There’s a moment, in the dark, wanted to talk ‘til I sunk.

A sketchwork glow. A patchwork quote. A skeptic overdosing on the tips.

Careful, I might fall in love with the shipwreck. I want. I want.

I want it at the creases where the please starts leaking spring water.

I will start from the matchstick and capture it, every inch.

I will redefine our kisses in skittish, jump from the rim.

And read to you read to you read to you.



I’ll explain later. Too busy.


Damn, He’s Good Looking

The man I am staring at looks like this guy, possibly could have been him, lol.

The man I am staring at looks like this guy. See why I'm staring?

I’ve been staring at Mr. Gorgeous from across the cafe for approximately six minutes when he looks over and catches me in mid-stare. A few things come to mind:

1. O shit.

2. O shit.

3. Damn, he’s good looking.

I go back to writing. The thing is, I have a problem with concentration. Did I mention he wore argyle? I’m a sucker for argyle, and gorgeousness behind glasses. I think I’m over the last thought when, he smiles. His eyes look like wide almonds, I’d like to catch a grenade for him, lol. Am I shallow? And then I laugh at myself. I have three hundred things to do in one day, I cannot sleep most nights, and here I am waiting on inspiration when I wouldn’t know it if it hit me on the back of my fat head in slow motion.

The guy looks at me again. I stare at my computer screen like I’m writing the bestseller I hope I’m writing. The waitress with the blonde hair that doesn’t look naturally blonde, her overly-heavy mascara—she is kind—brings me my omelette. It has avocados in case y’all didn’t know. Later, I find a hair in the omelette as I’m on my third to last bite. The manager comes over to apologize and thinks I don’t want to pay for it. She tells me that the waitress was crying. Funny, I’d already eaten it, I had every intention to pay for the hairy eggs I just devoured. The waitress overhears her tell me that she’d been crying. She says

“Did she just say I was crying?”

“Yes” I smirk.

And she laughs. It’s a funny thing what people do when something goes wrong.

Mr. gorgeous met up with some other man. They are talking, he has mentioned me because the guy he is sitting with has looked over at me, trying to disguise the fact that he is trying to see me.

1. Is he checking me out?

2. He must be selling something.

3. I’ve had enough bad luck for this month, ignore them both.

And so I do. I finish my homework assignment like a good girl should. I take my crazy meds, lol. I drink my chamomile bread and sip my warm toast, and I ready myself to leave. As I am packing my stuff up, the heavy make-upped waitress leans over and tells me that the men across the room (the delicious one and his buddy) were checking me out and joking about there being no ring on my finger.

*The man in the picture above is French accented Willy Monfret. Lawd have some kinda mercy on my soul. Lol.

Banana in the asphalt

Last night leaving my best friend’s house after a night of delicious foodings and Kinect: Dance Central, I had to question my mommy-ness yes, once again. My son Tye, whom I usually have to remind to bring a jacket, remembers on this of all nights. It had to be 30 degrees below zero as we are leaving the condominiums, in the Marina. Or so it felt like 30 degrees below. I underestimate my dear California weather and as we hit the door to the parking structure, wind chill nearly knocks me over. I come bearing an artsy grey short-sleeved crochet cardigan, slight cleavage in my undershirt, black knee high-boots, a ponytail, and tight black leggings. Geared up for dance—mind you. I now contemplate asking my 11-year-old son for his jacket, am I a bad mother?

“Tye, don’t you wanna let mommy wear your jacket-real quick?”

“Yea, mom, here.” As he hands me his jacket, my cheeks feel the crisp of the air.

Now comes the guilt.

“Nahh, never mind. It’s cool; I was jus’ playin,’” I say to him after feeling so bad having to ask him for his jacket.

To appease, distract, and to counteract the cold, I begin shouting out ridiculously nonsensical commentary, again, as loud as I could, as we walk through the parking lot. It was that cold in a way that makes you want to curse and do things you never thought of.

“It’s like a worm in a basket- cold!!” I scream in the echo of the parking lot. My son looks at me strange smiling. I brrrrr and complain on. I, like others are under the false impression that if you complain about something that it’s going to get better. We walk along the structure. There’s a slight descent of pavement.

“It’s like the sun on a Monday- cold!!!” Again I scream—in my rambunctious voice- my son now beaming with joy.

“It’s like a–” my foot twists in some wretched twirl stuck in the decline of the slope and a crack. I lose my bearings in a break dance meets Soulja Boi’s Supahman dat hoe,’ and I crumble to the ground.

The first thing I can think of is “if only I hadn’t disobeyed the gods – forgetting my jacket, complaining about it… …” I realize in the pause for reaction after falling, that the second you understand that you are going asunder and there is not even one thing you can do about it – and you know nothing, the world goes in a surprisingly slow-motion.

I look up to my son in such laughter. I can tell that he is attempting to point at me, but his laughter is so heavy that he cannot pull his arm up high enough.

“It’s like a banana in the asphalt- cold!!!” My son screeches at the top of his lungs in pure laughter. I am now more embarrassed than any other moment. In the laugh he says again…

“The Gods shouldn’t have done you like that!” as he holds his stomach. Face now as ‘ready-red’ as mine.

I stand to my feet. The whole way home in the car I blamed Tye for “stepping on a crack trynna break his mother’s back.” Apparently there was a running joke of “the cherry that broke the camel’s back,” and my “cold and broke-legged-ness” as well. There was even mention of “you thought you were bad, now you’re worse.”

Come to think of it, it really is as clandestine as a “banana in the asphalt,” and funnily so– some divine something or other made that one of my best night’s in a while. I mean when is the last time you can actually say in your adult life, that you’ve taken a fall in a moment where you least expected it? Does it even happen to you? Today I am buying a better space heater for my complaining, and sitting here with my ankle—happily throbbing.

%d bloggers like this: