That night in May, He did a godlike thing.

That night in May.
I did a godlike thing.
A tendency to lose my mind,
Like spilled buttons in a subway fight.
This loss was sure to displease.
Ever see two homeless men fight over a winter coat?
It is such a beautiful thing.
An orgiastic fight for life.

Sadly, some of you will never get to fight to live like so.
But they rip it in shreds, the coat,
Buttons and white fur rain down on the frozen pavement.
Subway people in their nice coats walk on,
hugging their middle-income chests tighter.

Each man would die tonight from the cold in his soul.
Another man’s soul like a cold stove,
Has gone missing,
He is knee deep,
In a flower bed, searching.
There he lay still awhile,
Missing a shoe.
With dew or piss and red neon lights on his baldhead.
Once, he kicks,
Dangling at the edge of his own mind.

A woman with a beard walks by,
Heels clacking.
A red light in her eyes.
She leaves a smoke trail.
I sniff her exhale, abiding her remaining soul.
It damn near kills me.
I now have her cancer.
I will die very well in my own sleep,
like the man at the lights will.

Oh yes, the man at the lights looks like fresh meat,
He seems to have lost his way.
You see those darlings at the stop?
I say to him, pointing across the street,
To laughing blonde girls,
Truly alive,
Paper cups in hands of stick.
A galaxy of silver and gold and straight legs.
I bet I could get them to call me blessed in the dark,
I say to the older man at the lights.
I could wash away their sins clean.
A personal savior kind of arrangement.
Give them purpose, you know.
A pep in their walk.
You know what I mean?
Ey, ey.

I lean on the traffic light,
with my dreamboat stance,
smiling at him,
making small talk.
My head and hands are shaking from the beer.
Fuck off boy! He yells.

I forget:
This was the city of small-minded men,
above the fray kind of men,
men with Styrofoam balls,
men with name plates,
men who remembered to book reservations,
men who remembered to floss twice,
men who compensated for such and such,
lacking any shred of humor,
with Aspirin-white teeth.
No love for a black man with a big heart.
Little love for self.
When the sun is out,
they become white teachers,
white professors,
white doctors,
baking small-thinkers too,
In industrial bright labs.
They marry expedient wives,
and perish under the weight of a forever-marriage.
These types soon die,
after retirement,
in a DIY accident.
But I won’t —
I won’t fuck off Mr. Man.
Who the heck do you think you are?
I eat men like you for dinner.
I walk away, telling him this,
Asking him to follow me to an alleyway fight,
C’mon let us settle this like men.

At 4am on that May night,
like magic,
I put aside my mask,
I become a lover,
and soon after, I became a pimp.
Or whatever the opposite of a lover is.
I am suddenly gifted,
A man of many bents.
I adjust my sleeves,
I walk up to the laughing girls,
They are a trio of giggles,
I care very little for two of them.
I am the bastard Sheikh of Mecca, I say to them,
With my father’s strong ears.
And my black mother’s black blackness.
I say to the one in the center,
The world is a better place ‘cos of you,
She is a queen, an albatross,
this tall blondie,
and she knows this truth.
There is nothing deadlier
than a beautiful woman mindful of her own ammunition,
Like a gun to the head,
She will inherit the earth.

As far as I recall,
I am a simple man, I say to the albatross girl.
I have never known the taste
Of a woman’s breathe.
I am a virgin on principle only, I add.
My heart I have saved for such a time as tonight.
And it was worth it.
See, you can tell by my soft eyes.
I draw my face closer.

At the Iron Monkey,
the crowd is hellish and mad,
With the same texture as a dog fight pit,
this dump in pounding,
the floors are sticky,
littered with sins and dreams.

The noise will drown worries,
leave us with migraines, why not?
The Bat-eared foxes,
the rodents,
the vermin,
they have crawled out of wet holes,
If Jesus & Co. came tonight,
we were all sufficiently fucked:
the divine pest control that will take us out will be epic.

Then albatross girl leans closer,
She tells me she lost her Jimmy.
she screams over the stoner music,
spit leaves her mouth in a welcome spritz.
Now she is crying and drunken,
and sweaty and lovely.
With big wild eyes,
they take in the psychedelic blue and green and red colors of the lights,
they duck my kisses,
they melt my heart of wood.

She tells me again: she lost her Jimmy.
I tell her dogs have a special place in heaven.
I know — I had a dog once, his name was Timmy, I say over the riotous crowd.
I woke up and Timmy was gone, never came back, that dog.
left behind his leash and a steaming turd mushroom beside the fridge.

She jumps out of her stool,
With amazing speed.
Jimmy was her man – her man!
She kicks me in the shin.
And her golden minions follow behind her in tow.
So much for small talk.

I never trust a man who goes by Jimmy anyways,
Nothing was ever as it seemed with those bums.
I wax a newer tale for tomorrow,
for a newer catch.
Now I am a lover of nude cats.
Homosexuals will rule the earth too.
The other sexuals will die from their tyranny.
I was a people person.

Tomorrow,
my father will be an African King — amongst other things of course.
And I, a crowned Prince.
Hi, my name is Prince.

These were the nights I would recite to my kids.
The ones that did not look like the landlord.
With wide noses, and big dreams,
and little patience for white lies.
Just the way I wanted.
Around a dining table that slanted,
I would tell the story of a hero.

You see,
your father,
this old German horse,
was a bristling champ,
A lady’s man,
I got them all.
Big ladies, white, brown, black, red, pink, small ladies.
Your mother struck gold when she found me.
And like every other night,
That night in May,
I did a godlike thing.

Advertisements