Da Boyds

There lives a small famiwee, I call them da Boyds

They are so pwetty and so vewy cute

I love to watch them frolick and pway

Everwy day on my morning commute

They live in a howse made out of straw

It seems the parwents never do rest

All of the time da Boyds fwy through the sky

Looking for woyms for the chicks in their nest

DNA: A Controversial Poem

Open the cover, turn the page, are you sure you wanna find what you’re lookin’ for?

Some things are better left unsaid, I bet you don’t wanna open up this door

There’s a mask that we all wear; you know what I mean, don’t act like you think you don’t

There’s things that we all do; you know what I mean, don’t act like you think you won’t

People are animals, that’s the truth at the end of the day

Wait a sec, you don’t think so? I’m sorry you’ll get it, but maybe not right away

Look at a man, what does he want? He wants all the things that’ll get him a girl

Look at a girl, what does she want? All the things as the girls in the animal world

A place for the fam, no? A unit that’s close and looks after their own

And then you’ve got Dad, right? Who just runs all around trying to make it alone

But hey we can’t really say much, know why? Cause at the end of the day

It’s not the Dad who’s confused, it’s just all written in our DNA

Ballad of the Bimbo

Lemme tell a story, it’s about this crazy bimbo

That booty was so strong ya’ll, just like a Slice of Kimbo

I took her back to the crib, thinkin’ I’mma get some some trim, yo

Next thing I knew she bends on down, “You gonna lick this rim, tho?”

“Hold up girl, wait a sec, I gotta check my bills, ho”

“I don’t know if I can pay for this,” my mind starts movin’ real slow

“Wait up girl, the fuck is that?” She just pulled out a dildo

Fourteen inches, girth of Thor, I laugh and tell her “HELL NO”

But wait a min, the shit is this? Whips out a Pokémon handcuff,

“Come on now, don’t be shy, stop actin’ like you hard n’ tough”

Locks me up and bends me down, grabs the dildo, lookin’ rough

Stares at me straight in the eye, “This gon’ Peek-on-thru that Jigglypuff”

“Oh my God!” I screamed out loud. “My butt isn’t that durable!”

“Sorry bitch,” she said to me, “this tickets not transferable”

I’m sorry ya’ll, I cannot tell, what happened was unbearable

Let just say that the next day, my butt was unrepairable

Listen now, all of you, don’t care how much you think you know

Never go to that same place. Never shop by that window.

Cause if you do, I swear to you, you’ll soon be playing limbo

With the roughest dame in town, that crazy freakin’ bimbo

Ripples

Ripples, I see down below

The waves are moving, soft and slow

Like zephyrs, gently drifting through

The water’s stillness calms and soothes

I cast a rock into its deeps

Watch it sink as this willow weeps

I see the first bright evening star

Across the lake, the trees afar

The coast adorns a bright green coat

It’s shadow cloaks a lonely boat

My friend, on four, barks on a whim

As children there, begin to swim

A sigh escapes, the calmest breath

There’s so much life to live ‘fore death

And as I stand, to pack my things

I thank this world, for all it brings

My Life

The sand, the dirt, the grass, the trees

The sticks, the stones, the light, the breeze

The things this world has made for me

Have warmed my heart and set me free

I look at the stars as I rest on my knee

They twinkle and spark, this light that I see

I gaze at them wondering, what could they be?

As I listen to waves hit the rocks under me

So calm it all is, out here with the leaves

No fear of the world, or it’s warriors and thieves

My mind is at rest, this feeling I’ve sought

A needed reprieve from the torment I’ve thought

The darkness within isn’t something I share

I keep it behind the false mask that I wear

It’s not that I’ve feigned, and not that I’ve lied

I just don’t want to release all the pain that’s inside

I want to be happy

I just want to live

Her death, it has gripped me

And it’s hold will not give

My words carry weight

Of this, I know

But now I see nothing

Through her bedroom’s window

It used to be filled

With her smile, her love

As she watched us all playing

With a ball and a glove

Those days are all gone now

And it hurts me so much

Please take this away, God

Please heal me, your touch

I don’t care if they read this

It’s my only escape

These pages have saved me

From a much harsher fate

I beg you, my Father

If you truly are there

To take this away

And heal my despair

These words that I’m writing

They’re the realest I’ve penned

I beg of you, God

Will I see her again?

