“Love, Perhaps?”
Awestruck by Ardor’s etherialities, Contemplating its concreteness, Wondering if I truly Understood.
To me, romance is a dark room, Illuminated by flashlights and Flickering light bulbs of Vicarious experience through Love songs.
I consider myself a Fledgling scholar, An upstart scribe, But, even in my never-ceasing ponderings I still know not what it means to love a person Whose blood run not through my veins.
The only loves I’ve ever known:
Came from my father, Who put an NES Controller In my hand, Just after I’d learned to stop Picking my nose and Eating it. I always wanted to be Mario, ‘cause his name Starts with “M.” (Now though, Because of my perpetual Root-for-the-underdog mentality, I prefer his brother. Besides, Green is cooler than red.)
Came from my aunt and grandma, Who mixed flour, eggs, and milk and a bowl, Creating the best food known to man: Pancakes! Golden-brown, flipped and flopped, Hissing on a hot griddle, Topped with delectable goodness That is Syrup! So good, I performed cunnilingus on my plate To taste all the nectar, And then, When everyone slumbered, Snuck off to the kitchen, Sipped right from Mom’s syrup bottle, Long before Three-Six Mafia Made it a hit song.
From myself, Who at seven years old, Wrote a story about an alien and a magic dictionary (Don’t ask) Received love bites of Literary inspiration, While exhilaration of completion Rushed through my body, (Probably as close to sex as I’d ever gotten.)
From a song, One I’d finally heard at 15, When Mom FINALLY allowed me to listen to Albums with “PARENTAL ADVISORY: EXPLICIT CONTENT” warnings I bought what some call the Greatest Rap Album, And when I heard Track 4’s DJ scratches, Chants asking who the world belonged to, And the three best verses penned by Mortal Man, Like so many young Black boys, I wrote rhymes running past the margin Just as my hero did (However, I moved to poetry, It suits me better, And I suck as a rapper.)
But even through my boundless ignorance, I know loving a woman is much Different.
The rap lyrics and beats, In all their Lesser divinity, probably don’t Sound as good as “Hi honey, how was your day?” After the world serves my ass to me on a Silver platter.
Platters of pancakes, Doused with decadence, Aren’t pleasing to the palate If they don’t come from A woman Who knows how to Fulfill the most erotic male fantasy: Slaving over a hot stove, then Bringing them to you, Flashing Pearly whites And she knows how to make them vegan, Not only that, Buys the organic syrup she has to Empty her bank account for, Since I’m too health-conscious (and bougie) To eat that damn Mrs. Butterworth.
Worthwhile pastimes they are, Video games cannot match Connecting with A woman Who finds the land of Hyrule exciting And laughs as I Name my Pokémon after rappers (Or if I never meet that ever-elusive damsel, I can compromise with one who at least Doesn’t insult me when I turn my console on.)
On writing, It’s all made better from someone Saying “I love it,” Wiping the smudges from my looking-glass self, Or takes out her red pen and reading glasses When we both know I have something that Needs work.
Perhaps one day, If Fortune smiles upon me, I will experience the emotions I’ve inscribed inside my verses.
(If you like this, head to Amazon and pick up my poetry collection, “Romantically Incorrect“ here.)