for J. Dilla

The Perfect Beat

that's what masterminds do,

get caught up with addictions
to creating masterpieces.

and soon find themselves falling
in love with something beautiful.
in search of a balance between
the pure raw, and the harmony.
rhythms classicals enough to
outlast the lifetimes.

so it's no suprises that constantly
I seem to find myself in loops.
re-surfaced deja vu's,
while listening to a hot piece.

as that's what genius's crave,

the type of work that becomes
the scores people grow their lives to.
soundtracks produce fresh
with the smell of everyday grind,
sound so remarkable they
evolve into lifelines.

songs fossilized into my mind
strong enough to stir up memories
as I choose to play them
continous on repeat.

eternity comes forever through
the spirit of the melodies
as with the play of
each hook, riff, and loop
caught up in positive harmony

we listen closely as
you soul shines,
hoping to catch a feeling of
your sunshine,
grabbing handfuls of your memory
as it slip through the
reflection of each flawless piece

I alway catch myself wondering,
"damn, who perfected the beat?"




(p.s...
to Dilla with luv.)
r.i.p

Surrendering

Surrendering


it could have happened anywhere
maybe perhaps even on
a busy crowded
downtown street
while on a corner
waiting for the
street lights to flash walk.
or perhaps in a quiet
bookstore separated
by a shelve of books
packed tightly on a
oak wood frame.
a likely potent
passing might
brew in a grocery store line,
waiting behind
the woman counting
out two dollars
worth, of pennies,
for two soda's
one hers, the other
for a small grandson,
both just wanting to
share a moment together.
or the chance of a
possible proximity
of back turn towards back
in a little coffee shop,
sipping frappuccinos
simultaneously browsing
the new yorker or
wall street journal
might have been the
scene for the plot.
a stare could employ
overlapped lives,
as a smile proposes
gesture of marriage.
formal meetings
come coincidental,
familiarity eases eyes.
inverted awareness
brings buried,
yet unintentional
supple soul kisses,
seize equivalent
accidental touches.
conversations
begin to take shape,
fighting against the
body's solitary,
my heart is a dictatorship,
so selfish
when it comes to
sharing my soul,
I prefer to have myself,
single in a shelter shell,
all to my own.
while,
you’re so militant,
always fighting
against heart's
lonely happiness
ignoring the single man's
worry free baggage less
contentment.
it could have happen anywhere,
during movies, sporting events
club scenes, concerts,
such tight spaces where
people seem to
become jammed packed.
amalgamated, melted pots
of large groups.
of course throughout the world,
we'd share
numerous fate bending encounters,
of course we both knew,
one day,
orbital roads would cross paths,
so suddenly we clashed.
purposely pretending you didn't
mean to mindlessly
bump into my agenda.
caught up in your beauty,
it should only be natural that,
only you could
knock me off my feet.
needing balance, your strong
shoulders I'd grasp
to keep
from falling behind,
pushing to stay afloat
inside a busy line.
you counteract,
offer a friendly hand,
touch the lower
part of my back,
produce comfort in
movement through a
crowded path.
these advances,
your eye's glances
plot ideals to conduct
uprising and definite
attitude towards solitude,
the will of our bodies
too close together
in breathless rooms,
aid the revolution,
fight against freedom
blossoms harvest and
the next movement.

The Revolutionist Wants To Eat Me

The Revolutionist Wants To Eat Me


There is a woman
who lives on my back.
she brings gifts of unorthodox
disruptions to my humble pose.
her load is brutal upon my body
and soon one day, she
will overpower me.
her nappy, wild animal hair
unravels at the end
of my tips, while
she braids and weaves
her dreds into my orderly roots.
her brazen voice
so loud when she speaks
dissolves my
lady-like sing-song melody.
her face stuck in frame,
seems never released of a
continuous smugly fit smile.
her hefty teeth leave
imprints in sentences.
her stout arms supported
by her broad shoulders
create thunder with
every shift of order.
her callus hands
work lively while she
summons every task she's
ever attempted to accomplish.
her full breast suffocate
barren empty spaces.
her big animated belly
moves when she moves, while
she moves when I move.
her thighs always dancing,
have swallowed more than a
few grown men's waist.
her heavy legs
entertain whenever
she decides to walk,
her statuesque signature
lingers behind after
each pace, each step.
and I can feel her
following closely,
I can hear her harsh breath
on the nape my neck.
she is unruly in her style,
as she tramples through life.
she is selfish,
always wanting things her way.
her mind steady grinding
on plans, calculated thoughts on
how to capture the world
and change it to accommodate
her hips, her gender,
her race, and her seeds.
her eyes growl for she
has been starved of
equality in her bones.
while in her
uneven world, she
collects sharp knives, waiting
for the moment to
even the score and claim victory.
burdensome are her actions upon me,
as she carefully plots to
awake me of her existence.
this woman only comes around
to conjure up chaos,
and she wants to use me
as her vessel.
this burly woman want to
savor me on the tip of her tongue.
hungry and greedy, ready to
infuse me into her veins,
gobble the remains of my
personality during
a great carnivorous feast.
defusing the meander ways
of my meek and gentle figure,
this huge robust woman
wants to deliciously eat me.
leaving nothing behind but
my epidermis so that she
may dress in my body tomorrow,
anxious to have my
skin upon her soul.
she'll strut boldly in my being
ready to start trouble,
and stir up the world, acting
gregarious in her nature.
as she wears me haughtily like
her best sunday dress.