Humble Mouths

Raw Perspectives! Wordplay from active minds and humble mouths.

Bar Muse

Great service often begins on a barstool and with a smile

But where do we meet our muses?

Is it the same place we discover our uses?

How exact is our certainty,

How precise are we?

Certainly we have our issues.

Certainly we do:

Attract opposites and attract catastrophe.

Subtract from all earthly abstracts in our impotent attempts of achieving true communication via conversational mastery.

Mostly we fail at serving each other worthy nouns. Like the titles of King or Queen, Brother or Sister, Elder or teacher.

Ever more the choice of adjectives are weak. Lacking of substance and undertone. No beauty, no passion. We purposely describe one another as lowly, useless; bleaker.

Seeking after outward praise and attention without accurately depicting others’ struggles, the successes, the verbs…

The motherfucking verbs keep reality!

But still we could uplift each other as the “S” carries her apostrophes.

And challenge incoming questions with bold exclamations capable enough of silencing conundrums or existential queries.

Aren’t similes and metaphors like exotic flings with ground loving angels disguised as people.


I don’t wish to read your mind, if only we could reason


I’ve met a muse a time or two, people I could believe in.


bodies I could touch through their psyches and translate mixed emotions into bar tap feelings.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She inquires.


Semper Fi is no Lullaby

I do not know how many of them slept as they should.

When boots are on the ground how could…

They not worry about loss, worry about cost, fatigued with responsibility

The wavering endurance of surviving lefts and rights,

Pushing on to maintain our ideals, our suppositions of ethics and morals, our cornucopia of races, religion, gender, politics no matter how skewed, racist, sexist and childish they are amongst our neighbors.

Semper Fi is no lullaby.

Neither are the hoorahs that exclaim from the ranks,

Neither are the badass sergeants and petty officers that run things,

“Officers are for offices anyway right?” (Joking)

Leaders, lead beside and in front.

Many of each have died to afford us 10 Britannica collections worth of freedoms we aren’t even grateful for.

Imagine the life of occupation

Yea, Semper Fi is no lullaby but some will sleep better tonight. Some know the battles fought; won and lost.

Some know the duty, the watchstanding, the 12s, the trenches, the general quarters, battlefields, folding Old Glory, half masts, 21 gun salutes, purple hearts, weeping spouses, bereaved children, successing bloodlines…

Semper Fi is no lullaby but tonight…

I’ll sleep better because of your faith.

Thank you


Mama’s got a way about her.

Never ever been the type to concern herself with what you say about her.

She doesn’t earn enough to be rich,

But everything she has are byproducts of her working fists.

Some mothers didn’t wanna be:

Mothers, makers, providers, huggers, Mrs. Wipe-the-tears-away, confidants, best friends, muses, teachers, heros…

Mama’s got a way about her.

Never ever been the type to concern herself with what you say about her.

She’ll pull 2 doubles saving up for the trouble,

It’s better to be prepared than unprepared in the struggle.

Some mothers didn’t wanna be:

Responsible, reasonable, reliable, reassuring, reachers, road maps, rescuers…

Mama’s got a way about her.

Never ever been the type to concern herself with what you say about her.

So her kids brought their own in the world and give her all the praises for their graces and being their worlds.

It’s unfortunate that in black communities mothers too often raise their children alone. Thank you to the mothers that embody the true representation of motherhood. We love you.



Gray… greatest ceiling cover ever to shelter you, me, your brother,  mother and grandmothers.
Fathers is running farther,  anticipating the storming.
The precipitation atop the perspiration can remedy the burning…
Of lost love or love lost.

How many dictators and righteous men the same been gutted under the slate skies to even slates and battle plains?
Enough to pain.
I just know the sun is hidden,  this fact is proven.
Until I call Ruben, a service member serving in Cali until September.
He said it’s right as rain.
Disconnecting mobile minutes in lieu of that last cool
-breeze that blows before the thunderous pellets drip-drop.

Drop drip,
Drip drip,
Sons die like drops drip for throwing sets and claiming crip.
More lay in red pools dueling over stripes and culture chips,  for saying blood.

Gun on floor,  face on deck,  hog tied with pig legs prying weight on backs for carrying weight, the irony.
Rain falls and absolves whatever hate hasn’t dissolved,
Drains clog as it falls, First 48,
it won’t be solved.

Storm gauges everywhere will serve a purpose.
The bayous can’t hold this much pasta sauce, thicker than roux too.
As red as Texas is Houston feels so black.
I see cops and men that resemble their uniforms give dap.
Ponchos and gone-brellas kiting in the wind.


Bread Ties


It would be infinitely better if we could twist the obvious together,
Keep the bread safe you know?

A little of your metal, a little of my plastic,
The security,  safety and nostalgic.
Dodge the mold,  stifle the tragic.
Everything secure: wheat, white, pita, Cuban, rolls, Multigrain, and kaiser.
That’s God, us, money, transportation, luxury, food, hope and appetizers.

I prefer the twist tie over the plastic clip.
Like you prefer sandwiches with the crusts clipped.
I love wheat because fiber supports recovery from slips,
Because falls are all white when the impact hits.

We first need to get all the excess air out so we don’t become inflated with the ideas of others.
Bakeries smell better than bread shops,
Cakes, tarts, donuts and bear claws… muffins, cupcakes and cake pops.

So similarly we should look around and observe, then on the contrary sit on the shelf with loaves of similar yeast, dough, grain and packaging.
After all sourdoughs hate to see us frenching, sweet on each other like donuts and circling our cream like bagels that gets them all flaky like croissants.

