bad or bust. and yes mr. cocker...with a little help from my friends.

generally, when i see an attractive woman, i think about her for days after because i now i love her.

and by attractive, i'm scraping up everything from boss 7's through smooth 8's all the way to The Tops, which will take you clean to The End, which is where exactly you find the elusive 10's. and this isn't all about looks. it aint half about looks.

glamour is an easy spell. it doesn't cast well on me.

this summer for instance, it has happened 4 times. love cuatro. every time. i remember their names because i've been waiting my whole life to hear them. each one.

i remember every time, and every face, and everytime i do, it brings joy. and i used joy instead happiness, because joy is big enough to hold awe and amazmement, whereas happiness wasn't built to tote that freight.

now, i gotta have that. now that i have seen it and got it's scent, i gotta have that. cause those are feelings i could have for the rest of my life and i have won. that's the goal, cause everything stems from it. family, bread...

top down, kick up chillin, you dig? nothing makes the grind worth it than a stone cold fox. nigga will lay railroad track with toothpicks and hammers if he can get one.

my homeboys will help. and i'll help them. that's the square biz.

i'm done.

fin. almost.

it's a wrap.

imma cash this one out. and i'll tell you why.

i wrote a couple of posts about my little hearts. my nieces. i got a new computer and hooked up my mommas camera to it and like time with a W-2, i had pictures of them at my disposal.

i thought for a long time about putting them up there. pictures of my lauryn and leia. and i couldn't. i didn't even upload the pictures. i couldn't let the world have them. not this damn internet. they are special to me, not to you.

in the world of facebook, twitter, myspace and the like, we are consumed with our own egotistical pursuits. we want the world to know we are special, unique.

we want love.

we give our lives freely to these entitities, in essence lampooning ourselves in hopes of being noticed. top 25 lists, favorite music, favorite shows, pictures of your dog, your grandmomma, favorite color, what you did yesterday, last night, 3 minutes ago. people want the whole world to know them in hopes of having some value outside of the instrinsic value god gave them.

you have worth. you are important. just not to the world. probably to those people who you value and are important to you. to clamor for it so haphazardly is a mockery to the true meaningful attention you do receive from those who were meant to give a fuck about you.

and i lied. i'm not done yet. i got one more left.

nigga apples.

working overnight, you find yourself having to freshen up a bit at times. your hygiene times are all skewed, so even if you did take a shower when you got off, sometime you still feel dirty when you are awake at 4:30am. mouth might taste a little ripe too. such was the case last night. mouth was a little overcooked, so i go hit my stash toothbrush and toothpaste.

brush is in the bag.
toothpaste awol.

now i'm down bad. cause contrary to popular brushing opinion, all paste aint the same. close-up and pepsodent simply enhance the rebellious tastes and odors running roughshod in and on your palate.

baking soda and peroxide? makes my mouth feel like i ate chalk laced with hemlock. and your knocked out the oj game for at least 16 hours.

every kid on my floor has one of those 3. even the kids to whom i gave quality toothpaste (crest fresh mint, whitening, colgate total advanced clean...even luminous, cause my dumb ass saw a diamond on it on the box) always comes back from the weekend with the family dollar flagship brands in tow. except k. he's relatively new, so i never checked his paste game official. he's the fat kid, so i have high hopes and expectations for him. he's got big, wide and leaning shoes to fill from his 34 waist, 29 length, size Husky forefathers.

so i wait until they start to wake up, and hit my my man k. it takes about two tries, cause my little big nigga might have a little case of the sleep apnea. i aint kicking up no dust.

"big homie, let me see what toothpaste your working with."

he hands it to me. it's in one of those plaste squeeze bottles, so i'm thinking some premium shit. i'm a little boosted. i can end the holy war in my mouth with relative ease. i flip the bottle around.

watermelon?
you pudgy bastard. watermelon? that's worse than fruit gum. gum doesn't, by definition, have to freshen your breath. toothpaste does. that's what it does. and you got watermelon.

