poem scene

the dreamer.

i am forever falling in love with the utterly unattainable: people who will never acknowledge my existence, cities that will never embrace me with gentle arms, things and ideas and possibilities that are so ludicrous they may as well be considered fairy tales. upon realizing the avaricious desires of my heart, i can come only to one conclusion: i am eternally doomed to live a life just on the cusp of fantasticality. i am destined to stare out windows and dream incessantly, to have a plethora of wishes that will never be fulfilled. i will evermore have the light of unreachable stars dancing in my eyes and the beats of songs i cannot write pulsing in my fingertips. there is no hope for me; i am but an elusive dreamer, and i am afraid that that is all i will ever be.


‘That was an awesome red carpet. Did you do it?’


the get down appreciation week: (day 4) favorite scene - Zeke’s poem

they don’t care about us niggers,” is how my pops explained it. but I didn’t know I was a nigga until my dad proclaimed it. six months later my pops was dead, too. drug-related shots fired, his skin turned cold blue. on the news that night the president’s wife got a new hair-do. the news guy said ”I like it, how about you?” no word about my pops in the post or on cbs. why was that, you ask? take a fucking guess. and yeah, why is that? that’s what politicians should be asking. but who’s got time for questions when y’all skiing up on aspen? broads get gunshot to the head and all y’all serving us is aspirin. my momma was so lovely she would have made your head spin. level the playing field and y’all will see who will really win. and yeah I got anger, but I don’t let it take me down cause my momma taught me better. and she holds me up when I fall down. rest in peace moms, don’t worry about your son. some day I’ll make you proud, because, yeah, I am the one.”

mine-(s); how the grand canyon was created

Sediment is eating the solitude.

A river carries it to the ocean. I followed waves

of salt, but they are folklore. I am not soluble to his sand - he is shaking.

He is a rattlesnake in the American West. This is the same


where he drew horns and fang teeth on the

face of 

my character. 


This is how the grand canyon was 

created: the broken heart of a river flowed,

weeping, for five million years.


I tip my hat.

He points his gun.

A sacred reunion as the Colorado River

returns to the sea.


Tourists consume the aftermath. 

Between copying and composing I have inked a great deal of paper, and it begins to be time for me to join in the concert of my snoring companions, who are extended before the fire in the style which we practiced in the interior parts of So. Carolina.

John Laurens to Henry Laurens, October 14, 1777

Washington and his aides had recently made a headquarters of Frederick Wampole House in Pennsylvania. Laurens had been penning the intelligence the HQ had just received from Captain Lee of the light horse infantry to his father, when he finishes off the letter with a lighthearted interlude about his fellow aides-de-camp - one Alexander Hamilton probably among them. 

Which solidifies my belief that Hamilton snores

James McHenry also jokingly writes about this certain tendency in his poem entitled “A Morning Scene in a Hut”.

On Ham, and Henry call; congenial pair
Who in rough blankets wrapped snor’d loud defiance.”

Ay, the pain it costs me
to love you as I love you!

For love of you, the air, it hurts,
and my heart,
and my hat, they hurt me.

Who would buy it from me,
this ribbon I am holding,
and this sadness of cotton,
white, for making handkerchiefs with?

Ay, the pain it costs me
to love you as I love you!

—  García Lorca, It’s True