pursuit

you know, i walk by and hear those girls talk
men are dogs and all men want one thing..
well i say that women
are emotionally   dumb            and                  detached
from           what they want      and              what they need..

sayin' one thing and doing another...
              (and another one)...
                       (and another one)...


they say we are endowed with these certain unalienable rights:
life liberty the pursuit of happiness
but
who said that love on this list?

nobody.

you know why?

b/c love is a rigged board game that i always play..
where the good guys finish last
never reach "go"                         never collect $200,
stifled by failed chances       and
disappointing advances that end with the words: "good night george"


stuck in the damn community chest,
listening to her talk about how her boyfriend broke her heart
with tears in her eyes,

my mind is boggled by the fact that i am here again...
and
i can do nothing but take another
buster douglas on the chin

this game is fucked up.

i have the wingman badges of courage to prove it.

i got the USDA-husband tags branded on my ass to prove it..

i wish good morning to my evident chest pains
lying on the bed,   soothing them with my own tears 80 proof   from the dregs


it is proof ever clearly to see that in love
there is no such thing as an escape plan from pain....

..........................................

and then i see her...
i’ve never seen her before… this girl...

this chocolate innocence dipped into a precocious sensuality
that defies all bell curves

another extraordinary moment candy-wrapped in an ordinary question:
should i talk to her?

her--who makes me betray all of my convictions…


when i look into the portals of her eyes,
I visualize my paradise regained with
an optimism -- a joy -- an urge
which a wordsmith can’t articulate

but can ar- titillate
through an embrace              a kiss

i want to pursue her

i want to pour our souls into an insatiable goblet
          to drink                      to dance
east coast            to                      west coast
         
i want us to circle our minds like covalents bonding
to another dimension outside of this reality
to a place where i believe i can actually win this game again

but

i wonder if this is real--or a denial of insanity?

what can do i differently this time?

should play my spades overtly--
or should i follow her lead softly like a distant silhouette,

whispering, nibbling at the crumbs of beauty she leaves in my wake....

do i go back and play the part again?


i                                         want                                            her

but

is this another failed voyage that ends with hello?

Prometheus

Last week, the Lafayette Civic Theater opened its three-week presentation of the Lorraine Hansberry classic "A Raisin in the Sun." I've thoroughly enjoyed my experience with the theater. Hopefully, I will experiment and branch more with this medium. I play the role of George Murchison, the son of a rich black family. He desires to have Beneatha but only in a more traditional feminine role.

Each character carries a distinct ideological belief. It is the clashing of these ideologies, these beliefs which makes this play dynamic and timeless--because they still are relevant in African-American and American life.

I was thinking about my brief interactions with Walter Lee Younger. In Scene II, I take out his sister to a dance, leave the house, and insult him by calling him "Prometheus." Why Prometheus, I thought?

So I decided to write a poem to Walter, not out of spite, but of sympathy.


to walter

good night prometheus...
you carry the fire of my black brothers and sisters
but cannot sustain it within....

so many dreams to behold
within your grasp
yet they are always taken away...

chained the city has you.
cornered.
the city has your eyes trapped in the grey sky

the rain    the snow     
taunts you, tapping your shoulders
for your raisin to sleep...

good night prometheus....