"it taste real good doe mr. singleton. it really do." heavy cheek smile. i aint mad little big nigga.

just gotta make sure he aint eating it.

in a shocking news report, lil' dayvon dies in a mysterious hail of machine gun fire. onlookers...well, there were none. back to you dave.

first, let me say off top:

fuck lil' dayvon.

lil' dayvon is that little dirtball nigga who is going sweetalk my niece, drop honey in her ear, and put wood in her that came from no tree . he is that purely degenerate bastard that driven soley by hedonistic pursuits. ol' disrespectful little nigga. he pops pills, drinks lean, wears sunglasses at night, rides with his front seat in the back, and fitted hats in the window. he bangs gucci mane and oj the juiceman and aspires to be nothing more than what he hears on wax or the t.v. every woman is a bitch, every man a nigga. aint read since the last time he played monopoly, and tells people not to call him by his government, cause this little dumb nigga thinks he's on the run from the boys.

when he comes to see my daughter, he's not going to take off his hat, or address me as sir. might not ever shake my hand. might try to dap me up. shit, he might not even come inside. might just tap the horn. smelling like reefer and henny. while he's waiting, he might do nothing but text on his phone.

and of course his swag is up. to 100 thousand million at last count.

or he is that clean cut young tom with a degree fresh from USC. the university of sambo coonery. this fella can't wait to shuck and jive for some change that fell off of the table. the big table in the big house. my little hearts should be lucky he chose them, because he could have had him a white girl. christina aguilera. coonin so hard... baby girl, he can't hear ya. he can't stand being around blacks when they are acting like true negroes. it shames him in front of his white buddies. he refers to himself as a buppy. 

(aint that some shit though? a black yuppie. i thought we had a stand up name for them all ready...sambos)

now if i do my job right, and get my my daughter head on straight like a compass on a level, lil' dayvon won't pass the screening process. my daughter will know better, because she is better. and if her esteem is not enough motivation, her love for her father will be. and if that fails, then fuck it, her knees will shake and she will sweat her hair out worrying just what her father is going to do to her if she is has enough chutzpah enough to bring lil' d home. she doesn't wonder about what will happen her boyfriend, because she knows her father well. very, very well.

i think about this alot, and wonder if i'm wrong. if i should give this young man a chance. talk to him, try and right the ship. not judge him, let my daughter date him...and right there i have to stop because even typing it makes my stomach hurt. 

i read this short science fiction story once called "arena". humans in the future have first contact with a alien race. and we don't like each off bucks. the shove is past wrestling and some furniture is about to move, and this almighty being intervenes. he places one humans, and one of the aliens in arena. instead of two races engaging in intergalactic fisticuffs, and the winner having a pyrrhic victory, the two representative can sort it out. the human tries to work it out the white doves and olive branches route, but what he is greeted with on that road is hate. hate so strong that it actually makes the human nauseated when his mind is exposed to it. 

pray for peace, but prepare for war.

so fuck lil' dayvon. i'm not giving him shit but a swift kick in the ass and gunplay if he steps near my sandbox, or swings on my monkey bars. there is no "being cool" when your daddy, unless your sitting on the ice box and the air is on. people tell me that i will feel differently when i have kids. when my nieces get older. when i realize that their decisions have no bearing on my life. that you do the best you can do and move on.

i ask them...is this a game? is there some secret reset button code that you know about, and i just didn't get the decoder ring from ovaltine? is the real meaning to life is that this is a test run, and i get one more go on the ride before i run out of tickets and the carnival closes? 

oh word, 

it's not? 

that's what i thought. now, kick rocks, push sand, take it on the heel and toe and beat it.

i'm popping out of trash cans my man. random college visits accompanied by 5 star restaurant meals and shopping trips. spankings. cell phone checks. private detectives. GPS on car chassis. whatever it takes.

i gotta get ready. cause lil' d been got started.

ron's reviews.

some bar in philly called pearl.

"Theres alot of money being tossed around in there so for all you ladies feeling the recession bearing down on you go out with your fuckem girl dress on and get it poppin with ol' daddy at Pearl."

you see "ol' daddy" and wonder.

but you know ol' daddy. old head with the short sleeve white or cream linen suit on. rockin off in those hardbottom earls or the extra tight knit shoesandles. snap brim fedora with the feather. two gold chains with no hang time. nigga smell like the coat of one of the three wise men left at a bar, frankensense and cognac. keep talking to you, but looking at your girl. trying to slide anything under twenty plus a nickel a drink and some rap from the mayfield era.

i aint mad unc'. get chose.

