The Day You Leave Me

One day you’ll leave me.
I won’t even see it coming
(like a blind man
watching porn).
One moment
you’ll be filling my head with
absurdities and
all the reasons I should give in
to the calling
of a black man’s
stereotype self
—you know that self,
that one that clamors for change
as loudly and angrily as possible
hoping for a handout
but much too
risqué
to wear a belt—
and the next,
you’ll be walking out on me.
I’ll be left wondering,
where am I?
Did I lock the doors?
I wonder what we should name her?
I said tomorrow.  Oh…
Tomorrow is today?
No.  No,
I didn’t forget.

THE DAY YOU LEAVE ME
7•27•14
SAK

Face_or_vase Wikimedia

A Pleasant Tickling in the Brain

 

Face_or_vase Wikimedia
Face_or_vase Wikimedia

a vase
has two faces,
said twice
through a sip
of water;
the medical
report is dire and
CNN’s satire
on a missing plane
is tucked in
the thong hidden
by your gown.
Take a pistol
-or entice panache
with a Gurthark
Mark VI revolver-
because a medical
robot breastplate
cannot fix
every
broken
piece
of
your
heart,
but lead
sugar pills
can sometimes
ease the pain.

-

A PLEASANT TICKLING IN THE BRAIN
7.27.14
SAK

 

 

-

I wrote this for this week’s DPChallenge, The Ray Bradbury Noun Twist List.  In the article, you’ve five different sources for random nouns.  I chose to use source number 6, Let the bot supply your nouns, which refers you to a twitter handle that will give you random nouns.  The nouns I received:

photo by Sahm King

Like the Flies – a poem

photo by Sahm King
photo by Sahm King

 

 

Could you imagine
treating people like we treat flies?
I mean,
letting go of the excuses
and admitting the fog of war is not so dense
as we pretend
and compassion was not meant for
filthy, disease ridden bugs,
telling how we really feel,
that their lives are not worth as much as ours
and that they can reproduce
quickly enough
so killing one or two or a thousand
is nothing to write home about
or condemn,
especially when a fly
has disturbed my peace by having the audacity
to cross the threshold of my home.
They’re just flies.

LIKE THE FLIES
7.27.14
SAK

wpid-1397861752999.jpg

The Beggar at the Window

image

I watched him through the window,
sitting there, just existing.

The food was sand
and the drink, of a sudden,
tasted of the potent smell
of urea with a semen hint
waltzing with body odor
after love making with a drunken stranger.

He turned,
looking through the window,
the glaze in his eyes
complementing
the hunger baked into his face,

a Krispy Kreme doughnut
hungry for substance. Continue reading

John the Baptist

*Believe it or not, this piece is about my excursion to the bathroom.

Home was always a forgone conclusion
wilting at universe’s edge
—if such a thing were god—
flowers left unwatered,
unmarried woman
turned McRib,
a temporary infatuation until the brain
notices that awful, rumbling wrongness
the gut nurtures
—in that way
only processed non-meat can inspire—
in the inner universe,
coaxing you toward a washroom anointing.
What I’m trying to say is this:

               I really have to speak to John.
       Maybe he can save my soul.

Or at least listen to the roiling whinny
of a broken mule
helping the kids to find salvation
at the pool’s shallow end.

Maybe.

JOHN THE BAPTIST
7•24•14
SAK

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