It would be infinitely better if we could twist the obvious together,
Keep the bread safe you know?
Like bread ties…

****unedited picture source: Bread Ties ***

Black in White

OK so…
Picture a neck and it’s attached to a rope
All the strands and fibers are the opposite of hope.
The knot is compassion, no matter how it seems because I threw my whole life at it and I’ll pay double to breathe.
Beams of pressure, relative to the mass of my weight under the stature of my stress.
Never thought I’d be aloft on a rope with Depression bouncing on my shoulders like a crazy 3 yr-old, thighs locked around my throat.
He gloats and the smell of a** at the back of my neck is revolting.
Tears fall out the pockets of my soul onto my cheeks.
Fear waves anxiously at me from a neighboring tree.
I kick, I kick, I swim…
Trying to displace enough air to lift my future out of this noose.
My hands go stiff, pre embalmed no more blood to claw at the hemp strands. They sink into my respiratory… my pulmonary, my spirituality and stop.

My tears subside and the viewing smiles lose their place in convulsions.
Pale faces, same faces that made aged faces sing amazing graces because of disgraces and segregated races boy I bet you wouldn’t wanna trade places!
This tree, almost companion less now knows me best and all of my carbon traces.
My pupils black and filled with death, face drained of light, left in fright, world once greens and reds and beautiful blues of all vertical shades and horizontal hues is only; white…

But it was born black?

***This is a direct response to the countless lives altered by the perpetuated hate of race or religion. #coexist ***


The most insidious thing I’ve faced is living in the presence of the people I have hurt;  is that then death to the people who have been hurt?
Witness the templates I’ve presented to you’re viewing pleasure.

Stable, ambitious, legendary…
Great husband,  better father,  stellar man. Pleasantries.

When the refined sugar had dissolved the plain clothed resolves
The selfishness bubbles over,
The inconsiderate actions of a self-centered soldier.
Laying in trench, entrenched in the bodies I’ve bagged as baggage.
The doors all revolve around me like dollars do around whores.
Bitter as biting into big ass radishes.
Reality is exactly what the challenge is.

So I lay templates out like sanctified hands,
Wasted years and overly procrastinated plans,
Every year is an unfortunate toast, a reminder that the last year was abandoned, never mind the ambition,  never mind my intent or my Perception’s position.
The truth is even a failure,  a war inside to face the facts like lack of devotion to one’s own pledged religion. 

I have officially ran out of templates

Wire taps

If there was a thing I could have, especially for a Christmas list… it’d be a wire tap on you.
I’d plant the microphone on your mind so I can hear what your thinking all the time and as elementary or infantile as it sounds, I’d need only blow wind across your head and be effortlessly blowing your mind. 

If there was a thing I could ask for on father’s day and you said “baby no price limit it’s yours”
I’d buy my ass a wire tap for your mind and eat your thought process H’orderves.
I’d be up on your fashion craves, the in style foundations,  shadows, nail polishes and lipstick shades.
Savory your weight loss plans and remedies, sampling your pedicures and favoring your pedigree.

If there was a thing that I could get with that veteran’s day special at Best Buy,  I’d wire tap your spinal tap so I could feel your worries and pop your snaps.
Know when my words are laced in sarcasm,  take em back and cut them up play them back in 4k for you dressed and etched in Fantasia the Phantasm.
Wipe your tears before they mount, kiss every inch of those magnificent lips before they pucker… before they pout, before they frown,  in between our shouts, the in between inaudible is our mouths.

If I could exchange Thanksgiving feast for a selfish desire,  I’d trade up my PS4 for a tap and eBay the wire. I’d get into your Note 3 and text you kissy emojis when you need them most,  call your phone to say absolutely nothing, you know like to hear you breathe because that’s what counts the most.
I’d flip mines off when your thinking I wish he was noticing me.  The novice in me is missing all the things my wire tap would see.

And simply… whether, stretch, or plains or farms, or vast valleys and wide seas; I’d always have a piece of you right here with me.

Bad for you

The whole world with some kids in it and the double deck home, picket fence with the clothing line with sheets pinned to it, doctorate in something financially secure just to secure your sense of security… that’s just the superficial!
Officially she only wanted me but I came complete with baggage and frequent flyer weeks, selfish in the flesh and lacking the complete comprehension of loyal-T.

I’ve got tea bags and brains and she just deserves royal-T.
This is the part that writers call “soliloquy.”
It’s important to understand that it’s not impossible to wed, impregnate and confide in someone but still give so little… me.
Trying to find my God shovel to plant this seed worthy of being rooted in… HE.
Because without divine intervention like Jesus hands on the wheel this love is more like obituar-y!

I’m so bad for you like ruined your life and stressed the rags on you.
You just wanna smile,  I just wanna give time and possibly bless the tags on you.
Treat you with more respect than meat,  do more than grab on you.
Go gambit with our daughter,  gambling over who should have the bigger half of you!
Deliver speeches at the symposiums, key notes,  I can brag on you.

All about:
How the Lord made me from HIM and you from me then put you in front of my reach,
I got proverbs that grow something strong like you, preach!
Hope the natural flavors of love don’t fade with juice, peach.
Impeached the constant variable in attempt to make romance the constant constable.

But with all my good, great, greater than wishful intentions I seem to only bring bad for you.


How long have I loathed to pen things that pop off pamphlets, notepads, Facebook walls and twitter feeds like stallion erections… [pause]
He used to be poet, he used to craft bars out of Dos Equis because he is anything but the ordinary selection.
He is confident in his skill, not so sure about freewill,  very mistaken about refills and highly susceptible to expression.

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