*******,
hoes,
crazy,
*****.

Catch me on a friday night,
and I might
say them all.

But what I say
and what I feel
is a different
thing.

Because *******,
hoes,
womps,
don't have vocabularies
like boulders.

They can't destroy.

And with a new mindset,
I can say
a few things.

A ***** is a girl
without hope.

A ***
is a girl
that likes ****
and doesn't
like
love.

A crazy one
is a girl that gets by.

A ****
is a girl
that doesn't know the difference
between the three
and operates
on a thin line;
because *******
have treated her like ****
and no new ******
can make her think
any different.

But a girl,
alas
a
girl.

A girl
is full of love
and platitudes.

A girl
has her hands
on your heart
all the time.

She has a vocabulary
and says **** a Webster's
because she's got a new dictionary
that didn't even exist
before she let it out her mouth.

A girl
makes you re-define
the word
love,
with all its
futile resentment
and
disenchantment,
because she'll keep you coming
back
for more,
even as she says
"no,
you're talking crazy,
you gotta
go."

So trust me when I say this,
I could **** with a girl's head before,
but this girl
she's maneuvered me into thinking
about how ****** up
I
really
am.

And that's as smart
as
I've
ever
been.

There is pain
in too many
communities.

Too many murders
that
go
missing.

I saw a man die
the other day,
watched him scream
for God
as every man
does
in the last few minutes.

When me and Leez,
walked outside
we'd catch the whiff
of death
and our nostrils
wouldn't turn.

A dude was getting his twists re-done,
as the dying man's
entrails
revolted in his gut
and he cleared himself,
ready for death.

You could say there's a genocide
in America,
we just turn our noses
up to it.

With averted eyes
people walk past
the dangerous places,
but the most dangerous place
is complacency
and people live with that
every day.

I swear,
I love
a girl
with
biggg-***
lips.

The kind of lips
that could pull a ****** into
a sanatarium.

I'd go crazy
willingly.

Put me in the strait-jacket
of your mouth.

I'll kiss every crevice because
you've got two anacondas of muscle covering
perfect teeth.

I'll grip the shoulders of your jaw,
as you squeeze me with those
biggg-*** lips
so hard
that my backbones
break.

I just want to meet poets.

The ones
in
the clubs
not
made for poetry.

The one's who
reside
in places
where
their thighs are places
for grinding.

The one's that push dudes off
without malice.

I want to meet the poets
at the bar,
taking in all their ears can handle,
because someday
they will
write it all down.

I want to meet the poets
in the middle of divorce,
becuase the pain of separation;
is a fissure of
love.

Poets in their cars
at five in the afternoon
with the windows open,
because carbon dioxide
builds in the system
and a greenhouse
of hope
may
be
feeding
unborn seeds.

I just want to meet poets.

When I'm not back home
in the city
where the bulls cry
in fumes,
**** goes awry.

The girl
that
I loved
once,
calls
twice.

And then a third time,
I pick up,
and it's war
from the first
breath.

D-Day on a tuesday night,
the troops storming the shore,
the bombs blazing
in the infrerno of night,
my ex calling me
talking about
compassion.

So what did I do?
really?

I just tried
to be
civil.

I tried to tell her that my heart
was in another place,
that it was bending
and finally
broken.

Compassion doesn't live here anymore,
because so many questions
about cheating with white girls,
the same kind that her irish-italian blood
resembled,
boiled down
to
self-hate.

I tried to tell her
that I was in love,
that I was over her,
that these arguments
were the mute points
of her politicism.

She couldn't sway me
with a thousand dollars
or a million.

I was in love
and it hurt to argue,
because I wasn't talking
to the one,
I wanted to.

I was ******* with heathers,
when I wanted to know more
about  flying eagles
and the depth of feminism.

I wanted to know how deep it reached
her heart,
and how.

So now,
I'm angry
that you called,
because it wasn't the number I wanted,
not the voice
so clear
and liquid
as
truth.

I caught Gnat
cheating.

caught her in it.

Not in the bed,
but enough
in the heart.

She said,
"Yea,
I ******
Jose,
so what?"

And I said,
"so what?
I love you,
and you **** me
like this?"

I wanted to hit her,
wanted to say with an open palm
that my heart
was a closed ******.

That it hurt
when she forced her love in.

So Gnat left,
and I got bitter,
I drank
and drank
in that lonely apartment.

She had a good time
with
Jose,
but came back
when he was done
with
her.

So what is trouble,
but attachment?

Attachment that you can't
pry loose,
even when the loosest nails
are easy in a crowd of girls,
when the heart
is a rigid baseboard.


So, I felt happy
for a second,
then depression hit again
when we ******,
and I knew
she
was
gone.

I'm saying this a thousand times,
but bitterness grows,
and when I find a good one,
I let her go,
because she might cheat,
so I cheat on her
and in conversations over verse
I let it be known.

But I miss
companionship,
true love.

Now it's ruined.

I'm trying to move on;
I wish you'd get the ****
out
of
my head.

I want to force love on another,
when the words
are lost because
they
are words
meant for you.

I want to take
your misery
and make a cake.

I want to be the candles
dripping wax
over you heart.

I want to be the heat
of knowledge.

*******,
I'm ******
up.