This is an impromptu poem. It's not as much about me be frustrated today, but about me knowing who I am, and not being afraid to express it. It's about me finding the balance between what decision best fits me and what best fits others around me.

Some Days

Some days lifting my head above it all seems impossible,
I do it out of habit, not necessarily out of choice.
Instinct drives me towards greatness,
Insecurity some times towards mediocrity.

Some days opening my eyes seems pointless,
I do it out of habit, not necessarily out of choice.
My body tells me that I'm tired and need more sleep,
My mind tells me you can't afford to lose your job.

Some days listening is not one of my best assets,
I do it out of habit, not necessarily out of choice.
Closing down will only make me more vulnerable,
while taking it all in might lead to suffocation.

Some days opening my mouth is fruitless,
I do it out of habit, not necessarily out of choice.
Some things should be thought and not expressed,
others demand their place.

Impromptu Post

So there's nothing that I particularly want to discuss. I just know that I need to write, and that is what I'm doing.

Just Is

Head held low, brows furrowed, he takes in the world.
No name necessary. He just is.

Nobody gives him an afterthought,
he just looks like a man with time to waste.

He's an anomaly in this big city of dreams--both wasted and realized.
He finds time to meditate, narcotic-free, amidst the hustle and bustle.

Those without this luxury part him like the Red Sea,
letting their scorn and dirty looks hover in the polluted air.

Doesn't matter to him. He's just decided to run for office.
His only platform: Manipulate time, don't let it manipulate you.

He's high on something he wishes he could pass on the left-hand side.
Yet, he knows nobody would give him the time of day.

So he's just a nameless man,
a preacher without a pulpit,
and a man without a place to be.

He just is.

Okay--so I've been lazy as of late. I haven't felt like writing. I haven't felt like blogging. I haven't felt up to much.

There's no particular reason for this apathy towards doing something constructive. It is just one of those situations that is. So whatever funk I was in--I've officially exercised it.

I just wrote a story, that I'll present to you. I enjoyed writing it. While I don't think it's the best story I've ever written--it was the most writing I've done in over a month. Perhaps it will get me back on my quest to write my two unfinished novels:

Inspiration by Education
By Excalibur
March 8th, 2007

Too much too soon thought Eric. He twirled his finger around in that way that signaled for his students to wrap it up. Teaching this creative writing class was a bit more difficult than he’d anticipated it to be.

“Lets hope you brought out your A game this time. The first assignment was more than uninspiring, especially from a group of would be writers.” He thought most of them needed such a nasty reminder to show them that what had been cherished as tremendous in their prep schools and honors classes was merely rubbish at the undergraduate level.

The blue books were handed to him. Few of his students managed to show him eye contact, although he was trying his best to give them an encouraging smile. Perhaps part of the problem was on his end. He was this twenty-five year old guy—that looked younger than some of his students. He laughed and joked with them the first few classes. He shared some insights: “Challenge yourselves as writer—most of you have written from experience—but how much experience do you have at your age? If you need to mimic a writer’s style that you love until you develop a voice—a style of your own then do it. That doesn’t mean that I expect for you to rip off Hemingway or Joyce. Great writers are great because they take chances. If there is one bit of wisdom that I can impart to you—that would be it. Take risks; don’t be afraid to be slammed by your peers. At the very least I promise you that those risk takers will leave this class with more of an idea where their future stands than those of you that will be safe writers—despite my advice.”

That was all his first class entailed, that and a syllabus that seemed to excite most of the students. Perhaps they thought this would be an easy A. In his mind it was. Those who took the true risks would be rewarded. The students that lent themselves to criticism, perhaps even ridicule would be the ones that showed themselves worthy of being published.

Who was he to put so much pressure on them—you might think. He’s Eric Peters, basically nobody. However, his pseudonym Jason Thames had penned two New York Times bestselling thrillers. He was a black man, average looking, average height, and average weight. He had a nice smile and a type of roughness to his personality that he could turn on when people underestimated his normally reserved personality.

