Last week some time I had a dream. A dream about a guy I know. But the dream wasn't about the guy I know. It was about his type I think. God speaks to us in the language that we know. The language we understand. Tall, very dark. Super dark. My type, men cannot get too black for me. My favorite chocolate. Anyway, he was there but it wasn't him. Don't ask me how I know but I do. He was there I think, as symbol.
We were all in a park. A bunch of us. Everyone was so busy. Busy busy. A good busy but a busy that made me a bit uncomfortable. Nervous really. Jumpy really. Like the tone of this entry. So he called me to him and he was at a grill with a red apron on. Who wears aprons anymore? But he had one on and said "Come here" in a tone so soft it felt like his voice was merlot in my veins. "Let's make chicken" he said. And I stood in front of him and as if in slow motion, we made chicken.
Black ass poems. Black ass stories. Black ass art. Black ass life. Black ass love. Black ass hate. Black ass parenting. Black ass depression. Black ass mania. And other stuff too.
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