Revenge of the Pink Pony New Poems Cambridge Jenkins IV 84th and 5th Press
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Published by 84th and 5th Press - The 84h and 5th Co. LLC Atlanta, GA 30318 email@example.com www.84thand5th.com Copyright ÂŠ 2008 by Cambridge Jenkins IV Cover design by Cambridge Jenkins IV Additional, original artwork by Myke Patterson Layout and graphic design by 84th and 5th Press
All rights reserved. Printed in the USA
for Sheenaâ€™s mom
Eats All the Children All You Know Chicken Coming Hone Dead Man Shooting Dish Water Go-carts and Chevys Going Down Grabbing at Heaven I’m Not Upset Libertine Majestic Never invited One of Them Poking into Blackness Revenge of the Pink Pony Sex in a Box Speak! St. Louis Blues Thank God The Lines The Lucky Ones Two Shits and You’re There! When it comes
All the Children I would give everything to be lost in my own world like that dark brown woman with the rainbow braids swinging as she zig-zag runs across the busy intersection and up the train station stairs into the busy, clueless people kicking her black, fishnet calves into the air and blinding all the children with her orange, orange dress â€“ EVERYTHING
All You Know You think you are invincible you think you cannot die until you have had a few glasses too many, and you cannot feel your arms or your legs or your eyelids and all you hear is the buzz in your mind and all you see is the blury white light all you know are mosquitoes and flashlights as if you have been drugged and dumped in the dirty creek behind your house and your mother is looking for you calling for you Son! ... !
Chicken Tell me ... Tell me ... Tell me ... That we can have chicken wings again tonight 'cause I won't mind the spot of bleu cheese on your top lip like the last time I just want to see you smile again Tell me we can sip the same sodas we had just a week ago I don't mind if you burp like a man because like a madman is how I love you and you're just emulating my style I think that's so cute Yes, I received your call and I know you want out, and all, but I just don't care, baby I'll wait an eternity for you to show up at my doorstep with the pop and the wet wipes and the cheese 'cause I left ours at the store
Just Tell me ... Tell me ... Tell me ... That we can have Our chicken wings again my love
Coming Home Things just aren't the same tonight, the foyer is spotless, and the moth balls have been suspended indefinitely without pay the air hasn't been left on, and there isn't any dog crap in the corner of the living room like usual Either someone has kidnapped my wife and killed my cocker spaniel, or some other poet is giving it to my wife in a way which beats my best romantic fantasy by a long shot And I've been writing successfully for over thirty years! I think I'll start taking lessons from my protagonists
Dead Man Shooting I see you over there young face, grand smile round, healthy belly laughing, cocking your shotgun spinning your revolver I see you, AD and sure, I’ll come over it’s hot and sticky and you are in a prodding mood Yes, my mother is still yelling yes, I saw the brown, stickly woman sneaking around the back of the house – probably some fresh meat, or old meat, for the uncle Yes, he still strolls the hardwood naked and ignores my friends when they speak no, I haven’t read any Playboy but, yes, I am very much a chest man It’s time for me to go now but I’ll see you around, old buddy I’ll see you over there
on your birthday or New Yearâ€™s or the 4th or Christmas eve shooting Santa form the sky, blasting buckshot breathers through Pluto I have never witnessed a man shooting at nothing so much and as much as I canâ€™t stand the sound, I miss you making it.
Dish Water Oblong shadows on the wall vibrant acrylic splashed on rotting window frames six-thousand dollars for something my infant could imagine Asian couples in the corner dreaming deep into the chandelier Jamaican brothers locking lips in the shadows cooling cobwebs beneath the stairwell A bloody scuffle in the menâ€™s room coke line when Bryan only needs to piss his dirty martini away The cockroach sliding slowly down the Guiness trail and the French woman screaming All of these happenings all of this life being missed while thinking of you with my arms in this murky dish water, trying to find my way home
Go-carts and Chevys They come when they want to when they feel like it the poems when it is 2am and I am making love to my real woman in my dreams because her real love just isn't good enough sometimes, the visions the fantasies the poems pound like hail upon the windows to my soul They come quick brutal relentless some are so raw that even attempting to edit them is like trying to re-attach the feathers to a boiled chicken It's too late to save it or doll it up just eat The damned thing They come rolling down the avenue in gangs of homeboys searching for an engine for their train or a victim for their
blood lust They come in little girls exploring one another's musk amidst the erotic air of a blossoming clover field They come when you fantasize about fantasizing about choking the soul out of your mother's brother the way he choked his orange soda and spoiled bologna and government cheese sandwich out of you They tingle on the bare lips of the little boy who never thought his male best friend would try to kiss him as go-carts and Chevys grumbled in the background.
