CHARLY WRITES TOO.

“ILLIN’ “

Part 1

so dis boy had tole me he likeded me
(over skype)

…and he tole me his girls can’t be havin chipped nails
(or let their teeth click on forks)

…and i was like wuuuuuuut and said “naw.”
(red flags. RED FLAGS.)

Part 2

so why dis boy had called me
(this man hath calleth me)

…he had tole me he was in DC
(suspect lied about whereabouts)

…he say he finna come to boston and visit
(like motherfucking hell)

…so why my best friend had called me and tole me she seent him in Houston tonight.
(mentiroso)

Part 3

sooo dis otha boy had wrote me a e-mail
(from another country)

…and whycome we been broke up
(like.. forever ago almost)

…but he tryna kick it to me like he want me and shiiiiii
(“If we are truly soul mates we will find our way..”)

…I’m is cool right whurr I’m at.
(I found my way.)

Part 4

I ain’t ee’n finna look at my phone after

Thursday

mothafucka I’m illin
chillin, killin, fillin
wiff my villain

and we is gone be

leaning
beaming
dreaming
screaming

unhhh




“TRAIN RIDE”

I’m on the train with the real Boston people. Not the ones who come here for school and hop on the train with dumbass problems like why their Stella McCartney bag has a hole on the inside, or how many people around them are wearing last season’s Montclair coats.
These people have on blue clothing.
Some of them are young.. I just glanced over at a lesbian couple and they both look no older than fifteen. One of the girls still has that “one-side-of-the-head-braided” thing going on. the other has obviously made every calculation to make sure she looks as boyish as possible; however, she looks like pretty girl sporting B-5 curls while wearing her brother’s clothes.
A lady on my left shouts over me to the man on my right “AYE ROBBIE!” in an unmistakeable New York/Boston accent : “You gon’ um, bring the thing tomorrow?”
“My laptop?” Robbie says.
“Yeah, dat. I want some more shit, yo.”
“Aw yeah? What you want? Drake?”
“Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh, some more Drake. And some Nikki Mee-nage too. You know. ‘Specially since. She comin out. You know? Like she got mad underground shit!”
The lady and Robbie bang my ears up with boisterous exchange about just how dope Drake and Nikki are, as if no other rappers exist. And I’m completely over it.. unitl I hear Boosie screaming through one of her cheap ass earbuds (she already made it known that “the ovah wuns was wuz broken so Robbie could you bring me ya second paih tamarrow?”).

There’s a blonde lady across from me with a cheap red patent pleather bag. She stares intently at my Macbook case. Everybody does, because it’t painted like a motherfucker. (I need to redo it, the sealant has become gummy.) But then she stares at my face.
Why in the fuck do people assume that because you have on shades that you can’t see them looking right at you?
My thoughts are interrupted by the lady on my left shouting out “MAN I’m ’bout to put on some Drake right NOW! AYE you know what my jam is?” And she hums an tone-deaf, offkey rendition of “Uptown”.

H Town stand up, I guess.

She then starts blasting the “Intramestal” (I guess her idea of how “instrumental” is pronounced) of some new Drake song through that one earbud.

And I’m late as hell to my private lesson.. I didn’t study Corelli’s La Folia and I didn’t even try to play an etude from my Mazas book in two weeks. My teacher is probably fed up with me, I missed last week’s lesson.

Until next time. (Dun dun DUNNNNN)




“PRECOCIOUS PINK PUMPS”

precocious pink pumps
precocious pink pumps
i met the New York man for dinner
he wants me now for lunch
i met the New York man for lunch
he put me in his trunk
how do i tell the New York man
he just scuffed up my pumps




“I ONLY CARE ABOUT..”

