the sassy little co-ed

who used to flirt with me in the halls here has started to pout, probably because i have never asked for her number. i gotta say she looks pretty awesome in her sweaters and the way she puts her hair up some times and she doesnt wear much makeup and, well it’s just ashame that she can’t read minds cuz if she could this is what she’d see/hear/read:

very interested, but i hafta clean my pad, improve my career, get a car, deal with the others, work on the biceps, get some new clothes, get some new jokes, and do my Black History Month series on my website, then maybe maybe maybe i would maybe get your phone number, but i dont date the girls that i work with, but if i did, i’d start with you.

ive totally turned femme. it’s really ashame. im cooking, cleaning, getting all weird cuz hot chicks dont want to be my friend. im judging girls by their personality and heart and not by the nastiness in their eyes or the things they promise that they can do when they make their little comments.

this girl started on the neck, right behind the ear and worked her way down and i was thinking, i wish she could work on the heart a little.

i havent watched porn in months, im reading books, im writing poems.

im even thinking that the Rams can cover that paltry spread.

last night this very very kind old white lady with missing front teeth, a palsiated foot, a cane, and the sweetest optimistic mind wanted to talk politics and welfare reform with me as we waited for the train a quarter mile beneath koreatown. she said, “things are tough, especially for young black men.”

i said, “things are getting better, though.”

and she touched my knee and said, “oh i love your idealism. im a hopeless idealist.”

and asked me about myself.

i didnt want to tell her a thing. im so sick of the whole story and who isnt? she was just lonely and wanted to talk to someone.

“im a freelance superhero living in hollywood, working for the xbi where i steal from the crooks and give to the homeless.”

“what’s that, hon?”

“im a student.”

“oh really, at UCLA?”

“uh huh.”

“what are you studying over there?”


“how fascinating!”

“17th century japanese poetry, is my focus, but, you know.”

“Oh, all I know is hiakus. 5-7-5, right.”

“17th century japanese poetry is largely based in the haiku tradition!” I said, excitedly.

Then a black woman with an glittery hat with american flag designs on it offered to sell me a Feburary bus pass for a reduced cost. I examined it, she told her story about it and I gave her the money.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” the old white woman said afterwards.

“Why not?” i asked.

“You could go to jail. She could have been a cop.”

“She offered it to me, it would have been entrapment.”

“So smart. Why don’t I see a wedding ring on you?”

“The girls I date are even smarter.”

And finally the train arrived.

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