Scars

They’re carried each and every day, they never ever go away. I cannot seem to find a place where minds are clear and thoughts erased. They stay with me, they’re always there, it seems a saddened love affair. My heart is blackened when the air begins to flow with fervent prayer. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve not, they occupy my every thought. The questions that I ask myself are known to me; and no one else. The answers lie in of itself, or maybe on my dark bookshelf. Our past, it haunts, it makes us see, that which we often disagree. For truth is that, and nothing else. It doesn’t care for time, or self. It shines its light, and nothing more. It opens every locked, closed door. Yet when we see the things we’ve done, we often want to turn and run. Such deeds exist, there in your past, and if you let them ever-last, your further will be chained and cast to those who judge and those who blast.

Let your scars, while they remain, fade away into the plain. You’ll always have them, they’ll maintain, but use them for your growth and gain. Learn their passage, learn their plight, and if you ever have to fight, your scars will tell you what to do; if it’s wrong, or if it’s true. Some see them as the wounds of life, but I prefer to use them like a knife. Every time I’m broken, down; my scars remind me that I’ve found. I’ve always found that this will pass, and every time, it always has.

Love can be the best of things, but think before you exchange rings. Be certain that they are the one, that love and bond won’t come undone. Take a look back at your past. Make sure this time that it will last.

And if you doubt things, look to the stars. Then, look back, at all your scars.

91 (A Short Story by Josh Jones)

91

At 91, Gladys sips bourbon from her grandmother’s floral teacup. It’s eleven in the morning. The teacup shakes slightly in her veined, big-knuckled hand. The saucer clinks several times as she sets it down. She’s given up reading the newspaper because her eyes are shot and she feels reading glasses are gauche. Instead of reading she listens to the radio.

Her radio, an original transistor type, picks up programs broadcast on the FM signal. A light jazz music traipses through the air. She wears a light cotton gown. White, wispy hair dances around her face, catching the morning light. Her eyes are set deep within a wrinkled face. Looking out her window to the yard, a young Hispanic man mows and trims.

Her lips, moistened from the bourbon, tense every so often as she listens to the irritating man on the radio who talks between her songs. As he prattles on, she closes her eyes and sees the lovely vignettes of her childhood. She dwells here more and more, in the thoughts of a youth, where memories are so vivid in her mind. She revels in her recollections and the emotions they bring. They take her back to times long before the Alzheimer’s became the focal point of her life. Mornings are the best, with her bourbon, her light jazz and her youth.

She remembers the small apartment where she, her sister, and parents lived. It was an Irish neighborhood on the cusp of Harlem in the thriving days of New York City’s bustling renaissance. She remembers ‘rushing the can’ to her parents as they listened to Benny Goodman. The large can, coming from the corner bar, was filled with cold beer. At nine years old, she would give the slip of paper to the bartender for credit at the bar from her father. She remembers the smoky bar. She remembers neighbors sitting on the stoops of their buildings. She remembers her parents would drink the beer out of clear glasses while dancing in the kitchen.

Her older sister, Esther, would come home with stories from The Cotton Club where she was a coat check girl. She told her parents about the fur coats, the shimmering clothes and way the dancefloor pulsed with people dancing, drinking, smoking. Gladys would sit in the window overlooking the alleyway watching her parents dance, wanting to be older. She remembers her mother moving to the icebox, her hips swaying to jazz orchestra, to get refill the glasses. When her mom would be busy, Glady’s dad would pluck her from her window seat and spin her around to the jumpin’ and jivin’ music. She could smell the beer on his breath and the smoke on his clothes.

At her kitchen table, the ninety-one-year-old Gladys brings a hand up and feels the cotton collar of her house gown. She thinks of the sable furs her sister described from her job at The Cotton Club. In her silent reverie, Gladys picks up the cork from her Maker’s Mark bourbon bottle. The weight in her hand reminds her of the Bazooka Joe bubble gum her mother would give to her. She’d unpeel the wrapper, read the joke to her parents and they would hoot and holler with tipsy delight.

Gladys’ toe is bouncing along to the jazz station on her FM radio. The bouncing reminds her of jumping on the bed as she and her sister giggled together about a Barney Coogle cartoon called “Patch Mah Britches”. The character, and his big bottom, are covered by trousers with a hole in the seat. They fall back onto the bed laughing at the picture of the man’s underwear poking through his britches.

The radio goes to a commercial and her thoughts stop as an advertisement to cure erectile dysfunction dissipates the fond visions in her mind. She looks wide-eyed at the table. A plate from dinner with her remaining meal still sits on the table next to a pill dispenser.

Did she forgot to eat last night?

Oh dear, whose pills are those?

She sips her bourbon as a commercial for feminine hygiene products for maximum flow days causes her to scoff. She looks at the table again where her teeth are submerged in a glass next to her uneaten meal. She touches her mouth as if she’s surprised her teeth are across the table from her.

