A Harlem Love Story

tells you about being a poet

or a dreamer or a lover:

normal people move on.

they find new muses,

new people to love,

new things to write about.

eventually, at the very least.

but she's still inside of me,

stealing away the air from my lungs

and the inspiration from my brain

and all of my half-hearted

attempts at normalcy.

how am i supposed to write about

anything else when she exists?

why would i want to?

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

  Does it dry up   like a raisin in the sun?   Or fester like a sore–   And then run?   Does it stink like rotten meat?   Or crust and sugar over–   like a syrupy sweet?

  Maybe it just sags   like a heavy load.

Avant-garde jazz saxophonist and composer Albert Ayler (born:

Jimmy Smith & Stanley Turrentine February 8, 1963 Van

Gelder Studio, Englewood Cliffs, NJ

Real quick, Bonnie, Bonnie…

I follow your guidance ever so precisely

I give you my best

And respectfully let you

Ingest whats left of me

If you would just get right with me

Rightfully

Whole soul, mind, body, beside me on the nightly

And the, depth of my introspect is like the injection of

Several knives

You see, I’m twice as deep

Console mode, and ride with me

Don’t fight with me

Goodnight ‘til next time…

Peace

Sometimes the day is pink ribbons

pretty insides strewn like cut fruit

and sawdust blown from your palm

I believe in second chances

an ego death at the summit

crushing sadness in the pit

I firmly resist becoming artefact,

art in fact, remember this -

it’s ok to feel dangerous

while birds are drinking your tears

and the horses prepare below

for now your last ride is due