20110221, tumblr piece

He looked like Antenna Man with all of that rainbow in his hair

And his graying beard 

Purple tie-die sweater that looks like reflections in a pool

Dialing numbers to have girl talk

Chick chat

Cigarettes on her eyelashes 

She bats them and they ash, falling into her banana mouth

They burn holes in her eyes but she still smiles yellow

A forlorned frown disguised as a celebrity smirk

Dark shadows and a ravishing mess of hair

The curtains look like sunrays

And the arms of a pirate hat wearing Octopus

Blow up dolls in inflatable houses

Dr Fucks babies

She stood tall on a drum with a leopard dress and heart leggings

Maybe a floating device around her neck as an accessory 

Eccentric I guess

Looking like the Statue of Liberty

A tarp guarded her from the ignorance of the beaming light

Ivy vines crawled to her feet

Pointy and skeletal like fold out chairs

Who has cozy feet anyway?

A lamp illuminated her cat like stare

I think she might be ugly behind all of that tanned skin

I don’t know her but its something about her mouth

The next girl I know very well

She dresses ridiculously when she goes to Happy Endings or Sway or any downtown night

Dances aberrantly and calls it a career

Sometimes she wears Power Ranger earrings and rings made out of beer caps, she tattooed a slice of pizza on her right middle finger, a real New Yorker – maybe.

It all reminds me of the 90s in an awakening and painfully pleasuring way

Unsharpened pencils in unbuttoned shirt pockets

Arnold finally puts different clothes on

It kind of changes my entire world view

Whatever that might be

Candle lit lanterns on stepping stones leading to the happily glowing house

That probably has some amazing Basquiat art hanging on the walls of a relatively recurrent offender

The kind that would have reported the same man for “criminally vandalizing” the exterior walls of his second wife’s apartment twenty years ago

 A bore

A whore 

I wonder what it was like to be one of Marley’s locks

Or Tupac’s tattoos

Or a sheet of tracing paper

Or a branch in a Christmas tree

Or a noose

Crack’s in a mirror’s reflection reminds me of my dad’s drug addiction

Which reminds me of trusting titles and rusty windows

Like a staircase without handles

Or words spelled with numbers, l1k3 th15

My brain cells are starting to crowd me, like balloons in a two-seater 

The expressionist rasta’s … it severely irritates me that Hitler’s name is not red underlined in auto spelling but rasta is. Rastafari is as well. That is total bullshit

Green, yellow and red flag painted in Brooklyn with some hipster bitch spread across it like she knows who Selassie I is or that the “I” in Selassie I is actually the number 1, like number words but real

The bird is pretty fly though

On stage Jimi sets fire to his guitar 

Kneeling down in hot red pants looking like the sex god himself

I would have crashed that car too

Never the Chanel bus though, that’s my baby

Really old pencils spelling out the alphabet 

All chewed on and clean-shaven

Like Bedford Avenue residents who betray hipsterdom by shaving but still ride around on fixed gears

Under a pastel palette of sorbet skies

And all the balloons in the two-seater are set free

And my brain cells pop like fireworks, I can feel them 

They give my forehead little heat splinters 

I feel all better now

Richie, Brittany and I whisper sweet nothings nuzzled into each other’s necks

Eating vagina cupcakes in front of your humble door

Shooting secrets about the mystery man on the balcony over yonder

Yester years

I saw you yelling at a plastic woman with a polka dot bag yesterday

I called to see if you’re okay

And if your car is still up in flames, I know it’s a tragedy but can I take pictures?

Roaring lions and boney thugs

Draped in oversized gowns of sport teams

It’s hard not to feel like JayZ circa “Big Pimpin” video when on a Bermuda boat, with beautiful, bottled broads

Then the earth under your feet becomes concave

And you’re waiting in McDonald’s drive through again for new cUntry potatoes

No private planes or cheese buses or cracker platters

I like it this way

Dancing barefoot in basement bashes while rolling a joint on the latest cover of Billboard

That claims Drake is the new face of hip-hop

I’d rather just not talk about it and wear a top hat and a tie on bow instead

Eating my McFancy fries drinking some cool Cola

Studying the bisection of a gold fish 

Finding where it’s little heart is located and carefully removing it so I can press it in a book like lavender and have it forever

Reminds me of playing that stressful doctor game, or dutty wining until you land behind the stage paralyzed

Boy, you are an infectious insect

Your light spreads like the 1956 fireball from the detonation of a hydrogen bomb in the South Pacific

Aren’t you handsome

Mad dogs pikachu lips and acid tongue warm her cold teeth

Reflecting the walls windows

Mr T goes anti-alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes, PCP and a robot or something of similar appearance. Yet remains true to pro-love, family, awards, books, the letter A, plants (that aren’t weed leafs – specifically clarified), music notes and stars

The models are druggies

With little bagels that they wear around their naked ring finger as an ode to the single ladies of the world, oh shut up you want a boyfriend so fucking bad

Baggy bohemians and Polish-Irish hybrid skirt babes

One of the most gorgeous women I know with the hair of a gray cloudy beautifully destructive whirlwind walks through a field of yellow flowers

Just her and the sky holding hands

She’s the funky stripes type

I hope we grow old together in our beautiful house with colored windows and grass for floors with groovy couches and ashtrays for dispensing our Sobranie Cocktail rainbow cigarettes, the ones with gold filters

She can wear 70’s sunglasses and drive a babein’ Volkswagen van with RASTA colored interior, because she is just the kind of lady who knows, for example, what the I in Selassie’s name really is

She’s a different crew’s Sunni. What an angelically devilish love child old Sunni Hart

The little imperfection in her smile that makes her perfect

She lent me a 1000+ paged collection of Allen Ginsberg poetry today, I can’t wait to finish swimming in the stream of consciousness so that I could get to that

I thought about how happy I am to be able to have given Clay the amazingly personable Christmas present instead of the tarot cards.

The picture of the Garden of Eden on the Lovers card always reminds me of how the forbidden “apple” was probably a pomegranate and how we used to always eat those together 

It’s all kind of ironic actually, after I got my leg garden tattoo the first thing I put on it was his pomegranate lotion

Maybe he was my forbidden apple, glowing gold

Well he definitely was

I could’ve had any other fruit in the gritty garden but he was a teacher and I was his first “black” girl

Whatever

Butterfly shrine stories

I wonder if their caterpillar life plays before them in a sun-ridden hazy flash the moment they morph into a creature with wings, imagine that

Waiting all your life until your last year in which you grow wings and learn how to fly and become a completely different being

I wish I could say I loved the elderly 

Most of them have torturous tales of how their metamorphosis failed and they never grew wings

Or did and flew with the best, was on the top of the world – they could feel it and touch it and smell the air up there and then they had to come back down to reality

Or maybe they just stay up there forever 

Never coming back down

And die on a cloud happily

The lustrous life of a butterfly lands on a skeletal umbrella when the storm hits 

Yes, I was once that butterfly, dreaming I was a man