surrealisting.

I think love is the most beautiful thing
in the world,
and I don’t give a f**k,
I have no original ideas.

I recite poetry
to get women to fall in love with me.
"Women who hear this:
FALL IN LOVE WITH ME"
that’s what it comes down to —
an ultimatum,
life or death.
jesus,
I’ve seen a man jack off to a gap window display,
so don’t tell me that love isn’t important.

Because love isn't easy.
love is the bane of my existence,
the reason why I hate valentine’s day
and halloween,
which is about ghosts
and I think you know where I’m going here.

I’m going to the land of girlfriends of halloweens past,
and maybe I’ve only got three ghosts in this land,
but this doesn’t mean that they don’t bring their friends,
because girls rarely travel alone in this land.

Lydia is from this land.
I used to kiss her
while listening to
the cure’s “just like heaven,”
so that song makes me sad,
why must we associate music with
our love lives?
I’m not trying to be profound
I’m just saying that music takes me
back,
and I can’t explain the memory process involved in that,
because I was not a psychology major,
and maybe my problem with picking up college age women
has to do with me always asking,
“YO SHAWTY!
what’s your major?”
Maybe I shouldn’t think of women in terms
of picking them up,
and maybe I should open up my sensitive side,
but really,
the sensitive side sucks.
I’ve been there.
You can only imagine the kinds of sweaters
they make you wear.
It’s not fair,
love is not fair,
and war is not fair,
and I don’t care what anyone has to say about
any of that,
I feel unloved.
Am I the only one?
I know that I can’t be that
misunderstood.

But you don’t want to
understand me!
You just want to hear the part
About my small dick again,
because the asian man will always be plagued
by this rumor
until he is brave enough to whip it out on stage
and say,

“HA! WE ARE GIGANTIC!”

Honestly, this is not the direction
I wanted to take
this poem.
I just want to be in the arms
of my true love, in a house, in a room,
in a wonderful world with our
two children,
a boy and a girl,
helga and lamar,
but maybe I shouldn’t have said this,
because love has got me f**ked up
and dying,
because I feel retarded without anyone to hold me,
and maybe that’s sentimental,
but what’s wrong with sentimental?
you see, I can’t even decide what I need
much less understand what I’m saying.
you see, all I’m saying
is
someone love me.

All I have ever done is write you love poems. Omitting the bent fork and bruised jaw that scarred our relationship.

All I have ever done is write you love poems. I felt you needed them
like pillows
like my breast in sleep
like your
dead
mother.


All I have ever done is write you love poems and even in my poems I become your defense attorney
ready to slash, cut down, burn, disqualify any accusations even if they are true because too many people want to attack you.


And I'm not about to join their tirade on beautiful, young criminals who in some other world could have been poets
or men.


But this is not about them.

This about me and you and strange things we've shared

like red hot lays potato chips,
Victoria's Secret underwear,
chocolate dime bags from Cornelia,
and too many funeral communion chips.


This is about bundles and your goddamn block and friends like Nikki who lock his girl up in Howard housing to stop her from going to school.

And this is about money.

Hell yes! I will not front on dramas of economically deprived love and how I hate paying for every $3.00 discount movie and McDonalds value meals on our cheap-ass dates
Making me think Applebees is high class!

And it's about doors, locked doors that we stood behind at a time when we could barely reach the knob.

Stretching to turn it with wet palms while some man beat our mothers and we stood on this side tussling the hair of our younger brothers.

So I cannot get over what happened last Thursday.

I cannot get over how we have become them and more.

Purple stains on my forearms
your thighs.
Small worlds of pain recorded on skin.
I fell into those worlds, under bathroom lights and dingy towels, I fell into a calm.
Seeing myself 5,15,21.

I'm a small girl
but no one
not even you
love with kill me.


But I guess I'm riffing again like you say.
And I lose my point somewhere between loving you and loving the world that hates you but baby all I have ever done is write you love poems.
When maybe all you needed was a song.
And maybe one day you will understand that this is one that starts with you and ends with myself like a love song come undone.