Spider-Man’s Racial Identity (a poem)

Second grade.
Forgot how it went.
Think it was during music class.
White classmate said he was Spider-Man.
Then, I said I was Spider-Man too. Or something like that.
Classmate said Spider-Man wasn’t black.
I do remember that part.
 
He pulled this before with another character.
Forgot which one.
 
Over thirty years pass.
Marvel Comics introduces Miles Morales.
A black Hispanic teenager.
In another universe, Miles fights crime as 
Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.
 
Halloween season.
White friend tells social media his son wants to be Miles Morales.
Mind was made up.
Kid says he’s going to be Miles Morales for Halloween.
 
Finding this ironic.
White kid wants to be a black Hispanic superhero.
Remembering that classmate who told me I couldn’t be Spider-Man.
Why?
Because punk-ass Peter Parker wasn’t black.
 
Have no problem with my friend’s kid being Miles Morales.
Yet, as for that classmate of mine?
His kid or kids or grand-kids can’t be Black Panther.

Photo by Cristian Bortes.

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Nocturnal Creature (a poem)

Nocturnal.
Definition?
People who are active at night.
A word I learned recently about myself.
 
Studies describe nocturnal people as smart and creative.
(Well, I’ll get back to you on that one.)
Studies say nocturnal people lag in academics.
(Nope, I didn't finish college.)
Studies say nocturnal people eat unhealthily.
(Uh huh, that explains my high blood pressure.)
 
Use to think being nocturnal was a hindrance.
A pain in the ass.
Cannot sleep at night.
Always late for work the next morning.
 
Now, I embrace being nocturnal.

Photo by Uwe Schmidt. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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Ass for Days (a poem)

Can’t stop looking at my co-worker’s big ass. 
Trying to be a gentleman to her.
Trying not to see her as a sex object. 
Trying to see her as just another co-worker.
Still can’t stop looking at that big ass.
 
Trying not watch as my coworker steps up a ladder. 
Trying not to watch as she bends over and picks up something. 
Trying not to look as she happens to be in my path.
 
How can you not see that big ass?
Can see that big ass from a mile away.
An ass that could distract a person driving down the street.
So busy looking at that big ass, driver crashes into another car.
Yea, that big ass can cause a car crash.
 
Coworker knows I like big behinds.
Yet, I try not to bring the subject up.
Still can’t stop looking at that big ass, tho.
 
Coworker has a boyfriend. 
Met him before.
Nice dude.
Always doing kind things for her kid.
Her having a boyfriend another reason for me to behave.
 
Don’t find myself feeling too ashamed about this.
Am I not a heterosexual, African-American male?
Most black dudes feel me on this one.
 
“You say she got some ass, dawg?”
“Yea, she got some ass, bruh.”
“Ass for days?”
“You know it.”
“Shee-it, I would be looking too!”
 
I’ll keep being nice.
Will continue treating coworker as a friend…and not a sex object.
Still can’t stop looking at that big ass, tho.

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A Favorite Florida Bar Now Known Nationwide for Covid-19 Cases

Back in 2018, I used to hang out at Kiwi’s Pub and Grill, located in Altamonte Springs, Florida. Mostly, I went there for trivia nights. Plus I enjoyed the food and service.

Because I no longer live in the area, I don’t go to Kiwi’s anymore.

Still, imagine my surprise when I found out the place closed because of COVID-19. Recently, six people informed the bar they were infected with the coronavirus. Within the last week, all six had been inside Kiwi’s.

It was shocking enough to learn this about a bar I frequented. It was even more shocking to see the same bar mentioned in an online Newsweek article. The article talks about Florida bars that reopened and shut down again because of the coronavirus.

I still can’t believe it. A bar I enjoyed playing trivia in is now known nationwide for COVID-19 cases. That makes me want to just stay home and watch Netflix all day.

Oh well, here’s some past pics I took in Kiwi’s.

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Unemployed During Coronavirus Pandemic (a poem)

Virus hits your state.
Governor orders statewide lockdown.
Businesses close except those considered essential.
Your company isn’t essential.
You get laid off.
 