# 2. after "we don't need to meet her."

with this man shit, you walk it, not talk it. 

leave rapping to dudes with mics.

the nikki jean theory in perspective.

aight, this is nikki jean. beautiful.

i decided to leave dude in the picture. contrast...like those old benetton billboards.

now, in all likelihood, she knows she's bad, and i have no problem with that. what i'm banking on is that she is as cool as she is bad.

that's a offchance like a lightswitch on a roulette wheel, i know. but in that offchance...can you imagine?

i was talking to my man about my theory, and i showed her to him.

he said he wouldn't want a girl that tough. too much pressure.

well, sometimes the barometer breaks.

shit, you get a girl like this, and you take her looks, substract her personality, and your even or this side of it, you can call it quits forever son. greyed out box that you can't click on. cleats bronzed, jersey surrounded by wood and under glass. the white button pops out of the turkey. 

your done. finito. cashed out and laid up, chillin. 

i invite the family over and cook a meal with her. and when you come with that last dish, and she comes behind, little flour on her face cause of the mini food fight you had in the kitchen.

my homeboys smile. my momma does to. even my niece, who has hated anything with estrogen off bucks, wants to hug her.

i know i've spun one helluva yarn here. some people might call it a fairy tale. fuck it. look at that smile. i'll save you a seat at dinner.

god sent.

if god made anything better than black women, he kept it for himself.

i went out to a lounge on sunday. i don't go to lounges. this was my first time. but man oh man. dig this. this particular lounge had a enclosed, open roof outside portion behind the dance floor. started getting a little thick and hot on the inside, so i head outside. my homeboys are out there burning squares, and talking to this young lady. cool as a ice fan, straight up. within five minutes duchenne smiles and gut laughs all around. we get to introductions, and she says her name is honour.

what did your momma name you?

honour. 

shit made my night, straight like that. to be surrounded by beautiful women of all genres, smiling and moving, laughing and smelling like...you hope that if you breathe in deep enough, you can carry it home. i can't say that scene is my thing 

no single malts

no beer on tap

seats with no backs 

and that adolecent food with sauce drizzled all over the plate, but i can understand why people go, especially men.

i know its lightweight bullshit to verbally talk about women other people haven't seen. i mean, your werent there with me on sunday. all you will do is think about some beautiful women you have seen. some stop and stare, i want to lay in her hair. but just to go back to the thought is worth it, right?

so thank you black woman for another truly memorable night.

when you talk motherfucker, my pump weighs a ton. end.

out here wasting words like water when you run the faucet for too long.

you say them because they are pretty. you say them because they make you feel good. but when i call on the radio for back-up, i hear no sirens. i take them to the bank, and they laugh at me, and hit the button under the counter.

hallmark words. but at least if they were in a card, there's at least 4 to 1 shot some steak and scotch money would be in there. but no, you give me the words, and leave the bread elsewhere. bastards.

the problem is that there is no consequence to it all. no get-back. you say what you want, and most times, one way or the other, the shit slides cause the words were nice. it's like singing a jesus song at the apollo. nobody boos. there is no further inquiry, no check for authenticity. no body bites the coin, looks through lupe. drops the sodium hypochlorite on the soft white to see if it turns blue. 

and i get hit with some wild shit, forreal. and i know i'm not alone. and on the surface, they are beautiful words. seemingly special sentiments. movie quotes. sweeter than a chocolate easter bunny. 

and just as hollow. 

for all your words, what is there to show for it? when i was on balls and knuckles, the lights dim and the air thick. back pinned against the wall wrestling for my sanity, muscles been failed, and mind knows it didn't study enough, you were gone like a teenaged streetwalker with a sniff habit.

i was banging with the savage leviathans with those who gave me the actions first, and left the words at home with the children, who may have been served better by them.

you talk reckless to me. just wrapping me up about shit. all wrong and don't care. could be anything, sports, movies, life. you've taken no time to understand, just to form an opinion. you don't want to listen, so you don't want to understand.

when i was a younger man, it bothered me. had me lightweight down bad at times. i've grown up and out since then. doesn't affect me anymore. but i need ya'll to stop nonetheless. should have said it back then. better now than never. because you are helping to fucking up the world. stripping once valuable words down to dust.

this is where the pump comes in. keeps you honest. you only say what you mean because now your words could get you missing and put your body out of order. i'm not mad that your words were just words. i'm just wishing you never said it, not to me, because i didn't ask for them. you give me a gift that i didn't even hint for, just to open up the box, and find another box.

but i got another box tucked off, and it aint wrapped cause i know whats inside. kevin duckworth's. double zero buckshot shells with nine pellets that will make an absolute mess of you. a mockery. 

