I can't help...

looking at myself in the mirror
eating a slice of pizza or two or three...
worrying there is something for me to do
needing to be praised
hoping that its never too late
seeking for love
perpetuating complacency
yearning for more
being insecure
questioning my faith
trusting in God (when I need him)
wondering who all of you are
shedding a tear or two or three...
wishing I was smart
being afraid of getting old
giving too much credit to myself
doubting at the same time
thinking does it really matter
praying that it does
being too proud of my boys
desiring things I shouldn't
lurking into my heart of darkness
wanting to learn French and to play the piano
binging on chocolate ice cream


(an ongoing list)

A Symposium on the basic tenet of the law of universe...

There are no ordinary people...it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, exploit. Once we tune ourselves to this reality... we transform our lives in such a way that good prevails by revealing God to one another.

-Clive Staples Lewis

A query to God...

So let me see if I understand...

If I give up everything about me that is vile, ugly, trite, and offensive (just to name a few), You in return will provide me with an "extended" life time warranty?

Ode to A Crush...

Light brown hair softly descending
Sweet scented perfume alluring
Wrapped in fingertips
rolled into a ball random
tossed into universe
Something incomprehensible
Eyes cusping lashes unabashful
Lips bright red delightful
Winds gentle breeze beneath
Banyan Tree awaiting
only for a chance passing
Something impossible

A Letter to Fat Anthony...

The Bronx, 1975. Everyone called you "Fat Anthony" because you wuz one large black motherf*%$@!. All them other niggas made fun of me. They called me "chink" and "chinaman" and they laughed at my face. The spics were no different. They called me "chinito" and slanted their eyes in front of me. But for some inexplicable reason, from the moment we met, you always looked after me. I was YOUR nigga.

Some crazy shit we went through growing up in the projects. I owe everything to you. You taught me how to say my first "muddafucker". And remember the "stash"? Oh please my negro, you know what I'm talking about. Yes, the "stash". Whenever your moms and pops weren't home, we used to sneak into their bedroom where pops had his private collection of Hustler magazines. As if giving me lessons in female anatomy, you used to point them out and slowly say "That's a tiddy, a real BIG tiddy". You couldn't stop laughing when I repeated after you because I would always say "big tee tee".

By the way, you know your pops was a bad ass. To me, he was Issac Hays, Shaft and God combined in one. He was superfly cool. He had that shiny bald head with the pierced stud in his left ear that sparkled like some magic super nova. He wore that long burgundy leather coat like a royal cape as if fit for a king. I was honored to also call him "Pops" as you did.

Yo, remember that summer when we waited in line for hours at the Ward Theater on Westchester Avenue to watch Bruce Lee double features? After watching "Fist of Fury" and "Chinese Connection" back to back, we would go back to the projects and impersonate Bruce Lee. You were the wackiest looking-Bruce Lee impersonating-wise potato chips eating-welch's grape soda drinking-fat-negro I had ever seen.

Then there was that time when I started hanging out with the Puerto Ricans. I was mesmerized by their music, care-free life style, and hot Latinas. Ever since then, you called me "rice and beans". My negro, you always called me for who I was.

Just so you know, you are the black in me that I will never let go.

Black is beautiful.

Peace my brother.