He wasn’t a nobody. He was a teacher. His job was to get these students to reach, to step out of their comfort zones. He could tell that some of them had the ability.

He held up his hand to stop anyone from exiting the room. “How do you think you all did?”

Again there was a lack of eye contact. He picked up the stack of blue books.

“Okay how about we make a deal. There are club hours following this class. I’m wiling to rip up these papers. We can start all over again. That way those of you that handed in drivel—will have had the opportunity to flush out your ideas.”

He looked around and saw all of the nodding heads.

“Okay I need you all to sit back into your seats.”

He knew that he’d shocked them all. “I’m going to rip up these books…how many of you know that to be a great writer that you have to be wiling to start all over again…to literally pick up the pieces?”

A hells yeah erupted from the back of the classroom.

“Better yet come up here and take your books.”

They came up one by one—thinking he had absolutely lost his mind. Most of them couldn’t imagine what was coming next.

“Rip them up—rip them into tiny pieces…and when you think about the two hours that you spent writing—I want you to be angry—or those of you that know that you didn’t do your best you should feel relieved…whatever the emotion or emotions that you’re feeling—use it! Reach down deep and pull out something that will prove to me you belong in this class—that you’re worthy of being published.”

He left the empty stacks of blue books on the desk and grabbed his jacket. “Bring the stories over to my office in the next two hours…if not you can keep them…don’t forget to clean up after yourselves either.”

He pumped his fist, then waved goodbye, before leaving his shell-shocked students to finish their second assignment. Today he felt like a teacher. He hoped he’d created writers and that the tree gods wouldn’t be too angry about the utter disrespect for their fallen disciples.

My friend Thomas and I engaged in some pretty interesting "experiments" as he deemed them. They were based on images that we picked from Art.com and led us into one page pieces. I was looking through some of my writing and thought that I'd like to share a couple of them.

The first is titled Piano Man. It is one of my favorites. The second is entitled Waiting for an Update. It is one of my very few trips into the Science Fiction realm. I hope that you enjoy them.

Please remember that I'm creating stories based on my impression of what the images represent. I place the pictures after the story so that your opinion of what the photo represents doesn't interfere with the picture that I'm painting.

Piano Man
August 4th, 2006

Scott Brown’s eyes showed the effects of three shots of bourbon, or what he affectionately refers to as his medicine, requisite poison before any gig. I’m Cliff Daniels, bartender extraordinaire at a swanky new lounge, Mystique, settled neatly in the confines of Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.

Scott is the biggest attraction here, kind of a local celebrity. The kid has it. That’s it, no if ands or buts about it.

I get the next shot of bourbon lined up for him. It’s like clockwork, three warms him up, the fourth fucks him up, but that’s when his fingers begin to fly. They take over, telling stories of heartbreak, jubilation, and every ounce of the road in between.

On days like today, when there is enough of a breeze, we leave the door open, an open invitation to let Scott’s piano prowess seep out and snare anyone passing by.

“Scott you know you’re not supposed to smoke in here,” I tell him.

He waves me off. “Po-po occupied. You think they have an excuse to come in here aggravating me over a smoke? Man half these people in here would lynch they asses.” He sucks his teeth in that way that you know the argument’s finished.

“Scott man, them fingers warmed up yet or you need this shot here to ease the arthritis?”

“I keep telling ya ass me ain’t got no fuckin’ artrytus. Just pass me my drink Doogie Howser M.D.”

We both laugh. His is a deep almost mad scientist type of chuckle. Mine is a register higher. The blend makes the women at the table nearest to the stage turn towards us. Scott catches their smiles after slamming down his drink. He flirts back with his eyes before telling me, “da one with the big ass going to ride me tonight.”

“That’s what you always say!”

Scott asks, “Have I ever been wrong?”

I laugh, “plenty of times.”

“Not tonight.”

He walks back to the stage and sits down by his piano, takes a swig of water, and then speaks softly into the microphone, “I need a songbird tonight that knows how to take it home.” He overlooked all the hands that shot up until he locked eyes on the woman with the big ass at the table with her girlfriends. “I want you.”

