So I embarrassed myself at work yesterday. I was doing this project for school which had me calling all of the Greater tri-state area of Chicago and the little subsidiary boundaries in between for information about yamma, yamma…and yamma, and I ran into this lovely woman named Patricia, who catered to all of my question, during my spell on the phone. In fact she was so excited to talk to somebody that didn't call to complain, after the conversation, which took fifteen more minutes than I hoped it would, she gave me her office number to, someday, call her again.
So because that conversation went so well, I was happy. But because that conversation was fifteen minutes more than I anticipated…I was running late, for work. So I jump in my coat and hit the streets, and as I’m realizing that it’s too warm for a coat, I’m high off happy-endorphins and I call my boss to give her the heads-up that I’m running late. I dial the number. I get her voicemail. And so as I leave this wonderfully intoxicating message of my whereabouts and the reasons for my tardiness and so forth my dumbass gonna end the message saying:
Hope to see you soon as possible. LOVE you Josy (my boss), buh-bye.
I told my boss I loved her. I TOLD my BOSS I LOVED her…her! How disgusting! So I’m on the street and I’m freaking out and situations like this only invite the recollection of other embarrassing moments.
Did I ever tell you about the time I was asked to read poetry at this art gallery shindig? Well I was taking this Poetry class last semester, and poetry classes at Columbia are little circles for ritzy elitist to jerk their jollies, quoting Shakespearian monologues while smoking Cuban cigars, so I always felt like a fool sitting amongst them, cuz I can jerk off at home. Well anywho, I had a spoken word artist in my class, this urban little white guy—and I loved him! Of course I wouldn’t leave him a message saying that, but I loved the spoken word artist, and in fact he was a fan of mine as well. So long story short he was running a non for profit organization for people of the arts and they were putting together a gallery or something and he liked me so much he wanted me to read at his function. They had my name printed on flyers and everything. So naturally I’m thinking its my time to show up and show out. I call all my peoples and everyone shows up to watch me read at the gallery thingy.
I and my entourage of family and friends were just about the only black people there. And if you don’t know my writing…I write about either being gay or black…and if I’m feeling spicy enough, I’ll write together the two. It just so happened the spoken word artist only knew of my writing from what I had written in class which never occurred to me until I sat on that stool in front of all those people at the gallery to read because not once in class had I ever brought those black and/or gay aspects of my myself into my writing in that class. So Tom, the spoken word artist had no idea the damage I was about to cause.
I had only prepared 3 poems and after looking at my audience of lipsticks and fur coats and heels with diamond studded watches that mirrored blonde hair, I knew then that none of my material was appropriate. I was about to scare these people. They just weren’t my audience. So I open my mouth, introduce myself—some listen some don’t, and I preface the first poem as being a work in progress which was my round about way of saying forgive me:
The sun is Made of Niggaz!
And I died. I died but I heard my mouth kept moving, so I assume I kept on reading. But the last visual I had of that evening was Tom’s jaw falling to the floor, and the last thing I heard where hearts breaking. THAT was embarrassing!—because I had two more poems to go.
I wound up calling Brown Boy who told me not to panic and call my boss back and explain the situation, apologize and take my ass on to work. I did. but she smiled at me all night long. Here was the poem if you were wondering how it finished.
Untitled
So because that conversation went so well, I was happy. But because that conversation was fifteen minutes more than I anticipated…I was running late, for work. So I jump in my coat and hit the streets, and as I’m realizing that it’s too warm for a coat, I’m high off happy-endorphins and I call my boss to give her the heads-up that I’m running late. I dial the number. I get her voicemail. And so as I leave this wonderfully intoxicating message of my whereabouts and the reasons for my tardiness and so forth my dumbass gonna end the message saying:
Hope to see you soon as possible. LOVE you Josy (my boss), buh-bye.
I told my boss I loved her. I TOLD my BOSS I LOVED her…her! How disgusting! So I’m on the street and I’m freaking out and situations like this only invite the recollection of other embarrassing moments.
Did I ever tell you about the time I was asked to read poetry at this art gallery shindig? Well I was taking this Poetry class last semester, and poetry classes at Columbia are little circles for ritzy elitist to jerk their jollies, quoting Shakespearian monologues while smoking Cuban cigars, so I always felt like a fool sitting amongst them, cuz I can jerk off at home. Well anywho, I had a spoken word artist in my class, this urban little white guy—and I loved him! Of course I wouldn’t leave him a message saying that, but I loved the spoken word artist, and in fact he was a fan of mine as well. So long story short he was running a non for profit organization for people of the arts and they were putting together a gallery or something and he liked me so much he wanted me to read at his function. They had my name printed on flyers and everything. So naturally I’m thinking its my time to show up and show out. I call all my peoples and everyone shows up to watch me read at the gallery thingy.
I and my entourage of family and friends were just about the only black people there. And if you don’t know my writing…I write about either being gay or black…and if I’m feeling spicy enough, I’ll write together the two. It just so happened the spoken word artist only knew of my writing from what I had written in class which never occurred to me until I sat on that stool in front of all those people at the gallery to read because not once in class had I ever brought those black and/or gay aspects of my myself into my writing in that class. So Tom, the spoken word artist had no idea the damage I was about to cause.
I had only prepared 3 poems and after looking at my audience of lipsticks and fur coats and heels with diamond studded watches that mirrored blonde hair, I knew then that none of my material was appropriate. I was about to scare these people. They just weren’t my audience. So I open my mouth, introduce myself—some listen some don’t, and I preface the first poem as being a work in progress which was my round about way of saying forgive me:
The sun is Made of Niggaz!
And I died. I died but I heard my mouth kept moving, so I assume I kept on reading. But the last visual I had of that evening was Tom’s jaw falling to the floor, and the last thing I heard where hearts breaking. THAT was embarrassing!—because I had two more poems to go.
I wound up calling Brown Boy who told me not to panic and call my boss back and explain the situation, apologize and take my ass on to work. I did. but she smiled at me all night long. Here was the poem if you were wondering how it finished.
Untitled
The sun is made of niggaz—
So I’m the one to die?
And this you tell me face to face for lies you hadn’t cared to hide behind
On a star who’d whisk me into the flaming
Torture, of the blackmen blazing,
Raging loud and louder raging
To stoke a fire forever flaming!—
Just to see me dance.
Pop and fizz you’d watch me
roll about the sun flick-flickering
breathing stopped
but you keep tinkering
hoping not
that I stopped breathing
Just to see me dance.
You’ll laugh until you’re flushed with soreness
For I am but fuel for the flame.
And condemn, you will, another man to madness
For niggaz all dance the same.
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