I dip the hips

and let the backbone slip

to the cosmic hip hop beat

as boys kick like newborns

and girls dance in coupled formations

gyrating their thighs

while a wallflower sighs

as she lies against the wall

like a statuesque shy fly

hoping some cool guy would sweep her

off her feet

(silly fly)

But I dance in a soliloquy

no man can mess with my monologues

while the music messes with my soul

tickling me

tricking me

trickling me down to the deep waters

like a raindrop from the dreary sky of life

But the lights come on

and we ask why

must we regress to die

when the clock strikes two

when we should decay at five?

Thick like a Jigglypuff

His hair is a golden shade of black,

With a smile as wide as the number one,

A deep blue whatever.

            We cross the crucifix

With Jesus' eyes finally looking                     somewhere else

Somewhere over our heads

Over the meadows

And thru the woods

To the Pope's house

But we don't go there

He don't go,              "U go boi"

And we don't say,

                             "What up doe, homey?"

Because a stitch in time

Don't save the children

In the sweatshops

Jive Johns in spandex

Are so old hat

And considering that all things

Are groovy in their own funky way

We think of the term "cliché" as

Being so passé

So, like, totally gay!

On Writing Abstract Conversations

It was the first serious attempt at writing poetry. I wrote from time to time and did not think much of the work I did until a man by the name of Stephan Johnson discovered my potential. He took me to his poetic hangout spots, one which included Inside Out corporation, a non profit organization which strengthens the voices of children and teens in Detroit's public school system. Without his encouragement, none of this would have been possible.

The collection from these pieces come from mid adolescence (about 16 or so) up until 20 years of age for me. Looking back, there are still observations in the pieces here that are valid. The innocence preserved is one that I hope I'm not the only one cherishing.

On Writing Monkey Box

As I state in the Backward of my book, Monkey Box was a final project for my  poetry writing seminar in my junior year of college. At that time I explored the works of Gertude Stein, Harriet Mullin and the like. In turn, I found out what poetry doesn't have to be (i.e. rants and raves in a dark, candle covered bar while people sit on pillows with ass rashes and applause, etc.). It freed my mind of societal clutter of what poetry is considered according to American and Western world standards (you know, the greats of Shakespeare, Woodsworth, Dickenson. Although they're great but everyone can't be).

America has individuals. Let me repeat that. America does have individuals after all. Yes, we do create artistic works but to whose favor? The self, the inner child that is neglected in the backseat of the hot cars in our minds, or the public, the money. Strangely enough a lot of people leave that kid in the car, waiting, dehydrating. A lot of people do not want to leave what is safe. It is the ones who set their own path who become trendsetters. Of course, I don't have to tell you twice.

So in doing this book, I explored my psychological needs for 1. personal expression and 2. acceptance and approval, since this was a final project for a college professor. All and all, it would be the first of many to come. Its my favorite way of doing things.