The Day After The Apocalypse


The day after
the apocalypse,
I’ll secretly be happy
because I won’t have to
go to work anymore;

I’ll wonder which
celebrities survived
and if they are able
to snap from their
survival bunkers;

I’ll have a grin
on my face when
I stare down at
my smartphone
and it reads...

NO SERVICE.

I’ll get mad because
I didn’t go to the
grocery store the day
before or wonder why
I didn’t put five dollars
more on pump seven.

I’ll be worried about
family and friends
but hope they can feel
my telepathic messages
to get out of the city
and to the boats
like we planned.

I’ll daydream
about meeting a
Michonne or Sasha
and wonder if my
hair will be as perfect
as the apocalypse
survivors on tv and
in movies.

I’ll probably go commando
because doing laundry
won’t be high on my
survival list;

I’ll think about all the moments
I wasted and all the people I
never told I loved;

I’ll fight hard
not to let my mind
become a grave.

I’ll paint my skin with
all the autumns, sunrises
and sunsets I’ve ever
witnessed, open my
front door and let the
chaos teach me how
to breathe.


© 2017 abruvanamedsly




Saturation



The
world tried
to turn her skin into a coffin
but art, love and words
were her melanin.

She was a palette of divinity.

A high priestess of the color spectrum.

A visual representation of Coltrane’s

A Love Supreme.

The sound of blood rushing

through my veins.

My breathing.

I watched from afar
as she observed life,
turning every second
into a muse;

jealous at how light
was greeting her skin;

shadows and rainbows
arguing over who would
accompany her throughout
the day.

She bathed in creativity
and smelled like a spring
sunrise in Zamunda.

When she stared at me,
all I could think of was
a lazy Sunday where want
become a canvas and our
bodies the paint;

fingertip brushstrokes
and tongues dabbling
in each other's details;

Basquiat & Kahlo on purpose.

She made me remember why I couldn’t keep my hands off Crayolas.



© 2017 abruvanamedsly




Spectral Figure 2


(30/30) Year Twenty-Nine: HIGHER LEARNING




The most important

lesson learned in college;

question everything.



© 2017 abruvanamedsly



Temple


(29/30) Year Twenty-Eight: REMEMBERING LOVE



My parents taught me about
blissful commitment;
the way they embraced happiness
and shared it with the world
was infectious.

Their energy made me feel safe;

I lived in their sanctuary
and vowed if I ever found
someone to spend my life with,
I would mimic the lessons they
imparted in every way.

Remembering their love
helped me from becoming
jaded when those around me
abused what I had to offer.
 

© 2017 abruvanamedsly






(28/30) Year Twenty-Seven: ROAD RAGE



I couldn’t stay calm while driving to work,
congested roadways made me tense;
especially when I was cut off by a jerk,
whose actions caused teeth to clench.

Retaliation would fill my head,
thoughts on the day’s chores done,
the focus was to see that motorist dead.
Road rage sprung, so I reached for a gun,

was today the day I make the news?
Shots fired, we’re live on the scene;
an idiot magnified Monday morning blues,
destroying a disposition that was serene.

To expel this insanity from my brain,
I started to commute by train.
 

© 2012, 2017 abruvanamedsly





  
 

(27/30) Year Twenty-Six: ROAD TRIPS




I’d rent a van and pack it tight,
taking my nieces to visit down south,
we’d usually leave after midnight,
so I wouldn’t have to hear no mouth.

They were angels while sleeping,
making trips run fairly smooth,
but my ears would start weeping
once their lips began to move.

Are we there yet? This trip is long…
we’re hungry, thirsty and gotta pee.
Turn the radio up, that’s our song.
Look!!! A McDonald’s on route three!!!


They’d be in the back crying the blues,
Uncle Junebug why’d you turn to the news??!!!
 

© 2017 abruvanamedsly





 

(26/30) Year Twenty-Five: REJOICE




To make it to twenty-five – a milestone indeed,
especially in environments were not many succeed,
except at self-inflicted genocide,
random gunshots becoming so normalized,
King Herod’s curse attempting to wipe us out;

I made it to twenty five.

A quarter of a century down, how many years to go?
With the specter of ostracization, I don’t know.
Hope I can evolve, reproduce, and become aware,

that until I love myself, no one else will care;
I stand in a quiet place to hear myself shout;

I made it to twenty-five.



© 2011, 2017 abruvanamedsly





(25/30) Year Twenty-Four: NEW YEAR'S EVE




Times Square, New York City;

seeing the ball drop in person

isn’t as warm as watching

it from home.



© 2017 abruvanamedsly





 
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