Miles Welch (via yesdarlingido)
Lol what nonsense to presume there are only the desperate and the dependent on Christ. Gtfo of my dash with that ridiculousness.
|—||June Jordan (via blkgirlwrites)|
After Terrance Hayes
Nice guy God’s gift.
Nice guy always single,
Nice guy smart.
Nice guy funny.
Nice guy handsome…enough.
Nice guy raised right—
loves his mother.
Nice guy keep polite forever up his sleeve—
holds door like a job description.
Nice guy good heart. Big hands.
Nice guy once told his kiss the gentlest
electric chair. Nice guy
pride himself on mad skills.
Nice guy got degree in feelings—
keep chivalry choke-chained
to belt-buckle ignorant. Nice guy—
lover, not fighter. Nice Guy Chick Lit.
Nice guy Women’s Studies.
Nice guy raise hand first day
of History class. Say some shit like:
I’m really more concerned with Her-Story.
Nice guy try SO HARD but stay confused.
Nice guy keep a condom in his wallet
been expired since 2005.
Nice guy persistent.
Nice guy want true love but always friend-zoned.
Nice guy heart so broken.
Nice guy follow rules and hate himself.
Nice guy looks for sympathy—
broadcast his lonely like a cancer diagnosis—
Nice guy envy asshole—resent an asshole
for his girlfriend. Nice guy thinks that
every girl who loves an asshole is a moron.
Nice guy thinks that every guy who isn’t him
is an asshole. Nice guy in denial
‘bout believing every girl’s a moron.
Nice guy pours the rum for all.
Nice guy pours and pours: slowly becomes himself.
Nice guy stay entitled. Stay without perspective.
Nice guy can’t see past his hungry teeth.
Nice guy miss the bus—
knows he’s just too nice.
Nice guy make a rape joke.
Laugh and then apologize.
Nice guy hope that no one say a word.
Nice guy strike out. Blame pitcher,
blame catcher. Blame slutty girls
distracting from the stands.
Nice guy stay CNN best friend.
Nice guy, nice athlete.
Nice guy, nice jump-shot.
Nice guy, nice scholarship.
Nice guy nice cross.
Nice crown of thorns.
Nice guy God bless
America. He go too far—
never worry bout a thing.
The Real Reason I Screamed FUCK!!!at The Pretty Blonde Barista Who Would Not Refill My Lemonade For Free:
Car leaks oil.
First week here? Leaked oil
in garage that isn’t mine.
Got yelled at. Same as you.
Been parking in the driveway
Yesterday—the bluest sky,
the sweetest calm, the laziest
of days—as peace had started softening
my breath back into rhythm—as
hope began to knead the tension
from my shoulders
did I hear another hurricane.
Another door slam orchestra.
Surprise! my leaky car—
is still a leaky car!—has dripped
the blackest army into being. And
it is marching—slowly colonizing
homeboy’s driveway, thus,
will soon control the world.
Its reach now spans a full
three inches: from the northern tip
of where is just beneath the rain gutter
to its farthest southern point,
a merely stretched index away
from where the ants have set up shop
around a stomped and sunbaked skittle.
Clearly, we should all be worried sick.
I am a twenty six year old,
and living with a stranger
named My Father. He is less
a human being than walking bull-
horn. Picture high-school football
coach with drill instructor power trip.
Think desperate man
who wants to be a father
eighteen years too late.
I haven’t met so many people yet.
I just came up in January.
Didn’t have a choice. Last few years,
I’ve thrown my options overboard
like jetsam from a sinking ship.
I miss my family. Right this second?
I couldn’t see my mother if I tried.
She lives in Fresno. All my family,
all my friends, they live in Fresno.
From here inside this Starbucks?
That’s a hundred eighty miles
I can‘t walk. Today, I fed my last
two dollars to my starving gas tank
just to be here. Look. I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to be a dick. I know
that you get paid to smile—make
eye contact—take my money—pour
my drink. I know you don’t get paid
to listen to my bullshit—or to be my friend.
I didn’t lose my shit over some lemonade.
I swear. It’s just that you
have got the kindest eyes
of any stranger I have seen
Ivory tower in the blood. On my tongue, the word introvert is heavy, safe, and sturdy as a crutch—it’s the agoraphobic’s urge to rip the handle off of every door, the comfort in a room without a window, on my tongue, it is the paranoid conspiracist running out of oxygen inside the bomb shelter built on an abandoned planet.