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Little Man Orange--My Mister Peanut Butter Trout

A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life


The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

The Differences

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

Wisdom of the Infinite

Not Someone's Grand Illusion

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

After Wide Sargasso Sea

Great Big Waterproof World

The Storm

I Turn Forward

Patch-Worked Trilogy

And Then It Wasn't Hard To Be Eight Years Old

Prairie Town Progress

Beyond Door Number Three

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise

The Make-Up of Molecules

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)





At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

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Chicken Fat

you've got your name for me...

you call me
chicken fat.

you think it hurts
each time its spat out
from your foul mouth.

but I think different.

I meditate on this:

fat is what keeps the chicken warm
fat is what keeps the chicken from harm
I think THAT in my head every time your meaty fist pummels me
or when you say your black words.

so every time you cackle or caw:
Chicken FAT!

I think on this. And I've studied it some.
I think on how chicken fat melts and sizzles off the bone.
I think on how I might be different when I've grown older.

But also on how
you'll still be the same blackness inside only
growing blacker
and still playing at the same see-saw game of
"I'm better than you"
and still having the
50-50 chance of coming up a loser.

Every day I'm lookin' in the mirror now.
I see a bright red robin tilting her head.
She sings about the promises of Spring.
I see a Lark too. She sings long elaborate songs of a
beautiful summer. And there is a beautiful wise Cedar
Wax Wing who can survive anything that a rough
winter will throw at her. And somewhere in that mirror
might even be a Swan. Long-necked and graceful and proud.

Where are you these day? Is it a sad bitter end to your
tale? You aren't even planted. No one to visit you in your
last garden. There is no grave. And no one to come visit you
long after you are gone. Not even the wind, Sir,

But I have forgiven you. Is it a child's forgiveness?
No, it is my own, now.

Copyright September 4 2014 All Rights Reserved By This Author
(these various words still stuck in my head from a long time ago
thought maybe in different words from different mouths)

All Poetry/Prose/Stories/Rants/Ideas Are the Sole Legal Property
of this Writer/Meloo/Meliss A Howells
Copyright Tilt-a-World

thank you

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