cuddling with my girlfriend (while passing spike lee joints)


I. Monday

Remember when we met at Beneath the Underdog,
and I whispered Bob Ross ballads in your ear?
"Baby, do you dig happy hills, tap-dancing trees,
Coltrane clouds and saxophone streams
of a love supreme rippling through a Patmos dream?"
We embraced and leaned against the back wall,
swaying along in a trance as we danced to Bleek's trumpet.
The labyrinth of his notes swirled around us,
locking us within our private corner.
You cracked a smile as if I quoted Butterbean
before asking me, "Honey, what would you do
if you couldn't write or recite anymore?"
One of the reasons I love you
is that you challenge me to examine my priorities.
I know that I don't want to gamble with you
like a Giant who's always coming up short.
Poetry has always been my voice,
but voices eventually go hoarse with age;
and if all the world is a stage, then what will I do
when the last brass notes leave my washed-up lips?
May I someday enjoy the honor of you
becoming my wife and saving my life
in spite of machismo mistakes that I make.

Please, baby, please, baby, please, baby, baby, baby, please.


II. Tuesday

I like running my half-pint fingers through your hair
after popping some Jiffy Pop popcorn with you.
Straight or nappy doesn't matter to me
because we both came over on the same boats.
Your soul and character dominate
any shallow fetish over light or dark skin,
so no one can convince me about how
they are jiggaboos and they are wannabes
as opposed to being my brothers and sisters.
I look them all in the eyes and reply, "You're not niggers."
Let's divest from this silliness
like it's South African apartheid.
You knew when we met
that I was not a Gamma man,
but you see a real man on a Mission
like Dap running on a resurrection morning
crying, "WAKE UP," through Ezekiel's trumpet.
Besides, I'd get dropped from the pledge line
for refusing to address Dean Big Brother as "Almighty."
I'm building me a home, and I pray
that you will decide to join me
because I don't wanna be alone tonight.
I nickname you "Bahiyah," a beautiful cross
between Thelma Evans and Denise Huxtable,
loving your heart, mind and soul like no other.
And, in case you're wondering, I do like da butt
when you strut, and that's the apple-bottom line.

I learned from Vinny's late-night flings
and know the worth of a queen when I see one
instead of killing a beautiful thing like a .44 caliber gun.


III. Wednesday

Would you have wanted me to go as well?
Farrakhan and I may part ways concerning Whom we praise,
but I nevertheless respect his "he's not heavy,
he's my brother" perspective for the black male collective,
endangered like the Spotted Owl flying to D.C.
where the bald eagle circles over our heads,
waiting for us to drop dead and complete its feed on us.
Yet, Jeremiah's drum returns me to African shores,
where I want to walk with you from afternoons to full moons
and read Bible verses referring to Ethiopians, Egyptians,
Libyans and Nigerians who originally knelt at the cross
centuries before the crescent was hailed and slave ships sailed.
Neither public school nor Poole told me that truth,
but for the sake of our seed, I will answer the final call need
to break generational chains and leave them at Lincoln's Memorial.
The real march doesn't start without a dedicated heart.

Baby, our future sons and daughters don't have to cope
with the pressures building in their stomachs
as they gulp Chocolate Moos and hope
not to become just another stain on the sidewalk.


IV. Thursday

Thank you for believing in me, honey,
amidst an industry where green-lighters
ask me to pose against David Levinthal backgrounds,
wearing a wide watermelon grin
as hype-men send, "Ooooooooweeeeeeee's,"
to each blackface in the crowd
coming to eat this slop prepared just for them.
You encourage me not to coon or clown
just so I can be officially down,
getting people's attention
and their voting-power dollars.
Certain CEO's must know that we can't afford
to laugh all the way to the jolly nigger bank
moving with out-of-control eerie animation.
Radio and TV stations in each nation
might as well sell Timmi Hillnigger threads
while filling our heads with their network slogan:
"Niggers is a beautiful thing."
Sitcom, CD-Rom and dot.com writers may say
that the church ain't nothing but a fashion show,
but most of their slave airwaves
impose nothing but minstrel shows,
and "I am not gonna take it anymoooooooore!"

A strong woman lets me know if I'm dancing like Gator,
shucking and jiving deeper into the darkness
of the Taj Mahal as Mahalia's records
drown out the needs of others around me.


V. Friday

Baby, I won't lie...I'm just now sitting down
and reading his whole autobiography from start to finish.
Let my love poems to you possess the same finesse
as when El-Hajj Malik speaks over the years to our ears.
From crook to prisoner, follower to independent thinker,
he is one of the models of the man that I plan to be for you,
standing up without fear to the sneers
of those whites and blacks looking down the nose
at so-called "Negroes," telling them to stay in their place
like Napoleon fracturing the regal face of the Sphinx.
It's time to blow out and comb out our conks
so that we can carry the Umoja torch
that was not extinguished in the Audubon.
Both of us want the Light of the World to glow
from the Roseland stage across the waves to Mecca.
A crowd of all peoples will dance and chant out loud
as we mix the late-great Ossie over the hook
when he asked, "Did you ever really listen to him,"

not Jesus Shuttlesworth but Jesus of Nazareth.


VI. Saturday

What's a whistle blower to do when the right thing
is a necessary option with brutal consequences?
Do we pledge allegiance to the cash
of the United States of America
and to the Republic for earning grands
in one nation that I question is under God?
I'll admit that Jack had a male fantasy,
but it becomes a nightmare that steals
a piece of your soul with each impregnation.
Monogamy is one of the original blessings
no matter what curvaceous cable tries to tell us,
and I want to build a nation with you
over matrimony melodies,

enjoying what "could've, would've been"
for the sake of Monty and Naturelle's memories.


VII. Sunday

Thank God for lips, and that's the truth, Ruth.
Let's ride for each other through the tension
that's surfacing on the hottest day of the year.
We can talk with each other over some slices from Sal's
and hope that we aren't buggin' out at the end of the day,
thinking we can only take a stand by throwing garbage cans
against mirrors showing us what needs to be changed.
Smiley wants to sell us a picture of Martin and Malcolm
greeting one another in respect, despite their differences.
Isn't it funny how the most ignored person among us
may be showing us the answer all along?
Christ's love parts the raging waves of hatred
like Radio Raheem stepping through a busy crowd
and spreading the parable of "Love vs. Hate" to anyone listening.
Mister Senor Love Daddy sends "Tender Love"
out to you from me as we walk these streets
and rub lemonade ice cubes on each other's cheeks.

Ya dig. Sho nuff.


Copyright 2005. Streetlight Publications.