"you want me to believe that this used to be a person?"

the shit is heavy, but my arms are strong. can't hold it up forever though. and it's gets lighter the more i let off cause the weight is in the rounds.

when you talk motherfucker, my pump weighs a ton. beginning.

whenever i get into a long conversation with somebody, and it gets to the point where no matter what i say, this person just aint getting it. they on the left, im on the right.

i think, this conversation would be alot different if i had a pistol grip 12 gauge.

when i have a hoodie on, with that kangaroo pocket in the front, i can almost feel it weighing me down. because that's probably where i would keep it.

and if i don't want it to stretch my shit out, then i gotta whip it out. i just got to.

fear profits a man nothing.

i met my man pat's girlfriend on friday. and more than that, i saw my man happy forreal.

happy for and proud of you pat. you went and got yours.

shit homie, now i gotta go get mine.

got to.

"For all we ought to have thought, and have not thought; all we ought to have said, and have not said; all we ought to have done, and have not done; I pray thee God for forgiveness."

i don't plan on asking the good lord for much on the forgiveness front.

substitute teacher.

A lot of my boys have been coming to me asking me to teach them how to tie a tie. I had to reach way back to grab the memory of how to tie a four in hand knot, which most certainly got me through high school. I remember when I learned to tie a tie, sitting in front of the mirror with my pops, fighting the temptation to look down and just

"trust what you see in the mirror. wide over the skinny, wide under the skinny..."

The same words that came out of his mouth to me came out of my mouth to them. And as proud as I was of them as they finally got the knot right, the length right above the belt line, put the dimple in the middle.

All I could think of is "this aint how this is supposed to be."

I know life isn't perfect, and I'm glad I'm here to teach them lessons such as these, but I wasn't supposed to be the teacher in this classroom.

I know I don't know god's plan. And for all your talk that everything happens for a reason, it doesn't have to happen for a good reason. And no, I don't believe that it was supposed to be this way. His father was supposed to teach him, just like mine taught me. I will step up and fill the void, because it's in my heart to do. And I will follow my heart. But to accept wrong as right will leave us left out in the cold with no heaters in sight.

Don't leave the responsibilities of your teachings to a substitute. Show up to work and step up to the chalk board.

living like the lights were off.

i remember when i was young, and the lights were off. maybe it was a power outtage, or my pops forgot to pay the bill. it was best when the whole block was dark though. we didn't have many options without electricity. no t.v., no computer, no radio, no videogames. we didn't have many options when it came to light it was my job to find the candles and flashlights. while i checked and changed the batteries, my sister lit the candles. then we would place them around the house. we couldn't open the refridgerator, because we didn't want to let the cold air out. we didn't have many options for food. we had to all walk somewhere to eat. we would come back, eat and talk. we would play games. i can't remember where we would go, or what we would talk about, or the games we played. but all i can remember is when i think of that time, i want to cry.

we didn't have many options when the lights were off. except each other.

i'm going back to that. when my options were limited, i focused on what was important. what made me happy. content. satisified. 

what made us happy, content and satisfied. 

i know it's in me to have it. i just have to do it. and i'm not writing on this until i do. writing isn't doing. i need it. i hope we all do.

project and pettiford.

(this wasn't the original post. but, well, you know...there's always a but.)

"same ol' singleton. all thought and no play."

thats some cold shit right there. shit stung like getting slapped with a handful of wasps. a friend of mine hit me with that yesterday, and no truer words have been spoken about me.

i've bluffed so fucking much in my life. living in my head. there is plenty that i do, but it's less than 1% of what i've thought about doing. and it stretches through all aspects of my life.

all the things i've walked away from because i didn't want to fail.

well let me tell you this...in the world of the shitty R's, rejection and regret are not even fighting in the same war. regret whipping out heat that will melt glass.

rejection? banging with a zip-gun.

rejection lasts for a moment. you ride regret to that that etched stone set in soil, you point guard deep underneath in forever sleep.

not me and not anymore.