Scott’s finger danced to “At Last” and his songbird snagged the tune and belted as if possessed by Etta James’ spirit. I knew at that moment those fingers would get him anything he wanted tonight.

Piano Man represented a transition for me as a writer. To that point I hadn't given myself completely in attacking dialects. The rhythm of Scott's character's voice made it extremely easy for me to write this. It was one of the best experiments that I have ever completed. Perhaps the Piano Man will need to be resurrected.

Waiting for an Update
August 10th, 2006

Alisha’s massive hands engulfed the gift from her mother, Bianca. Her eyes lit up with excitement, “Momma, what is it?”

“The earth beings call it a snow globe. It’s a city they call Chicago.”

“Chicago, what a strange name for a city. I would like to rename it Xander.”

“Well you can’t just go changing the names of places whenever you’d like to Alisha, things have names for a reason.”

“Momma, why did they call it Chicago? It seems such a boring name for a city with such a beautiful skyline. Look at all the skyscrapers.”

A smile came to Bianca’s face. “Skyscraper…Alisha I see you’ve been doing your galactic studies. Let me scan my brainware for an answer to your question.”

“Please do, my brainware can only scan our domestic databases. I can’t wait until I get updated.”

“Your update will come when your brain is mature enough for it sweetheart. I’ve told you that many times.”

Alisha sat, gift in hand, shifting it from one hand to the other. She giggled. I hope these ones don’t die like the ones in New Orleans. These humans are such terrible pets.

Bianca spoke in a very spiky lifeless voice, indicative of downloading, “Chicago was a name given by a tribe of American Indians known as the Potawatomi. The Potawatomi referred to the marshes Chicago was built on as Checagou. It means wild onion or garlic; it is also referred to as skunk cabbage.”

“Momma is that data corrupt? That’s a funny reason to name something Chicago.”

Bianca’s eyes popped open, download completed. “Alisha be careful.”

Alisha’s mouth gaped open. The once blue sky was turning purple. She could see the ant like beings running for their lives, as they placed their hands over their mouths and ran in terror.

The globe fell from Alisha’s hands, but was scooped up by her mother as if she was the second baseman for the New York Yankees. “Your contempt is poisonous too them. Learn to use your words more carefully.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Their world is not for us to judge. We were only meant to observe. Your opinions can be poisonous.”

“Then can you at least tell me what happened to New Orleans?”

“I’m going to put this up for safe keeping…New Orleans was my mistake…you were too young…I thought you were ready this time.”

“I’m ready.” There goes my update, stupid earth beings!

I don't have the image here, but I will insert it when I get the chance to. This story infers that Alisha (an outside force) was responsible for Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. In her innocence and desire to entertain herself--which ultimately redefines whatever she's looking at--Alisha creates havoc and devastation. However, despite such events she believes that she is mature enough to handle more instead of following the natural sequence of events (experiences) that would change her naive outlook on the world.

If you look at the image of Chicago you will see the purple background. I saw some sort of poison being introduced, despite the beautiful skyline, the type of poison that outsiders have inadvertently brought that have destroyed many a cultures throughout history.

The Day We Made Granny Cry

It's been awhile since I've written. This story filled my head this morning as I rode in on the subway. It's 3:30 EST and it has finally overwhelmed me to the point that I gave birth to it. This uses the epistlory format that I'm using to write a novel. The names used here are fictitious as is the story:

The Day We Made Granny Cry
February 8th, 2007

Assorted tulips in a crystal vase sat centered on Granny’s marble dining room table. They rested on top of the clear plastic tablecloth, protector from our spills (AKA accidents), and our grubby little fingerprints. The water in the vase seemed too little to sustain the lovely cut flowers, but who was willing to get in the ring with Grandma and state this to her face?

The room was dim, as brightness generally aggravated her eyes, but the tulips gave the room its own sort of brightness. My sister, 7, and I, 9, watched it from a distance (too afraid that our clumsy hands would tip them over).

