booksartyoume

'kids today, same-o' timothy r gates, 11/11/2006
'that's mighty white of you,'
wealthier white kids say, still
'yo, my nigga!'
white kids say it, still have teeth
black kids say it too
'she's my bitch,'
endearments to their girls,
'she's my old lady,'
'broad,'
was used in the forties and fifties
of a desired opposite gender, show of disrespect;
'whore', and 'bitch,' even 'my ass,'
has replaced the days of less aggression
'fag,' or, 'faggot,' or 'that's gay,'
has become a favorite of those not knowing better
'prick,' was a nasty euphemism for the toughest during my decade of adolescence
say it then to the wrong person and your ass was theirs
for a newbie to homosexual idioms, prick was a reference to a male cock-suckers,
who liked to prick his prick, and
then you might get your ass kicked, if someone saw you cum
today you might get your ass shot
then or now,
who's the right person, and when's the right time to say this shit?
bigotry is ignorance gone amuck, or wild, timely metaphor
education doesn't change mindsets of stupidity
'we know better,' so we say,
'we've been taught better,' so we're told
'we're living in a different world and time,' so I hear
only the willfully ignorant persist in lunacy
some wear pointed sheets over their heads
others wear colors of the day
others wear clothes from the hood but live in a half-million home
others wear the same clothes, drive the same Lexus' ATV,
Hummer, all decked out, bought with cash from the kids wearing their clothes,
these kids say, 'nigga,' and, 'faggot,' and 'biatch,' gangster wannabes
-things change; things don't change
change in order to remain the same
why do the Muslims kill each other in Iraq?
why have the Irish done the same in land of genesis?
why do Jews and Muslims in the Middle East pretend to be different races?
why do some mothers and fathers still think it fine to hit their children,
'it's for their own good,' and, 'this is gonna hurt me more,' naturally?
why do our courts still treat pedophilia and rape as violators' misunderstood?
'teach your children well,'
not yet antiquated,
agrarian tools still not made out of weaponry.
'your ass is mine,'
said as long as it's thought to be my right to demand.
- a cool breeze just crawled up and around my leg,
now I need to piss;
I do wish that my prayers were as effective,
that my neighbor would be merely my neighbor.
Blessed damned day: I do love an oxymoronic cumulative.

'Only a mist' timothy r. gates, 09/26/2005

It rains.
Only a mist,
rests upon my face,
never disrupts my path,
causes me to smile;
in this embrace, I know;
I know that I love this baptism.
I'm a four year old,
without any answers,
without any questions that demands any.
I'm a six year old,
in love, giving and receiving my first kiss,
not from my family.
Some kisses, still cause me to smile.
I'm four, six, seven, maybe eight, years old,
sitting on my father's lap,
playing Guitar,
singing my father's Country melodies.
I'm eleven,
sketching, painting,
thrilled with it all,
not yet following any said rules.
I'm much older,
my beloved Grandfather's blessed repose arrives,
I sob, weep, laugh off and on,
for twenty minutes;
then I smile. I still feel him near,
like when I was one, two, three, four.
(Yes, I remember, not words, but his face
through the bars of my crib.
His face, of pride,
looking down at me in the stroller.
His hands reaching for me,
picking me up to show me something
he thought magnificent.
His old slouch hat,
only removed to shade my tiny face.
No Polaroid's exist.
His face does.)
I'd awake in the night to see him sleeping
on the floor, next to my bed,
making sure his grandson was safe.
In this embrace, I know;
I know that I love this baptism.

thank you so much for the really sweet comments on my set..i never saw that movie "being there" but it seems very interesting..i must see it!! thanks for telling me about it

'tears are not merely salty' timothy r g, 6/03/2007

she sat there,
not knowing why her daddy had to go;
he was drunk, again
he was terminal, no use of going to AA, dead soon
too young to know,
only, 'why?'
there he reclines asleep, blessed repose, I pray.

sitting there again,
grandpa, then another grandpa;
sadness is now better understood;
someone else has her daddy's ashes,
both grandpas' energies flying with her daddy
old enough now to know,
only, 'why?'

sleep doesn't easily come to the eyes of a, 'why?'
'tell her that god loves her,' one, two, three insist to me,
'I love her,' I raise my angry voice of protection,
- Job's well intended comforters;
(once hurt is known we have no need to give words, reasons, excuses)
sixteen year old lovelies weep like four year olds,
with anger wed to the bawling.

way too many, any too many
stolen from us, energy still someplace,
but we want to hug them, 'please once more,'
today I'll tell her, she thinks, 'grandma, I love you oh so much.'
- my beloved friend is awakened to, 'she's gone,'
doesn't matter that we've not talked today,
I hear her sobbing, wishing that I could do more than give a band-aid.

'why?
I don't know any better than Mary's Son,
he cried out, 'my god, my god, why have you left me by myself?'
his mother cried out, pulling her hair, beating her chest, 'why my son?'
black-eyed, round faced, lovely baby,
black-haired, when she chooses, maybe her voice is more lovely than she
I taste the salt in my tears caught at the corner of my mouth.

I bet that her tears are not merely salty either.