The Stranger Jason

"Now can you tell me who said that?"
I thought it was a trick question.
The Bible verse that this stranger had just quoted was both foreign and familiar.
Hesitantly, I answered
"I believe that was Jesus who said that."
"That's right! That's right!"
He quickly continued
"Ok, Ok, now let me ask you this..."
He stepped in close.
"What kind of hater are you?"
This was a new one.
I hadn't been asked this question before and he knew it.
His dark lips bent into a tiny smile.
"Hmmm..." I thought
"Invisible!" I finally said
"Oh, invisible, huh? Why's that?"
"'Cause my hate is unseen. It doesn't exist!"
"Ok, ok. You don't hate anything? Ok. That's good."
We nodded our heads in confident agreement as if our necks were made of springs.
He didn't waste a second.
"Ok, well I know how to be the ultimate hater..." He said pointing his skinny dark finger.
"Oh, Ok, Is that right?"
"That's right, but you know what gets me up in the morning?"
"What's that?"
"This prayer. This prayer gets me up every morning. Now repeat after me..."
He began to recite and I followed him, mimicking his words, but arbitrarily inflecting the sounds.
I was locked in.
As he spoke, as I repeated, his features became more apparent;
Dark, smooth skin, that  of a Church man,
a crimson button up shirt, black pants, shiny black shoes,
and a neat afro atop his head.
He was wild with reverence.
His teeth were long and broad and slightly yellowed at the gums
as if they had been baptized back to white.
Our call and response prayer lasted about a minute or two
then we shook hands, hugged, and introduced ourselves.
His name was Jason.
He walked away and with a smile, he turned back towards me and shouted,
"Alright, Blaine. I love you, man!"
Rejuvenated and humored, I smiled, laughed, and called back, "Alright, man. I love you, too!"
The stranger named Jason carried on with his bold stride,
the red folds of his clothes rippling in the wind,
I turned and walked the entire three mile length home,
a resurrection awakened within me. 

Think of Me

For me, it is hard to write about someone I love.
It is hard to craft words into a magical order
that portrays a correct verbal measurement
of the warm golden light I feel when kissed by my lover.
It is hard to write, but easy for me to see
our bodies curled together beneath cotton sheets.
I can easily feel my fingernails gently raking across
the warm skin of my lovers soft buttocks.
A map of my lovers body is imprinted in me
It guides me to the familiar quiet corners,
the cozy pockets of rippled skin folding outwards and in
sweet valleys of soft prickly hair
subtle scents that only I would smell
These are the places where I dwell
anxious for the gift of moist lips on my neck
nostalgic of skinny fingers tickling me.
All selfish desires fortified by selfless deeds,
like giving my lover all she needs.
It isn't easy for me to say
that I think about my lover everyday
And when I don't I find it strange
then proceed to think of her once again.

Rose

Somewhere in this garden
lie a slow dying rose.
Brittle and dry pedals
tightly packed together,
slowly drying out in unison.
The sweet scent has faded,
the lush red body now
tiny and gray.
Not even the graying thorn
is sharp enough
to accidentally prick
an oblivious passer by.
She lie hanging the only rose
in a thicket of pointy branch and vine.
When once hungry bugs would
chew at her nourishing loins
the busy creatures now
crawl over and around her,
occasionally sitting atop her head
to admire the view.
On particularly cold, clear,
moonlit nights, the nearby daffodils
can hear Rose sigh.
A ghostly sound, her breath stretches
only an inch, mixing in with the cool breeze.
"These sighs are not apologies"
cries Rose
"These breaths are not regrets.
What was taken from me was also given,
for I have never possessed excess, but
have been claimed by many
to be amongst the bounty."
The posies can only look away with saddened jealously,
shivering in the chill.
Icy water has gathered on Rose,
the cold perspiration sometimes softly drips below,
drowns a few ants, and sends the others scurrying about.
This is as close as Rose ever comes to crying.
She hangs her head and a flaky leaf
breaks and drifts swiftly away.

Time takes time
and time needs more time
My whole life
is time after time