and so it goes...

Let's all be disappointed as we watch Catfish together.

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 23:23:28 -0500

bojangle-bandito:

brandnewjones:

Cuz we all know this is about to be some bullshit in some way, shape, form, or fashion.

SHIT IS IT ON?!?!

Yeah homie! Let’s watch together!

It’s gonna be his sick mom playing tricks on him, watch.

now I hate cats, but grumpy cat is my dude! #imadethismyselftoo

Wed, 16 Jan 2013 12:55:26 -0500

now I hate cats, but grumpy cat is my dude! #imadethismyselftoo

i’m not getting deported #OBAMA2012 (Taken with...

Tue, 06 Nov 2012 23:36:40 -0500

i’m not getting deported #OBAMA2012 (Taken with Cinemagram)

all i need in this life of sin, is me and my giraffe (Taken with...

Sat, 03 Nov 2012 01:09:45 -0400

all i need in this life of sin, is me and my giraffe (Taken with Cinemagram)

homemade headboard; love ❤

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 17:12:35 -0400

homemade headboard; love ❤

live. laugh. giraffe. (Taken with Instagram)

Sat, 18 Aug 2012 20:21:16 -0400

live. laugh. giraffe. (Taken with Instagram)

sir. sir where are you?

Tue, 14 Aug 2012 15:10:47 -0400

sir. sir where are you?

sliding down rainbows.

Tue, 14 Aug 2012 14:51:25 -0400

Mum, I think I’m gay.
He’ll say while I’m chopping the garlic, or the ginger. Or stirring the gravy.
At least, I think that’s where my son would tell me in the future.
Or maybe at the grocery store;
because I’d have taught him from an early age how to shop for himself –
and so the bi-weekly grocery store run would be our special bonding time.
Where he’d tell me about his day, and his friends and school and where he
pestered me to buy him a car for his 21st birthday.
So perhaps at the grocery store, when I
asked him to hand me five pieces of grapefruit from behind him, he’ll say,
Mum, I think I’m gay.
In the only soft whisper I’d have ever heard from my first born.
Or maybe he’ll be my third child, I don’t really care;
but his brow would be furrowed and he’d have this scared look on his dark mocha skin
(or maybe he’ll be caramel, if his dad is white).
And there’d be guilt mixed with hope and a sprinkle of anger in his eyes.
Like he’s done something wrong.

Like the time he got suspended from school for throwing paint out of the school bus window,
and was guilty for being so stupid, hoped I’d find it funny but still prepared himself for a beat down.

But I’ll hear him,
and ignore him.

Because I would have taught all my kids to speak loud and clear,
especially when they’re talking to me.
None of that mumbling shit.
I can’t stand that mumbling shit.

So I’d try and side step him,
get to the fruit I had learned sped up your metabolism when I was a dieting young adult and
he’d step with me. Like some weird choreographed tango we’d rehearsed the night before.
And he’ll place his hand,
as rough and strong as his father’s, on my shoulders and say it again.

Mum, I think I’m gay.

The same type of whisper as before.
Maybe a little bit louder. Maybe a little bit quieter.
And then I’d get angry.
‘cause he’d have said that word again.

Think.

And I’ll say, Tristan – ‘cause that’ll be the name of my first boy. Or
Alex – ‘cause that’ll be the name of the boy after that;
(wait, what if I have five boys? I don’t have names for all boys).
Okay, I’d say, baby,
I’d bitch slap your professor, if you were sure she gave you an unfair grade.
I’d go with you to get your first tattoo,
if you were positive that you wanted those corny words
or that ugly design etched permanently on your skin.

I took the doors off of all my children’s closets, so they’d have nothing to hide behind.
Aren’t you my child?
I will hold your hand and slide down rainbows with you.
Trail the pot of gold, pot of luck, pot of dreams you’ve been chasing. I’ll go to rallies and meetings and
sign petitions, so we can finally live in a world where bigots are banished.
I’ll plan the biggest and most obnoxiously extravagant wedding when you find the love of your life and
I will support you,
financially (if you kids haven’t bled me dry by then),
physically (if you kids haven’t worn me out by then) and
emotionally (if you kids haven’t turned me crazy by then) for a surrogate,
or for fostering or for adoption – when you decide you want to start a family of your own.