Going Down 6:14am: I am lying here in my dusty, green bed frustrated at my sleeplessness, kicking the covers back because they just can't warm my heart the way your cool skin used to so I would rather just freeze No man should be awake this early without a reason no man should be afraid to dream of long beach strolls with the lover, kissing cupcake frosting from her nose tip, sucking warm liquor from her tongue while trapped in a slice of Key West moonshine No man should have to bear with being afraid to think about what once was, or pray fervently about what could be but here, I lie, on my belly, sweating, nauseous, scared, lost, grabbing the sheets, "Where are you?"
out loud through chapped lips like a madman Where are you? I am ready now, to make love the last time one last time please come back I am ready to finish what we started I never fixed the crack in the bed frame I never washed the sheets I never mended the hole in the box spring I never wiped your sweaty palm print from the wall Do you remember when I kissed harder and you held tighter? we can start exactly where we left off I remember our position my shoulders are still bruised from the edges of your Achilles digging deep your breasts are still sore they shouldn't have tasted so sweet that night
I am ready ready to break the bed for real this time, ready to go down with the ship, to journey to the center of the earth and lie exhausted in hell's suburb, as long as I am dying, burning, wrapped in you.
Grabbing at Heaven And you wonder what they are wondering about you break a desperate sweat trying to press out daydreams of what they could possibly be daydreaming about what are their songs, their prayers, their fears? are their loathings plentiful or are they simply content with the constantly raining bullshit of life? It is what it is, they say but it should not be always, I whisper You wonder which crotch they are passionate for,
which bosom they are whimpering for you wonder how many times they have stolen stares of you while you were stealing from someone else, and whether the thoughts fueling their secret beams were of killing themselves or killing you, loving themselves or loving you, of grabbing at heaven with greasy fingertips or devouring paradise with ease.
I'm not upset I am upside-down, hanging from a blushing rose bush with yellow fishing line biting into my ankles, blood dripping down my shins, over my knees, weaving through the jungle of hairs on my thighs. Finally, the life water pushes over the valleys in my abdomen and dilutes, flirting with the puddled perspiration spilling down freely from my belly button. This salty potion then rides the center of the valley in my chest, and over my chin, into my lips. I taste you. Into my nose. I breathe you. Most of you fills my nostrils and I drown. A little of you sneaks out and creeps to my closed eyelids, and knocks. Knocks. Knocks. But I don't answer because I'm dreaming of the way it was when you'd pump energy into and through
me, instead of now. You. Bleeding me dry...
Libertine I. Lie down in the bathtub while scalding droplets dent your face your lover steps in but you are not really there sing swollen harmonies to her shower songs worship the weight of her swaying bossom she does not feel her feet pressing into your neck and thighs she does not hear you howling at her moon. II. True liberty is the ability to preach to the choir drunken to puke in the face of God and then ask him to clean the bathroom floor for you because you don't want to be late for the Baptist fashion show in the morning. III. Submerge yourself in an overflowing basin and see that you do not drown throw yourself overboard at the center of the roughest sea and see that you do not learn to swim
IV. Plant your own food; fatten your household or starve stand on the corner and beg; slave or succeed kill yourself at any given moment and stay dead forever or return to the earth as whatever you please. V. Be a human free to be right free to be wrong free to create free to destroy free to love free to hate and wrestle with repercussion accordingly.