We’d saved our allowance to buy them for granny for Valentine’s Day. Who else was going to do it? Grandpa started the tradition the first year they were married. This was the first year without him, but it didn’t mean she didn’t deserve her flowers.

Six months of us secretly pooling our allowance, birthday gifts, etc., and we were able to pull it off.

We walked in the door with our parents on the 14th and handed them over to their rightful owner. Granny took off her glasses. Her eyes watered up and then the tears spilled down her face. She looked over to my parents to see if they’d been responsible for the gesture. The two of them shook their heads and pointed to the two of us.

Granny beckoned us to her. She grabbed us both in a bear hug, suffocating us with her breasts, and thanked us. She’s never gone a Valentine’s Day without her tulips and we were happy to be a part of the tradition.

Granny’s Babies,
Kenneth Adams (28) & Jessica Irons (26)
Queensbury, New York

Baptism By Fire

“Too much pepper…way too much pepper,” I say as I begin my 100 meter dash to the bathroom after consuming stewed chicken gone bad--from the local West Indian restaurant.

My stomach agrees as it purges this homage to crap into the confines of my previously sparkling toilet bowl. Just get it in the toilet.

At moments like these I think how awful it must feel for Godzilla as the flames rise from her belly so she can serve up some roasted Kong. I’m sure her belly is coated properly; mine on the other hand IS NOT! I can feel every seasoning from the toxic stew as it makes its way through my system: PEPPER, salt, thyme, curry, and perhaps Adobo or paprika.

“Honey you know that you can’t eat spicy foods.” I give my wife a mental fuck you as I pant hoping the purge is complete, still too afraid to back away from the bowl.

The inspiration for this story was an incident that happened to me (the last time that I've eaten from said restaurant--LOL)

Splattered With Nonsense

This experimental ditty fought to come out tonight. So who was I to deny it?

Splattered With Nonsense
JT 11/27/06

Tangerine, navy blue, jade, cotton, and black. These colors drain before my very eyes from a source unbeknown. Crimson, turquoise, sienna, and indigo dance before me in a perfect tantalizing rhythm.

I wish I had a canvas and an adequate brush so that I could capture their essence correctly. I’d dip my brush in and give the canvas life. I can see myself wildly working at it. Oh how I’d let my hands be free splattering the world with so much color it couldn’t handle.

A stroke should not be confined. No. It has a mind of its own. Yes, stroke thickly and sometimes thin. Don’t allow constraints to limit you my pupil.

Oh how he works at it like a teenager in his first piece of pussy. My boy you will learn not to jab so hard with your erect wrist. Loosen it boy and quit being so frigid. You must learn to control the talent. It will come over time I suppose. Otherwise you will be considered a bad lover.

I feel helpless. You see I am a mute. My words are conveyed through my pen. I too see the wall of colors. My canvas is a pen and a pad. I’m grateful to never have spoken. I see the world in a way that few have and I’m not sure I could articulate it anyway. Otherwise I’d be taken for crazy and overzealous, or perhaps a pompous jackass.

The kid’s no artist right now. He’ll be some day. I’m sure he’ll master his art before he masters control of his dick, lest my nightly prayers go unanswered. Otherwise you’ll never see clearly with your pubescent nostrils consumed with the smell of women.

I'm feeling particulary inspired today. I've written another short. I hope you enjoy.

Tales From the Sixth Grade Lunchroom
BY J.T. 11/25/06

I watched Sybil from the opposite side of the lunch table. She didn’t look so mean to me. I was careful not to make eye contact. Lakisha told me she’d be liable to kick my ass if she thought I was staring her down. I’m not afraid of her, but I’m new here and I don’t want no trouble.

There’s been a lot of talk about this junior high school, ‘specially about all the juvenile delinquents that go here. Momma couldn’t afford Xavier Childs anymore after she got laid off. I told her that I understood. Besides I wasn’t Catholic anyway. I’m Baptist. Mass was kind of boring, though I didn’t let on.

Lakisha nudged me when Sybil got up from the table. “She looking pretty pissed of Valerie…damn girl don’t stare at her. I told you she liable to smack the black of you if she catch you staring…I’m telling you from experience.”