But I won’t do any of this, if you think you want me to go to a rally or a meeting.
If you think you need me to sign a petition or plan your wedding.
If you think you want to start a family.
I won’t slide down that beautiful, techni-coloured vision of light if you can’t see how exquisite it is.
If you think you’re ready for the pot of dreams and
hardships and hope and steps back.
And mean words and discrimination and love and life – if you think you’re ready for that really heavy pot
then I can’t help you carry it home.
But if you’re sure,

baby, if you’re sure,

I will put on the workout shoes that have been sitting in the back of my closet for a couple of months, and prepare myself for this wonderful journey.

And he’ll look me in the eyes, finally, and say, not whisper,

he’ll finally look up and say,
Mum, I’m gay. I’m so gay.

And I’ll say,
I know. I was sure of it when you were still thinking it.
And I don’t care.
You flaming homosexual,

Now give me my five fucking pieces of grapefruit

do what you gotta do

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 22:38:54 -0400

do what you gotta do

When I see Yemi and Kaleigh leaving to go out for the night.

Wed, 16 May 2012 15:53:37 -0400

commons6:

if this doesn’t increase your love for giraffes, we...

Wed, 16 May 2012 15:48:15 -0400

if this doesn’t increase your love for giraffes, we can’t be friends…

When Yemi told me that all the residents bring her food.

Wed, 16 May 2012 15:00:14 -0400

commons6:

why is sing the black and blues...

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 00:49:51 -0400

i look at frowns the same way a newborn views

smiles. Familiar and welcoming – never have to do too much to

receive them but they come with every breath I take. I

meet them like I greet the night; allow him to mount me and

remind me what my 3am feels like. smells like. tastes like,

midnight snacks that satisfy me the way the world never could. Yet,

here I am. Standing on the auction box you made in woodshop with my

hands tied with your expectations and my legs bound with your

judgment. Hair brushed with my

pride and tied with the prejudice bow you gave me on my 18th birthday.

Who’ll take this corrupt negro for $20?

She drinks and smokes and dances beyond midnight to the infectious

rhythm all our hearts make when we sin. You can

scold her for her indulgence and poison her with water you deem holy.

Going once, going

twice – sold - to the man wearing his expectations around his neck like an

expensive bowtie or

is that the noose you’ll tie around my throat for being who I am?

But wait,

who are you to judge me for anything less than the

ten nine ten I deserve? We both sing the blues baby- but because mine is

acapella, not ever the right note, always the right lyrics but louder and

prouder than you in the church choir; you’re allowed to condemn me to

hell. Honey,

the two of us hum our lewd hallelujahs and drink nothing but moonshine

in the starlight but the sun only seems to tell on me. Tell

the world the secrets I showed you under my sheets when I acted

like the freak the streets make illicit. I’m explicit with my quick witted

tongue and the swerve of my hips and the glint in my eye lets you hear my

conscious as she calls me daily, asking me when I’ll be

that girl again. Lady, you know I’ll never leave behind the

murmurs that merge with the moonlight. I’m proud of the bones

that build my being. ‘cause once you break the bricks we hide behind, the

skeletons in our closets all look the same. I

plunged into love once,

twice, three times

removed me from the lifestyle I live now

followed men into the Heavenly pits of Hell where

nobody was judged. Had dinner with the devil and cosigned on my lover’s lease;

offered to pay in heart and soul when he missed a payment. Left my

mind out of the

agreement so I would have something to

write this poem with.

Let them lift up my black veil so they could kiss the real me.

Here comes the bride, but,

since then

I never seem to fall in love anymore. I crash into it. Never on

purpose, always

an accident. A suicide attempt of the remainder of my heart as it

tries to heal the scars of love

slashed across my wrists,

gashed across my neck, bitten on my thighs

and punched on my arms – bruises, black in rue.

And I don’t know about you but

that is why,

ex lover of mine,

is why

I sing the blues.

bad habits

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 10:03:10 -0400

bad habits

my newest tattoo want.

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 16:18:39 -0400

my newest tattoo want.

busty girl problems: yes, and this happens to me every weekend

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 15:45:31 -0500

busty girl problems: yes, and this happens to me every weekend

such a beautiful creature

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 16:11:26 -0500

such a beautiful creature

statue of liberty is getting it. i really just, can’t...

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 16:11:06 -0500

statue of liberty is getting it. i really just, can’t breathe hahahaaa.

the original twerk team

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 16:10:17 -0500

the original twerk team

favourite book of all time.

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 00:08:23 -0500

favourite book of all time.