Who Knows The Bag Boy?

He is a bag boy, for the dope toy.. the filthiest ball on the court. The two guns shoot it back and forth and he dodges it on a low riding junkyard, ghetto rigged piece he designed himself. Two can ride and one can jump, just in case they spot another bike along the lengthy court, which resembles an alley way sometimes, and other times it is a parking lot or behind a convenience store, or the front yard of his auntie's house. But always, he is on bike, and he never, ever forgets to bring a duffle bag.

You think he is on his way to school. You think he is on his way to the corner store. You think he is picking up his mother a pack of cigarettes.. but he is a pawn in a foul game of chess, and all it takes is one false move, one bad visit from a social worker, and it is one more young boys body left in a Detroit gutter, nameless, wounded or dead.

A blackness, Darkness that I see

All the trinkets I surround myself with
all the things I make my life with
are slowly floating away..

into a dream I go...
...into a deep sleep; so slow...

drifting, drifting..

...far away..

...then abruptly waking into, another day..

Should I play, or should I pray? make breakfast, wash my hair, or stay..

Right here in this very bed, pull the covers over my head and say..

"No, I will not face this day.
I will not play, I will not pray, I will not, cannot face this day.
I am too sad. I am too mad.
I do not want to even say

... the root of my problems;
Why I feel this way!

Not to my cat or caring friend.

I believe it is time I meet my end!
I bury my face into my pillow.
The crisp of clean bed sheets is also a blackness,
Darkness that I see in the dimming twilight of my room,
Just before I slip away into a deeper,
Darker sleep...

hot night

the gutter knife, his night life..

not, your, life..

you are happy that, he is not right, as a reminder,

and you are comfortable, in your mediocre..

S,U,V..

he is free and wild, and you have a child..

on this hot night,

with his hot pipe..

you drive, he bike rides,

opposite directions, different intentions..

on this hot night,

he will dope up..

you will shut up,

between crisp and impersonal sheets..

which is more real?

the bike wheel?

or behind the wheel?

on the hot night,

who is more right?

the blood runs from my face

the blood runs from my face, i say, i say as i unmake my bed

the blood runs from my face, i say, i say as i undo my head

the blood runs from my face, i say, i say as i jump from the ledge

the blood runs from my face, i say, i say as i move closer to the end.

-bnf. tuesday/may 5th/2012.

red velvet box.

A woman inside'a red velvet box in her mind...

With a sickle, a handgun, an idea, a loss.

She is beaten and abused, manipulated and used...

(Misunderstood by complexity of emotion and

now she'll abuse.)

She'll blot out her daughter, her husband, the dog.

Her coworker, her husband, her mother, her Gods,

the kept lawn, the green grass, the Tupperware snobs,

the stale mixers, the falsehoods, the two car garage...

Oh the misery within the tangled human vine,

She will stay inside a red velvet box in her mind...

With a sickle, a handgun, an idea, in due time..

The burden will be lifted and freedom she will find:

just as, just when..

Her wrists spill crimson wine..