Fear hits you.
How are you going to pay bills?
What about food?
What about rent? (Or mortgage?)
How are the lights staying on?
 
Applying for unemployment.
Unemployment website always crashing.
Can’t get an unemployment representative on the phone.
 
Fear still bothering you.
Bills placing pressure on you.
Feeling lost.
Feeling hopeless.
What the fuck are you supposed to do now?
 
Add on having other mouths to feed.
Talking about your little ones.
A decision arrives.
What do you do?
Pay this bill or feed your family?
 
A month pass.
Still, can’t get unemployment.
Received a government stimulus check.
Check has President's signature on it.
Yet, that check spent fast.
Had no choice.
Bills had piled up.
Stimulus money gone now.
Financial worries still nagging you.
 
Lockdown slowly ending.
Some businesses allowed reopening.
Company phone calls for you to return.
But you don’t want to go back.
Rather receive the unemployment check.
 
You’re not lazy.
You’re not the type to sponge off the government.
Yet, your job’s setup can cause you to catch the virus.  
Company won’t even provide you a mask.
Some employees from company's other locations 
have died from the virus.
 
Still, you have bills to pay.
Mouths to feed.
You report back to work.
Posted in poetry, politics | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Serving Facebook Probation

Yesterday, I go to my Facebook page and see this! An account warning.

Apparently, I rubbed someone the wrong way.

The violation was about a link I posted on a group page. The link contained a poem I wrote about a black guy following Trump. Speaking from the black Trump supporter’s point of view, the poem is littered with nasty slurs. If you want to read it, you can go here.

I didn’t fight the accusations.

If I violate again, I’ll be serving 24 hours of hard time in Facebook jail.

Yet, this time, I just got slapped on the hand.

Facebook does know I’m black, right? I’ve seen white people serve long sentences in Facebook jail. In real life, for the same crime, black folks usually receive harsher punishment than white people. I guess I won’t show some of my white friends this blog. They might start yelling reverse racism.

Oh, well, I can deal with probation.

Photo by Jérémy-Günther-Heinz Jähnick

I was in the wrong. The administrator of Orlando Poetry and I are cool now. I reached out to dude on Messenger and apologized. Then, I explained the poem.

Guess I gotta behave now. Or else I have to serve those long twenty-four hours.

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Black Men Supporting Trump (a poem)

Disclaimer: The views of the character in this poem are not my own.

Who says black men can’t be sexist, homophobic 
and anti-illegal immigrant?
Why let white guys have all the fun?
 
Keep them bitches in line.
Stop them faggots from marrying.
Deport them wetbacks.
 
Trump tells like it is.
Speaking my language.
Speaking my anger.
 
Tired of this shit.
Had enough!
My bitch talking back to me.
Faggot at work looking at me funny.
Everywhere I go, wetbacks always speaking Spanish.
 
Crackers can like Trump but I can’t?
Crackers own a monopoly on anger?
Fuck that.
Us black dudes are pissed off too!
 
Niggas making me mad also.
Niggas always voting Democrat.
Niggas always complaining about crackers.
And admit it, niggas.
OJ did it.
 
Trump I understand.
Rich white man who never experienced racism 
speaks my language.
Rich white man whose businesses keep failing 
really knows how to run this country.

Build that wall!
Straighten them faggots!
And grab those loudmouth feminist bitches by the pussy!
 
Who says black men can’t be sexist, homophobic 
and anti-illegal immigrant?
Why let white guys have all the fun?
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Amazon Sent Money to My Bank Account

Since 2014, I had been selling books and e-books on Amazon. I haven’t been very successful at that. When it comes to my photo and poetry book Three Orlando Nightspots, most of that tiny success involved me selling the book on the streets.

Still, my books and e-books collected change anyway. If they aren’t buying, folks are reading. I joined a program involving people reading your e-books. The author gets paid by the pages read.

My e-book Family Entertainment, My Ass gains me the most money. It’s a collection of Instagram photos. In these photos are women of various ethnicity.

Some pics aren’t safe for work.

It isn’t as if I’m receiving mega dollars.

Yet, I can use the gas and medicine money.

