Thursday, September 25, 2003


Part I

                     It's Thursday morning - one forty-two a.m. Just over hump day and looking toward another conversation-free weekend. And to think I used to love Fridays! That was before they were frigging Fridays! Yes, chile! They used to be feckless, frivolous, fabulous Fridays. Back then I got up early -- not because I was done with sleeping but because I was looking forward to the day, Myday, Friday -- the one day of the week when I enjoyed my own company, pampered the soul doing what I loved best, and still love best . . . except . . . that love is now lost under a massive dung heap of baggage gathered along the way. You hear me chile?

                    Believe it or not, time was when love was not just another four-letter word. But then again, that was before Mr BIG got dick fever and wooded Miss Goose from the glen just because he could . . . just because she was there . . and giving it up with yellow skin and weave and nails an' thing . . an don't forget the sporty ride zoomng up to my hood for the heck of it, bearing the dough and the goodies he craved to keep his eyes on fire and his head in the clouds. So then Mr BIG boned a young tender succulent chicken . . . head and all. And then he thought about it and did it again.... and again ..... and again .... and again......and........

                    .. . came through my door at quarter to four reeking all over with the scent of her clinging to his every pore .....that putrid sultry smell of sex and smoke and spliff and sweat and the cheapest of colognes -- the hyper-allergenic kind that makes classy hypo chics like me sneeze and erupt in hives from scalp to sole and every inch in between. But you know scrubs like him - they love dat. Says I take away his manhood -- and simply because I am good at being what I was raised to be, what everyone expects  me  to be-- a strong black woman .... aching deep but making no moans while she stands back erect with the whole race on her shoulders, taking care of business, working her fingers to the bone, brain flying mile a minute even when she lays her down to rest.

                 Study hard, child! Never depend on any man! Work --ing by day and work-- it by night. Life will be a song. He'll love you hard and he'll love you long! They forgot dicks ain't got brains . . . especially big hard black ones. Shero. Superwoman. Success fabric softener. Works like magic. Every time. Limp. Less than a man, he says! And Miss Airhead Thang lurks in the wings. In a flash he's gone.

                 So too is Mr. Lam A. The one with the alphabet of letters behind his name. Yes, the very one with hometown street acclaiming his fame . . . the very one with that touch of classiness to his game . . whose every smile and every touch, and every word ignited, no....intensified my flame. Yes, even he enhanced my shame. Came. Then gave Dame Afrika his name. Nothing has ever been the same. Since Mr.Lame.

                 So Friday became fry day and every day became fried day . . marinate, simmer .. and slow broiled day . . . after day . . . after day. Now all my tomorrows follow on the heels of seemingly endless Freaking Frydays.

                 Time was when I, too, used to say,

                 "Thank God it's Friday!"

© KP Lewis (Kalypsoul)

Sunday, June 22, 2003

Sundays Suck

Sundays Suck

                There is nothing unusual about the day. Except for the fact that my cable feed has been interrupted for some strange reason and I am watching a blank blue screen. No eye candy. No mental stimulation but my own alive imagination. Sunday morning huh? Not a good sign for the rest of the week.

                 Boredom moves in like a flood, and rises quickly to tsunami proportions. Many Sundays ago I would have been lying wrapped in arms that once formed an encricling band of love around me -- arms that promised to do so eternally, as they are wont to do. They urged me to stay even while I struggled to be free. And then they were gone.

                 And years before that I'd be up early primping and prettfying for my weekly appearance before God in his sanctuary. Trotting to church without knowing why. From the middle of a bed cluttered with scholarly appurtenances and other paraphernalia emptied from the Bermuda Triangle that serves as a pocketbook, a face tired with restfulness looks Godward for a sign.

                 Are you out there somewhere Daddy? Watching over me all these years? And have you hooked up with Lesly and Althea and Orna and Grans and Rory?

                  The list of people I know out there gets longer with time and I am no closer to the truth. I look at the telephone willing it to ring but it resists. Maybe I should call him? But would he be quiet and just let me be? Tom Joyner, how about that? He's funny. But no, he's not a Sunday person. I could read a book but Sister Souljah is not really a Sunday book. Toni Morrison - too deep for Sunday and real Sunday books will do nothing to relieve boredom. Eat perhaps? Nah. Too boring.

                   So here I am writing about boredom and literally putting myself to sleep. Yawn.

© KP Lewis (Kalypsoul)