I don’t know what possessed me, but I got up too. I knew she was heading towards the snack line. I wanted to see how she was for myself. Lakisha just sucked her teeth when I got up. “You go right ahead, Val, I’ll notify your next of kin.”

I kind of rushed so I was standing right behind Sybil. She was pretty tall for the 6th grade, taller than most of the boys. She still hadn’t shed all of her baby fat either. Her cheeks proved that. Sybil had some pretty extensions. Must have been human hair too.

I touched my own hair out of habit. Momma couldn’t afford for me to go to the beauty parlor no more so I let my older cousin Lillian do it for me. She permed it too. Momma wasn’t so happy about that, but I was. The relaxer burned, but my hair looked so cute after it was done. I don’t really have to do much with it anymore. I just throw it in a ponytail and keep it moving.

I was standing right behind Sybil when she got her ice cream. Lakisha told me she was liable to steal people’s money to finance her ice cream habit. So standing right behind her made me really nervous. After she bought her toasted almond bar she turned right around and looked me in the face.

Well I was pretty scared. I was hoping she didn’t clock me too hard, but I played it off real cool. She was about three inches taller than me, me being 5’5”. I was used to fighting my male cousins so I figured I could rumble with her if it went that far.

She was prettier than I expected, with the mean wiped off her face. She peeled back the ice cream and ate it, as though she was waiting for a friend.

I asked for strawberry shortcake and put my change in my pocket. Then she stopped staring. I followed behind her. She walked a few feet before turning around. “Catholic Girl watch your back. These bitches in here jealous. If anybody bother you let me know and I’ll fuck ‘em up.”

I was completely caught off guard. So much so that I couldn’t speak. Sybil just laughed and walked back towards the lunch table.
I finished my ice cream in peace, beside Lakisha asking me what Sybil had said to me. I didn’t really know what made me do it, but I got up and went to sit with Sybil.

Lakisha’s jaw dropped. I’m sure everyone elses did too, ‘cept Sybil. She just welcomed her new recruit.

Lakisha mouthed to me from across the table that it was a setup. She didn’t trust Sybil as far as she could throw her. Maybe that or she was jealous that I had found another friend.

I followed behind Sybil like a lost puppy. We were walking up the stairs when Cynthia Nunez dropped her books and her posse came towards me. “Yo Catholic Girl why you skip me in the lunch line. I should fuck you up.”

The crowd oohed and aahed.

I handed my books to Sybil. Sybil handed them towards Lakisha. Lakisha dropped them on the floor and was ready to rumble.

I stepped forward. “I don’t know who you are or what you are talking about, but I didn’t skip nobody in no line.”

Cynthia stepped up, “Act like you want it Catholic Girl.” She threw up her hands.

Sybil said to me, “Whoop that bitches ass Catholic Girl.” And that’s exactly what I did. I whooped her ass in the stairwell and nobody was going to jump in knowing that Sybil had my back.

I grabbed hold of her and started throwing hailmakers. She was getting hit so much and so hard that she just covered her face. I grabbed her by her hair and flung her into the wall. “I skipped you bitch?”

Lakisha and Sybil pulled me off her. Sybil threw her arm around me (as she ushered me upstairs. “You ain’t no joke Catholic Girl…You ain’t no joke.”

We walked off into the sunset leaving Cynthia’s posse to lick her wounds (and no doubt to plot revenge).

Sometimes I feel the need to flex my writing muscles.

I've been concentrating on my application and haven't had much time to write lately, so I'm going to write an impromptu short:

"I prefer Yellow Tail," Agatha whispered into the ear of her would-be lover. She could feel the animal magnetism. Evidently he could too. She could see the bulge in his pants and the hairs on his neck stood on ends.

Jeremy, that's what he called himself. Nothing particularly special about him Agatha thought. She was feeling particularly predatory tonight and this little lamb presented himself towards the slaughter. She licked her lips, knowing she could already taste his sacrifice. She'd fuck him and maybe even let him spend the night if he showed himself worthy.