His fingers were a tangled twist and frozen in midair; a loose curled grip, as if he once grasped tightly on to everything that made him a man but was eventually forced to relinquish command over his livelihood. However, he could not have been a stupid man, for he had made it on the streets this long.
The sun could not have been brighter. For any of you who know Boston, the morning sun is the most convicting sun. It is undeniably sun, and all who are under its direct gaze are exposed regardless of whether they want to be or not. It is the greatest common factor unifying everything on this part of the earth between the hours of 7am and 5pm; its most pronounced period being, as I stated, in the morning.
Sun or no sun, I guiltlessly did not feel an ounce of relevance or relation to el hombre.
This man and I were on the same bridge attempting to shield our sight from the same sun. We breathed in the same oxgen and expelled the same CO2. We obeyed the same laws of gravity, our bodies have scientifically proven to function in the same manner under different types of stress.
Science or no science, I guiltlessly still did not feel an ounce of relevance or relation to l’homme.
It took only a split second to notice this man, assume he was probably dead, wonder about my grade on my art history midterm, and forget him. That is, until I saw a police car slowly drag by; two officers got out and, without emotion, asked the man to stand up and move. I looked back many times, hoping he would be alive enough to get up. I noticed about twenty poeple doing the exact same thing–these same twenty people who passed him up just as I had, but instantaneously found it in their desensitized hearts to want him to get up once they saw the police. The same twenty people who, had he been dead, would never have known it because they were all focusing on not thinking about that man.
I was just as guilty. It scared me to know that had he been dead, I would have been one of his killers. I not only forced myself to ignore him–I put myself above him, totally forgetting that he and I were brother and sister.




“PEE PEEs AND CHI CHIs”

pee pees and chi chis

tee tees and wee wees

he got what she need

she got what he please
inside my teepee

he sneeze, and i wheeze

i like to blow trees

just pour me mo’ please
i am the bee’s knees

because i see things

he likes what i sing

i like what he springs
we do not use keys

we dont have no strings

we are just being

we are just breathing
words from phlanges

written on flat trees

all of the ink reads

“can you be with me”
i feel his soul breathe

‘neath me, beneath me

“you’ll make my soul bleed

dont ever leave me”
i feel the same thing

i’ll be his changeling

i am his right wing

now they all miss me
spend the day tangling

look like spaghetti

he likes to play king

“queen me, just queen me”
okay

when you put it that way

that’s all you had to say

the only place to lay

is with you

by my side

excuse the drunk and high

i didnt have to try

i just makes sense that I

take you in

we both win

get all under my skin

i need you, need you in

make memories and then

tell the world
tell them how

you’re finally happy now

(disintegrates the crowd)

if we were any loud-er-they’d-be-deaf




“I MISSED THAT SHIT”


Chronic go-to-bed-at-4am-every-night disorder.
And I woke up after class was over because I set my alarm to pm instead of am.
I missed Art History.
Art History, where we learn about the temples of Uruk, the classical Greek sculpture style, the difference between Mycenaean and Egyptian wall paintings. I missed that.
I wonder what they did. It would help if I asked the other students. Problem is, they’re all freshman who can’t conceptualize the importance of precise note taking.. as in “I google images of whatever the hell the professor may be talking about” and they just facebook all day. The other ones just don’t see any relation between paying tuition for this class and actually coming to class.
So I can’t ask what we did in class. And I sure can’t ask the professor, that’s like, insulting.. “Hey I didn’t think your class was important enough to come to last time, do you mind just summing up everything you talked about? Make it quick, I got shit to do today.”
Perhaps the class went over wall art again, exploring the who-what-where-when-why of Alexander the Great’s mosaic scene depicting him winning a battle. Perhaps the class spent the hour immersing themselves in an artistic chronology of statues outlining the anatomy of the world’s most barbaric rulers. Either that or they spent their time caressing with their eyes the folds of gowns mythological goddesses wore that were so tediously carved into blocks of marble.
They probably didn’t even have class. They probably all went out for coffee, talked about music, made a few deals amongst each other, and made up a song about why I missed class. “Charly didn’t bring her ass to class/boom boom boom/ Charly I don’t think you wan-na pass/ boom bomp-bomp-chicka boom.” Somebody probably sold it and is bound to see endless royalties off that.
Or they probably just had class and talked about the same exact shit as last time.
Either way, I missed Art History.

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