I’m not naked and not quite sure what to do
But to sail the rhythms of your mistresses
And watch your regrets turn you into
Something or another that a producer threw away

You were always prolific, but maybe without talent
But this morning, I was too tired to move the papers,
I knew the body—the black, the big, the corpulent
And you heard the tears left on the answering machine

Her screams coat my ears with a fresh memory,
But this is only an adolescent excuse to execute.
For there is nothing for me left which is holy,
On which I can swear, and the Catholics can dispute

You took my coffee with no sugar. “Black.” you said, “Black.”
Because I seem to hold my anger, like hard liquor, better
Than any light emotions I may have held back.,
for the sake of succeeding, of being the dark knight.

At 16, I wrote a memory and that was it, I was done
At 16, I had old lady hands, shattered with wrinkles
And you held them and said I was the only one
When I clearly knew that I was not. I was not.

Before the door closed, I still remember what she had said,
“If you want to be more than you are, you must know
What are now, and before the ego blows up your head.”
Too bad, you’re just a chalk outline on a post-homicide day.

Chalk, that’s white.