Daydream

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“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible. This I did.”

– T.E. Lawrence aka Lawrence of Arabia

She walked into my Human Anatomy classroom with red heels as high as my state of mind, dangerous weapons of mass seduction that immediately inspired my perpetual infatuation. She carried on her right shoulder a Louis Vutton purse as big as my ego, and her countenance bore a sparkling pair of eyes as charming as my charisma. It was like The Lord had returned prematurely as a woman, because the light she radiated was undoubtedly divine. And I’d heard through the grapevine, that she only considered herself a nine. Faint attempt at modesty if you ask me because this girl was phenomenally fine. Her lips wore the color of sweet red wine. And all I wanted to do was dine…with her. Ok maybe I lied…more like have her…for dinner. And perhaps also for dessert. Oh the thirst! She was the oasis to my desert! Her hips were like an hour glass pouring infinite golden grains of sand, with enough winding curves to leave even the Prince of Persia wishing he had a genie of his own, like Aladdin, so he could simply wish to be reduced into just one of those tiny grains of sand pouring down inside her. And her thighs? Lawd her thighs! Suffice it to say they’d make many a priest reconsider, and let out long deep sighs. Not to mention her breasts…now they were like luminous lanterns, lighting the way for sore eyes. A counter-intuitive sight, considering that they practically frequently rendered me blind as I eventually found my face planking in them! But not before we were married (of course). For this woman of wonder would not be hurried. Her disposition was rather clear: the only manner of man she would ever seriously entertain was he who would position himself to patiently wait; who would not treat her like some kind of helpless bait…but who would gladly withstand the fire, and yet never tire…of waiting to exhale, at just that precise moment when he’d finally have her approval, after first obtaining her Almighty Father’s approval. Honestly, that narrow path less traveled was preposterously difficult, especially for one who’s already quickly stumbled, along the wide path all too frequently traveled, by way too many sailors, rocking all the wrong fishing boats. I almost called it quits as I was seeming to lose my wits! But then I remembered, nothing worth acquiring is ever easily acquired. For me, that was a very, necessary, epiphany. It’s been more than worth it ever since that defining lesson. Today, I have the pleasure of experiencing Heaven…on Earth in two places – when I kneel with her in church, and when I lie with her in bed, making love faces. After a love life of hopelessly romantic strife, this is the story of how I met my lovely wife. And for the rest of my life…well it would seem, that I will never forget this…daydream.

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My Favorite Class

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She was only a stranger until I first laid eyes upon her. Impressed by her course description I decided to enroll. I then quickly moved my way up into her honor roll. And she immediately became my favorite class. I must’ve made a good first impression myself since she named me the class prefect. However, due to our natural geographic incompatibility and my financially limited mobility, I had to settle for a distance education. You know what they say about online classes, I found it so hard to focus! Seeking leverage over competing students I would’ve gladly been the teacher’s pet but this was college. So fancy, she made me trust my intuition over her tuition. Her lessons were quite expensive but worth every penny. I even applied for financial aid just so I could afford her intellectual aid. I took out emotional loans, of which I still owe the balance. I have since dropped out of all my other classes and defaulted on my outstanding loans. I pray my exes find a way to forgive me. But once you find the one for you, you’ve finally found your major. Having already changed it quite a few times, I was convinced I had at last discovered my calling. To think I started out as just a foreign exchange student who quickly became an acquaintance, who eventually became an Associate…but I messed up. I failed her! And then I became a Bachelor for it…for a while…that is, until she gave me a second chance to make amends for my bad romance. Today, I am proud to say I have a Masters in her. Soon enough I’ll be able to give her this PhD! I mean, it’s been about six years, you know! Besides, with my new-found pedigree, we both agree I’ve definitely earned THAT degree! Some tell me that it took me way too long…maybe this is true, but to each his own. It’s not a sprint but a marathon. Moreover, a wise man once told me that what matters most is not the destination but the journey. The bottom line is, I have stood the test of time and passed my final exam. Henceforth, I shall take this class every year until death do me drop out.

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Homecoming

 

“The man who chooses to not recognize his home is worse off than the man who has no home.” -kR

My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of a little drummer boy marching to his own African beat; We Three Kings conspicuously on repeat, seeking to redeem the essence of my illustrious culture in the presence of naysayers who parade about me like a conniving vulture. Yo Kennyrich that shit you wrote was dope, but behind my back they sling my name around like I was dope! Or yay, but nay I say unto thee. Between me, myself and I, there’s already a crowd of three. So please depart from me before my political correctness falls apart. Otherwise (and that wouldn’t be wise), I’d be tempted to split you like the Red Sea and leave you as alive as the Dead Sea. You dare label me naturally violent when I choose to go on a rant, and yet somehow you expect me to be so tolerant of the rampant oppression of a God damned tyrant? Ah the audacity of the ones who’ve caused us such calamity never ceases to amaze me! What’s a month to our legacy? That’s heresy if you ask me; please don’t fall for that sort of fallacy! Oh Black People! My people – once noble moors, pharaohs of ages ago haplessly reduced into mere dominoes. Our history has been a diminishing domino effect, a hallucination of sorts, closely resembling the butterfly effect. It’s like we were the weed that was smoked but never inhaled, which might explain why in this day today there are brothers like me in jail still waiting to exhale. Now I’m no Moses but I ask you Sir – Mr. Joe Schmo – let my people go! We are salt of the earth and deserve to be exalted on higher ground, not shamefully and despicably buried underground. And our bite is louder than our bark, so for your sake please do release us while there’s still room on Noah’s Ark. My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of an African King, who unlike Prince Hakeem, his Coming to America had nothing to do with finding his Cleopatra. But rather, who was forged in truth to crash the Board of Chess and clean up the foul mess; not to acquire fleeting fame but to remind the black pawns that they are indeed kings and queens, just caught up in the wrong damn game! I pray this message is entrenched deep within your dome; my brothers and sisters your Kingdom awaits, so please sing along with me, “I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home. Let the rain wash away all the pains of yesterday. I know my Kingdom awaits, and they’ve forgiven my mistakes. I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home.”

I Need More Ink

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Drip, drip, drip…

That is the sound of ink spilling from my veins as I clutch desperately to the reins of this flamboyant work of art, eerily similar to that of Mozart. I know Life is better with art in it, and that the earth is just “eh” without “art” in it. Staring at a blank page, seeing my reflection in its blatant nothingness; brainstorming on how to unfathomably craft some semblance of intelligence out of this most profound emptiness. Mind over matter, and I normally pay no mind to that which doesn’t matter. And yet in this peculiar moment my good old creativity is transfixed, like The Good Lord on a crucifix. For this predicament I’m afraid there is no quick fix, no red pill to awaken me from this elaborate Matrix. My mind is bleeding profusely, so much so that I cannot help but feel my aching heart cry. I find myself unable to write anymore, as if all of my ink has finally run completely dry.

Drip, drip, drip…I need more ink!

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