This was more than a blinking text cursor.

The other half was batting it’s eyelashes.

Was it flirting?

Flashing a lowercase L?

Or telling me I’m number one?

I pressed play by clicking the greater-than sign on the keyboard and proceeded to type A-R-T.

The word transformed into a picture of the word. It was a bigggggg heart. And I guess that’s what made the only thing move was the spinning beach ball, although, I wasn’t on the net.

Cursor stuck.

Cursing FUCK!

Freeze!

Froze.

Cold heart.

The mouse was just eating out of my palm, but now I’m jerking it back and forth like some string cheese.

It came to as I bowed over the desk and the arrow shot straight for the heart but because the cursor is tilted it missed.

Now the cursor is a small hand L gesture. What?! How am I a loser? I’m not responsible for the arrow being slanted. Hell, I don’t even shoot my gun sideways. I’ll leave that to your modern-day Robin Hoods. I wouldn’t try to attack the bottom of the heart with my pointer even with the heart looking like a bottom, if I may point out. I may cum across as anal paying attention to de-tails like that but fuck it!

Again, why should I have to rest an L on my forehead when there is already an S curled up there? Who am I? Clark Kent at The Daily Planet. If I throw up L then I gotta throw another L up. Laughing like shit ‘cause that’s like the bat-signal for you-know-who to roll on over to my cubicle, batting her eyelashes like Barbara Gordon. Aight, you keep doing that and your lashes gone get stuck in your eye, gone be blind as a bat. Aight, enough clowning around, let’s show my computer love like I-T.

We caps-locked lips. She lifted her foot off the ground. “Damn, her leg looks like an L.” My S curl became erect. Still a little crooked though.

Now the cursor is the rewind button, which is the less-than sign, neighboring the number 3.

We tilt our heads to the right when we’re trying to understand something.

“Understand?”

“Understood.”

To the beat.

This is our song. Let us have the floor, please.