Jeremy's eyes showed that he was overpowered by her spell. Those slanted eyes, curly eyelashes, and pouty lips were a lethal combination. Her raspy voice added to her allure. That and her tight plump ass and supple breasts.

The suitor gulped and ran his hand along the shelf trying to lock onto Yellow Tail. She grabbed his hand and slid it down two rows. He gulped again, grabbed the bottle, and then her hand.

She let out a smile and allowed him to think that he was the one in control. When she gave her body up, even for a one night stand it was always her choice. Most men thought their game was responsible, or perhaps too much alcohol. When in fact she was a nympho trying to satisfy her urges with the nearest attractive penis that passed her way...

Black Ghost

Trickles of sweat roll down my brow. I looked down at my Fossil, out of habit, and then at the time on the elliptical machine. Seven minutes, typical. This is the moment at the gym that kind of makes me feel like a freak. After about seven minutes of aerobic activity I begin to work up a sweat, which is the point of aerobic activity, isn't it?

Well not when it makes you look like a freak. Because it starts with a trickle, and then the river breaks from the dam and has its way with my body. I could put out a fire. I'm serious. No exaggerating here.

And if I'm lucky and forget to constantly wipe away the perspiration, which impairs my vision and burns when it dries, I take on the complexion of a black ghost. The only bad thing about being a black ghost is you can't disappear. You just have to pay attention to finishing your workout and never, ever, make eye contact.

This is an impromptu story, clearly based on me. I guess I shouldn't complain about looking like a black ghost. I can burn more calories in ten minutes than the average person can working out for an hour. I guess it's a blessing and a curse. With that my double posting Saturday concludes.

Dreaming With Eyes Wide Open

This is an impromptu poem dedicated to my lovely lady friend:

Dreaming With Eyes Wide Open

There were years when I walked through life,
eyes wide open, eyes wide shut.
Disillusioned, was I, about the way the world was,
about the way world is,
about the way the world should be.

I was happy, eyes wide open, eyes wide shut.
I said a prayer for happiness,
for one who I could share my dreams with,
for one who would love me,
for one who would not judge me.

When my prayer was realized,
I still dipped my toe into the water slowly,
always cautious, yet at times recklessly,
mischievously plunging head first,
with my whole body immersed in her essence.

As I came to the surface, born again,
a disciple of love and the power of prayer,
I continued to dream,
not so much of fairytale endings,
but of my life now,
where it will be,
eyes wide open,
holding onto my dreams.

The Real Focus

I guess I still had something on the clipboard. Perhaps I need to focus before I submit. Anyway you get two for the price of one. The preceding poem was Revolving Relationships:

Focus

Thoughts scattered across my mind
like grains of desert sand
consume every breath of my being

No time to relax
Never anytime to relax
Definitely not the time to relax

Scattered thoughts consume my being
What to do?
What to say?

No time to relax
Definitely no time to relax today

Such a suffocating feeling
I don't have time to breathe,
just time to make moves
and worry about breathing when I have time to.

JT 2003

Focus

I wrote this poem on 12/15/2003. Sometimes it is cool to take a look back at things you wrote awhile back to gauge the difference in your style. I hope that you enjoy.

Revolving Relationships

How could it be that after such a long time,
My thoughts betray my heart,
My thoughts betray my smile,
My thoughts betray all that surround me?

Trust only yourself, I think.
Protect your heart, I think.
Don’t let anyone get too close, I think.

But why?

Am I afraid?
Afraid of someone betraying me?
Afraid of someone knowing me?
Afraid of someone loving me?

Knowing me, I think not.
Loving me, I think not.
Betraying me, I think that’s the answer.

Change is constant.
It is something that I have learned to embrace.
Consistency has yet to make a favorable impression on me.
Everything changes.
It’s a part of nature.
It’s a part of life.

People change like days turn to night.
So I let people come in and out of my life,
Accepting them for the duration they stay,
And hoping they don’t overstay their welcome,
And that they leave behind
An impression more favorable than consistency.