....But Why Though?

........Her Bare was Elegance. It was all about Her curves, and not Her curves. Naked was his Heart. His Feelings Taboo to Her, She preferred he cover them up. Shamed for having Cupid shot admiration for Her. Emotions unwanted. Heir to rejection, antidote optimism, only made him admire Her more. Only made him eye Her more. Only made him more consistent. Don Julio and Tito’s chaperoned the mood. Deep talks painted the surface. Her Life and his life both paralleled in journey, even though the script was written different. But why though? Why two Lives so familiar seem so stranger?

Happy VDay!!

The Invention Of Their Noise

He tapped imagination on the forehead and said, "I wish I could be the new guy on the scene, the friend of a friend who spots you from across the room instantly, like zoom. And with no hesitation, slides your way, like a bunch Midwest folk dancing to that Cupid song; grabs you by the hand and says "Let's ditch this place and go somewhere quiet where we can make our own noise....

Vday Blues

"....That's ok I'll be my own Valentine." Well that's cool, and if masking the pain of being sans a date works for you that way, on that day, then ok, but I think it's just another way of saying "I am bitterly depressed that I'm all alone and have no one to participate in the (for the most part) staged show of Temporary Love and Affection." (fleeting as we speak) But hear me out, I do understand just how important it is for some of you to have Love on display; receiving flowers, cards and candy at work or school for all your "Haters or Congratulaters" to see, It feeds your "I'm A Cool Kid Ego" and makes those who didn't receive the Love-Expression treats feel just as shitty as you would be if you weren't the recipient. So trust me, feeling specially Loved for one day should really be the least of your worries, it's the other 364 you should be concerned about.

Patrón Night Gibberish

Scrap the pages of the past to refresh an aging memory in the present about a time when life's mood was insane, like a Cypress Hill Mane. Boy, sure glad those days are now a fade. Fast forward to a new maze. Social surfing on a Sunday night, Sunday night with Baby, living round in a cramped space, like triplets in Mommas stomach before their birthday, where human birds kissed by the bright starlight sing songs that entertain the Cupid vein and make the soul dance, like Marvin did when he was sexual healing. Struck by matter, clutched close by a Dame as if Louis V was my name. I was Her Pepé and She was my Penelope, but I wanted more than just to pet Her Pussycat.

Black and white, like Tyra Banks, She's a Compton Kid cultured over the years; A little Hood and a little Brentwood, Her life's a Hybrid between the haves and have not's, I call it "Ratchet Class!!" And judging by all the scars in Her convo She must have had nine lives because She hasn't rolled over yet. Pitching Her sell better than a door to door man, She was real psychic about our connection, She said Her palms read a long prosperous future, one that included me, so I fashion my face with a pair of fogged frames to prevent staring at the mistresses of distraction. And not because I'm sold, but to be afforded a better look, to see if I agree with what She's reading. Pipe dreams afloat, parading around a chaos of cobblestone, like a Clydesdale in Downtown STL. Free thinkers with kush for brains crowd a patient pair of ears talking gibberish with conviction, that even babies can't comprehend. Like said before, "It's a Maze," confused and dazed It's a bitch trying to find a way round it.