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So Late, After Work, Done Tending, The Bar,

Texting me, To Come Over, She Knew, I Wasn't Far,

I made Pulled Pork If you want to pop over Beans and Brussel Sprouts I salivated Remembering her pussy which smelled of sweet clover

Shut down the bar, Lock it up Tight, Walk over to Ridge Ave, Hoping to not get in a Nigger Fight,

To her Apartment, To which, I have a Key, Walk up not one stair flight, But walk up three,

Top of the decaying, Industrial building, To her Domicile, With the Black Mold, Dominating her Ceiling,

And there she is, with her Dog, And two Cats, Beautiful Ass, And two humongous Tit-Tats,

Domestic and caring, She told me to sit down, While she cooked, But she noticed, How Hungry, My Predatory Gaze Looked...

A Smile, A Smirk, She Knew, when she asked

What exactly are you looking at?

Memories be gone, Those days, such a shell, But I'll never forget, The way her pulled pork did smell.

So Late, After Work, Done Tending, The Bar, Texting me, To Come Over, She Knew, I Wasn't Far, >I made Pulled Pork >If you want to pop over >Beans and Brussel Sprouts I salivated Remembering her pussy which smelled of sweet clover Shut down the bar, Lock it up Tight, Walk over to Ridge Ave, Hoping to not get in a Nigger Fight, To her Apartment, To which, I have a Key, Walk up not one stair flight, But walk up three, Top of the decaying, Industrial building, To her Domicile, With the Black Mold, Dominating her Ceiling, And there she is, with her Dog, And two Cats, Beautiful Ass, And two humongous Tit-Tats, Domestic and caring, She told me to sit down, While she cooked, But she noticed, How Hungry, My Predatory Gaze Looked... A Smile, A Smirk, She Knew, when she asked >What exactly are you looking at? Memories be gone, Those days, such a shell, But I'll never forget, The way her pulled pork did smell.
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The Poet Resigned [2012]

The poet closes his eyes Yesterday's ache is today's rage For what? There's nothing to ache for Nothing to rage at Just meaningless fiction Aching for emptiness Raging at absence Today he would burn the books In ritualistic fashion To stop the voices Alternately screaming Then weeping Poetry on to his page He pleads for the pen To be cut from his hand "Let the reign of silence be met With cheers of joy by all Who have suffered The dark days Tormented nights And pointless longings of my work." With one final fading Whimpered declaration of love The poet resigns One last lie To complete her collection But which is the lie That he lived Or that he can say goodbye