The music begins again and again, she is now skipping down the sidewalk beneath her apartment, throwing  a stone onto the hopscotch square. She hops deftly from one square to another, leaning forward to pick up the stone. A siren sounds down the street, she looks up as folks lean out their windows to watch the fire truck ramble by with its large water tank as firefighters hang off the sides.

Finishing her hopscotch, she says hello to Mrs. Finnegan, the fat lady across the hall who wears enormous, floral dresses and hands out candy. She gives Gladys three pieces of salt water taffy. She puts the candies into her pocket and runs upstairs to share with Esther. The radio in the kitchen is playing a rumba song. Esther grabs Gladys and they try to copy the dance moves they’ve watched her folks do. They both trip over each other, falling into a pile, giggling on the kitchen floor.

“Mom!” Gladys hears the sharp words and thinks her mother is yelling at them.

But, where’s Esther?

The knock comes again to her door. The door to her house, not her parent’s apartment.

Gladys walks to the door. “Yes?” she says.

“Mom,” a woman says again. “Open up, I have your groceries.”

“Groceries?” Gladys questions laying her hand on the door. “I didn’t order any groceries.”

“Mom,” the woman says, “it’s me. Your daughter.”

Gladys opens the door and looks at the woman and says, “I don’t know. I need to call my daughter to see if she ordered these groceries.”

“Mom,” the woman said. “I’m your daughter.”

“Oh…” Gladys said.


 

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The Answer: 4

I have made a breakthrough.

Today I was able to rig one of the machines these humans used to work. It seems as if they had the foresight to record the lives and events of certain individuals. As to why, it is difficult to determine.

It is a curious concept to me, I will say. I can only presume that they preserved such events so the recollection of their civilization perseveres. I have come upon many of these mechanisms during my research which, when successfully stimulated, projects the images and sounds that this society experienced during their time.

Just yesterday it showed me a most puzzling example of said recollections. The vast majority of my findings have shown me these ancient cultures simply interacting with one another in mostly mundane circumstances. Yesterday, however, I obtained something which portrayed a profound individual who I can only imagine lived amongst these primitive societies as they evolved. He wore a kind of red shall on his back, along with an unusual form fitting suit of sorts, resembling the color of the planets oceans. There was also a geometric pentagon on the bust of the individual’s suit, which contained a single scribe belonging to the archaic language these people utilized for communication.

I can not yet determine what this means in regard to my tasks. What kind of civilization was this? We’re there ones chosen on occasion to perform impossible feats? Had they harnessed the full potential of universal physics, creating what I can only call a sort of supreme being capable of what the masses were not?

My research must dive deeper into this anomalous finding. I am relentlessly compelled to discover who these particularly capable beings were. Perhaps these privileged few carried knowledge beyond our understanding.

There is much work to be done.

The Answer: 3

My superiors are hounding me.

They claim to know more about these humans than I do. Obviously this is impossible. I have spent an entire career studying them. For years and years I have unearthed and uncovered recollections of this primitive species. No, those who oversee my operation are simply misinformed. They have no idea what it is I am carving into. My research has produced the most comprehensive recollection of what this species was. They were primal, to be sure, but they were brilliant at the same time. Many of the transcriptions I’ve deciphered tell to us a tale of severe calamity, a world where everyone was fighting one another. It is obvious based upon the interpretations of the sites we have uncovered that there was much turmoil at this point in their civilization.

And yet, the artifacts I’ve recovered tell me that they lived on. What happened? What events occurred that caused such a seemingly advanced civilization to crumble the way that they did?

These questions haunt me. I shall unearth this mystery; I know it lies here, somewhere. Its waiting to be discovered, just as the frozen bodies found at the southernmost point of this world.

I will find the answer.

The Answer: 2

Thought.

It is such a curious concept. It exists behind everything. Every single action, every single behavior, every single thing we do is motivated by thought, whether conscious or not. Breathing, for example. Do you think every time you take a breath? I think not. And yet you do it.

I am having difficulty compartmentalizing the minutia of human behavior. What things do I file as instinctual behavior, and what things do I classify as conscious behavior? It is a task my superiors have asked of me, and quite frankly, I do not yet know where to draw the line. What things were under these humans’ control? What things were manifested simply because of the circumstances at a given time? What could be helped, and what couldn’t?

The more answers I seek, the more questions I seem to face. This shall be a most difficult undertaking, if I am to speak openly. There are so many pressures I feel falling upon me to fully create an analysis of such behavior. This question of why may be my undoing.

I’ve yet to determine an answer.