The Artistry of Lady P
the early pearly morning
yawns
eye see a dozy sleep that?s
born
sweetest sleep is back
bitter coffee hurry black
the early pearly shower
washes
aways dreams to tangible
hours
squeeze minutes in jeans early toast
devours
toast burn to swallow
missed train to follow
the early pearly morning
lasts
all day and daze eyes do
always
until all day returns home to
hallways
late stair cases climb to cradle
awaiting early cycle next to table
my sin
becomes my decision
not to be
but to want to be
my bad
becomes my stain
not to love
but to show i love
by the breath
i am intoxicated...
high from confusion
drunk from ambiguity
literally
liberally
i walk the side walks of life street
only to greet those neat souls
who keep holes in my pocket
cheap
my reach for humility
my zeal for peace
my question.
i choose to loose?
to fuse and confuse?
yes i guess.
my sin
becomes my decision
with precision i move
closer to Jesus
miles from ignorance
walking hand in hand with wisdom
so responsible for my sin
drips of anxiety shields a skin
free
from comfort
in welcoming a pure
pure from the access of a him
from the caress of a she
virgin to tender crime
releases of nervous language
stretches out a hand
in greeting the shy
to safe love
she love
inclinations to cross sankofa
surpassing the high taboo
only to sample bliss
a simple kiss
undraping the pure
i pure
enthused by my next hour
my first cry
long awaited tears
of contentment of ease
of a please...
to my knees
i implore for more
of an in store
muted folklore
i pure
...inevitably, it is the value of her coffee that stirs my intellect, unfastening me clever. the chill in how she swaggers
intriguingly through my verse my psyche, you too would like. really, it is the dance of her free that teases the air and
encloses me bare. she has become the claim of my sing, my sonnet, my song. it is then again the brand of her brown
that brings back my black re-enthusing me bona, me so precious. it is that tap in the way she sways within the bounds
of... me and you too would love. it is the remote in her feel that magnetizes me entirely. she has become the
essence of my ink, my muse, my think. and the lure in how she blues furtively afar my care you too would perceive.
and over, it is the poise of her real that steals my every, deserting me frail... she has become the labor of my
leisure, my lazy, my pleasure my God i wish i knew her...
...and i can hear my heart?s voice escaping through my chest. it speaks of my need of my ought to have. with that
familiar accent... you ought to have your need. i agreed, indeed. i take heed to her lead, the poise of her real that
steals my every, and the dance of her free...all deserting me bare and frail. thereby, my plea for my pauses, my
why?s and because?s. still, i will to fall, to lose, to smile, once in a while, to file and dispose, this prose, this style,
in my in love? pile...
what I have
is what he has
we is basement jazz
such as
Duke and Charlie
playing our party
Louis and Miles
giving us highs
oh...and Miss Horn
keeping us warm
as her voice we born
Sir jukebox still worn
from crazy sax & blows
at our basement shows