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Photos of Blood Test Bandages

In the previous blog, I wrote about me taking blood tests. For three years, I have been taking them. Sometimes, I would photograph the bandage and upload the pic to Facebook.

Today, I decided to share those pics. Enjoy.

If you you’re still with me, I got a bonus for ya.

Here’s a hospital pic with an IV catheter.

Now, comes the big kahuna. In the previous blog, I talked about medical staff constantly jabbing my veins for blood. That’s because my veins are stubborn about leaking blood. When one vein doesn’t work. I’m jabbed in another vein.

So, here’s a hospital pic with both an IV catheter and two band-aids from vein jabbing.

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A Blood Test Appointment During the Coronavirus Pandemic

This morning, I drove to the Adventhealth located in Altamonte Springs, Florida.  Usually, I arrive here for blood tests.  First, I would register on the first floor. Afterwards, I am sent to the second floor. There, blood is drawn from a vein.

By the way, I hate needles.  Three years ago, pneumonia and high blood pressure earned me a weeklong hospital stay. During that time, people kept jabbing needles into my veins. Sometimes, they had to jab me more than once. For some reason, my veins refused to cooperate by not giving up blood.  To this day, stubborn veins still cause a scene. During my blood test appointments, I still have to be jabbed more than once.  During one episode, things got so bad, a more experienced person had to be called in to draw my blood. Now, you see why I hate needles, all that damned jabbing messes with me.

This morning’s appointment threw me for a loop. Because of the current coronavirus pandemic, I wore my facemask.  After entering the building, I saw other people wearing masks too. I kind of expected that. What I didn’t expect was seeing a masked nurse sitting at a table. (Well, I assumed she was a nurse.) 

Before I could register in the next room, I had to pass her first.  Before COVID-19, this never happened.

First, I had to answer a questionnaire. Have I had a cough, fever, etc. Have I traveled out of the state or country. Questions like that. Then, to check my temperature, she aimed some gun-shaped gizmo at my forehead.

After that, I was then allowed to register in the next room. Someone took my paperwork and driver’s license. Then, walked off. Usually, when that happened, I would sit down for a few moments. Next, someone else would take me to an office. There, I would register. Didn’t happen this time. After a few moments of sitting, I was given my stuff back. Then, I was told to go to the second floor.

On the second floor, right before I entered the lab tests room, another masked nurse awaited me.  I went through another coronavirus routine.

Because only five people were allowed in the lab tests room, I had to wait with the nurse. By this time, I would’ve been on the road heading home. But Ol’ COVID-19 insists on making the world miserable.

Soon, I was allowed in the room. Another loop threw me.  A bow was wrapped through the arms of certain chairs. These chairs sat in the middle of the chairs patients occupied. So, a different bow-tie chair would both sit on a patient’s left and right. Of course, everyone including me wore masks.  

Earlier, I mentioned I expected mask-wearing. Yet, seeing everyone in the room including the lab folks wearing a mask still threw me off.

Eventually, my turn for blood-giving arrived.  After I sat in my chair, I noticed the phlebotomist’s name tag. She had the same name as an ex, one that I used to write nasty poems about.  

The phlebotomist seemed friendly. We laughed about that crazy Netfilix tiger thing.

Still, guess what happened? Again, my fuckin’ veins caused a scene.  No blood would drain. This time, I wasn’t jabbed again. Yet, the phlebotomist pushed the needle in further until blood eventually poured. Still, the blood took its sweet time pouring. I swear, I might be the only one whose veins operate on Colored People’s Time.

Afterwards, a blue bandage was wrapped around the bloodletting area.  That was it. The visit was over.

At work, during my lunch break, I noticed a voice message on my phone.  The lab place wanted me to call them back. Immediately, scary thoughts flew through my mind.  

What the hell? Did they find that virus shit in my blood? Or did they find something else?

During my next break, a short one, I called back.  In my samples, the blood hemolyzed. In other words, red blood cells ruptured. How does this happen? Improper blood collecting or poor handling of the samples.

Now, I have to return to the Jabbing Needles.

Oh, well. At least, gas is cheap now.

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