I think I’m not ready yet to talk about Saturday and the series of bizarre events that led up to Saturday. It burns the inside of my chest when I think about it. It agitates me. It makes me tense up and pace and it makes my muscles and brain hurt.
...read more herewhen my brain is too poisoned
by spirits and ungodly substances
to bother with those small and quick things
chasing rabbits from here to there
You can spend your whole life saying “it’s only temporary.” Life is temporary, but it’s long. Don’t tell me it’s short; it’s the longest thing I’m ever going to do. Forty years is a long time to spend at a job you hate. Fifty years is a long time to spend with a woman you hate. Don’t tell me it will be over soon unless you can tell me when or at least how. How will it be over? What do I have to do? What steps do I have to take? If you can’t tell me that, you’re short sighted, not me. At least I have a plan.
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Some people have argued that it’s my “cultural responsibility” (they didn’t use those exact words… and by “responsibility” I mean “irresponsibility”) to go to the Labor Day Parade at least once and celebrate with mah-people-dem, but I can’t be bothered.
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In retrospect, I think that’s what was playing in his mind while his passive-aggressive sulking about his worthless house guest was coming out of his mouth. Mind, this particular worthless house guest was just wagging her perfect booty before his conspicuously undeserving eyes, and had just an hour or so prior cooked without having been asked…
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Because it’s still Friday, Goddamnit! I wrote this poem back in college, and I think it’s one of my better ones, but you can let me know if you disagree.
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Situation: I’ve just arrived in Harlem after walking about a hundred or so blocks up from midtown. I’ve been at my friend’s house for about twenty minutes or so. Me: So what are you cooking? Him: Man I had a horrible day today … the landlord stole my pots and pans! [insert long explanation here] [...]
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I think I commented on someone’s blog once that the fact that I was born in the Bronx, raised in Queens, and spent most of my adult life in Brooklyn and Manhattan makes me American by nationality… and technically it does, doesn’t it? But let’s be real. Ask somebody to call up a picture of American-ness and you’ll either get a mid-western or a southern picture. Chicago is America. Atlanta is America. DC is America. Des Moines, Iowa is America. New York is New York.
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