Sunday, October 31, 2010

Lookin' for Ms. Write Vol.1 Num.1

i've been lookin' for ms. write fo' long-ass time,
bitch harder to find than a virgin on prom night!
see, i been lookin' where i shouldnah, i suppose,
too many gin joints with frightful jukeboxes,
too many nights ah wakin' up on the couch
embracing a crusty pillah and wipin'
the shame off my soggy lips,
"no more ah this hell,"
i told myself some time back,
"all the listerine in Hyde county
can't rinse that alkali-lined mouth,
how you expect to meet ms. write
if she can't properly stand to be
in proximity ah the sulfurous drain-pipe
you got flappin' un'erneath that hairy nose ah ya?"
see, i been sayin' this type of thing more frequently,
standing in front ah the mirror in a scolding-fashion,
pressin' my pointer-finger into the chest
of my own reflection,
i been havin' to buy too dang much windex,
and my shoulders have grown weary
from all that circular cleaning-motion,
plus my paws reek of windex,
which they say has got pneumonia in it,
which has scared one or two potential ms. writes off.
but, i shouldn't trifle over such things,
my therapist tells me,
she told me to take bold steps,
be adventurous,
and, normally i woulda shrugged
her suggestions off,
however, that very same afternoon
i read my horror-scope
and it told me the same thing,
so, i tried joinin' a book club
at the chain bookstore downtown,
thought what better spot than at a
romance novel book club
to find me a ms. write to take home,
i fancied i find myself in the middle of a bath,
and stretched out and the like,
with water nymphes pouring bowls of
freshly squeezed goat milk all over m' body,
whilst they peppered my ears with
expansive stretches of erotic narrative,
poorly-written, though beautifully delivered
by lips so soft ya figured they'd dissolve in water,
but, instead i got marge,
whose presence was analagous
to a queen ant,
some bloated sordid creature
sittin' upon her throne whilst these
depraved women around her
erected her ego like an anthill,
one pathetic kiss-ass pebble at a time.
we was talkin' about Virginia's Letter,
a shabby piece of trash, if ya ask me,
banal and predictable at every turn of the page,
so when it came time fer me
to give my two cents,
well, i gave them a buck and a quarter instead,
which rightly pricked marge
right in her station wagon ass,
and, she was so overwhelmed with ire
that she took on the color of blood,
and couldn't speak,
but, like literally began to fume and sputter
like some old jalopy crappin' down the road,
suddenly every last one of them worker ants
erupted in unrelenting diatribe,
and, i sort of became like hypnotized
by their droning on and on,
which is when i got lost and sort of
blurted out the word, "whore!"
and, instantly found myself being shanked
by an overweight caricature wearing
a red and white polka dot scarf,
jabbin' me with a Luna bar that
was still in its wrapper,
whilst marge's right-hand woman
slammed my head with her copy of Virginia's Letter,
each 567 pages of it gettin' its turn
to send my forehead and neck into
a state of suspended reality,
then i fell out of my plastic seat
and kissed the ground,
which is when i was drugged out of there
like some lousy drunkard,
and tossed out like the family dog.
as i pulled myself off the ground
a lady passed by and gave me
the bandanna she had tied around her neck,
she had hipster-hair and old woman eyes,
after i cleaned up my bloody lip
she said, "keep it,"
then she strolled outta my life,
"what's your name?" i yelled out,
so, i watched her shiny boots
fade into obscurity,
then she disappeared.
i tell ya, these days it's becomin'
increasingly difficult to find me a ms. write.

~Marvin Gonzalez

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

word, hard.

these are words we write to right wrongs and plight. we word hard for the money and a touch of the sun's light. we twist caps and bust heads over and over to flood the faces of fools who act to cool for school, but need to be skooled. and i'm old skool kinda. i mean my sensibilities unwind with the rewinding of the minds of Sam Cooke soaking up songs like open books on praise to a days hard work. and i'm workin like preachers and church sermons to eradicate the vermin squirmin' the burnin' learnin's like life in light wasn't pertinent. my scribes penetrate the night to open up the obscure underneath trite tricks in lieu of the licks that skip a beat on downtown trips. i need the names of the languishing losers, lost in the lounge lapping up the sounds of sadness like a fiery shot of whiskey. like, the taste will let you touch the sluts more gently if even seen, if ever seen. green in the face with a graceful grin sinning like lending a hand with crossed fingers behind backs and blowing sweet kisses of nothingness in the wind waiting for the right, wrong type to pick up the drift hoping the hints of hate in your pheromones don't awaken or heighten their sensibilities and undermine your campaign. see these types trot the lots of lands lilly like, like not one of us could spot their spite, but i'm attuned to these attributes having been through the bluest of hues. see i've walked the streets in haste and heat hollerin' at hoochies with wet coochies spendin' chesse with no grief. my pleas line the beds of the undead, dear and departed from hard hearted half tones of lust, but i sing a different tune. i whistle with wonder, walk like a man even if i'm damned, damn it to hell with oh wells and wishes in wells and whimsical whims wasting away we. we write the words to disturb the order of chaos melting in our thoughts and counting in our talks like tic. we think out loud so often, you'd wanna shut us off, shyt, but we're here. here to voice our disgust and bust sick rhymes that come through with that ill to spill in real time. get reeled in and really feel what we're feelin' while we're spillin the illin that could pop policits and teach the chil'ens before callin' quits fully equipped to get rich like greener grasses on the other side of the fense.