Majestic Headless fedoras serve me bitter coffee pierced nipples refill my creamer it's hot here and the world of beautiful people and talking trees are just beyond the window you can almost touch them if you chew fast enough There is nothing really dead here but the life makes you wonder what dimension you have wandered into The depressing yellow tone of every wall, every meal, every skin, eats into your being and flaps its fins along your blood stream until it is fully in control, and you too become majestic
Never Invited Summertime can be a lonely rite for some young boys. There is no homework to complete, no exams to stress over; and the only study is bible study – sometimes. There are adolescent guerillas’ speeding neon water balloons to dodge, and bleeding, stinging pavement scrapes to cry over. There are chipping, rusting monkey bars to tongue-kiss long-time crushes upside-down on, fumbling, pretending to be expert. There are short, tender breasts to explore underneath the dinner table between its faux wooden legs, the secret forest where children are certain their parents will never look. There are wise, heart diseased grandfathers to bury among dusty-throated earth worms, and antique train sets and stop watches to inherit. Once again, hefty Quentin is creeping, terrorizing the neighborhood with his eager band of aqua-gangsters and their over-priced Super Soakers. Stickly Justis is carefree in his parents’ shiny, black-slathered basement bedroom, ebbing and flowing on their leopard-print waterbed, playing basketball on the Sega Genesis with pompous Aaron, the ass. And once again, I am not invited. There are love children to be transformed from potion to preemie, unwanted conceptions to be lost at sea, and seed to be squirted onto Georgia clay carpet cleaned just minutes prior to the love juice’s release. There is sweet, downy honey suckle, dewy white in summer’s dawn, fornicating with the slick chain-link fence separating rival rooks and I, defenseless pawn. The sun grins with no remorse in its plump, fiery cheeks, and cracks its flaming whip down the backs of the dehydrated and the nude. Bed times are extended Salvation’s breeze is non-existent. My mother is out more often being shaken and stirred at some musician’s midnight mixers. And just when I could be in bright Orlando at Disney World, fantasizing about a forehead kiss from Tinkerbell, stealing cheap, red Mickey flashlights and mini Goofy flip books from the gift shop, unsuspected – I am instead, forced down frightened on weakened knees in my own front yard, fighting for sight through clouding tears, waiting for a buff, teen-aged Jesus to appear blazing at the peak of the hill at the back of the Baptist church one house away and across the street. I am eight years old and I am on my knees in my own front yard, surrounded by the big kid next door and the burning eyes of his buddies, frightened by the size and rank odor of the big kid’s dick, pleading fervently because I do not want him to make a mistake and pee in my mouth. And as packed, island-destined sevenforty-sevens scream through the dense clouds over my selfish South Atlanta neighborhood, I am petrified, loathing the whore Summer and cursing my home for being so active, yet simultaneously, so damned quiet.
Why am I never invited?
One of Them is what they like to call you Oh, so you like to hang out with one of those is what they like to say I must be one of you they love to wonder Cambridge eats lunch with faggots Cambridge sips tea with gays, shares the poetry stage with flamers According to some of my buddies gay people are from another time planet Universe Gays were born from a different god - not the God who loves us, the real one It is a race of its own! Look! They have their own holiday and flag and everything! Gay is contagious Don't get so close that you become one of them Don't let them touch you Don't let them breathe on you! They all have AIDS! Some of my buddies ask how I can be so close to someone who is POSITIVE I tell them to stop being
so NEGATIVE and maybe they could find out Don't let them touch your spirit Don't let them breathe on your soul I am warned Don't show them any sympathy! But I am no preacher I am no saint and neither is a preacher a saint, nor a saint a saint I am no judge and no judge on this earth deserves to be They may not agree they may not like it they loathe what they do not understand they say you are sick but hate for someone or something one does not even know is just as much a sickness
as anything else They tell me that I am going to hell with you I tell them that maybe I am going to hell anyway for writing this poem.
Poking into Blackness The sun rises again, your blackness still flirting with the night before, paying me no attention and I miss you I miss the cheap zinfandel and your infinite brown and the pizza box left open and the acid in your voice, the purple on your breath the way you sit when you drive and the way you curse when you are mad you were always a saint to me anyway. I miss sneaking sips of your apple martini, and you sneaking shots at my age I miss your mother's questions and the noise of the couch in your living room It felt just like you, so I dreamed in your arms although you were
in another room whenever I moved, it moaned just like you do when you have a bad day so once re-positioned, I would never move again, because you needed my warmth, and I needed you to sleep silently. I miss how rough the carpet was as I pushed and we kissed and you held on tight we could have been caught, cursed, skinned but no one but our spirits witnessed no one came but you and I Nothing hurt but my knees, your back your buttocks
caught in the snags, cursed with lust, skinned on the barbs and bleeding a little. I miss you inspiring me and telling me about your problems, leading me into the dark-chocolate rotting mushroom forest of life I would stroll that bitter-sweet forest with you and although we would be showered in falling mushy fungus underside, the faith and sureness in your grip always helped me to close my eyes and daydream of the fresh, white caps of the canopy, shining their beauty on the gloom of the rest of the world.
Our bodies would be soaking and smelly, bogged down in the droppings of the mushroom forest like an ant that has lost its way but your grip and faith would lift us high and sit our spirits down on a cushioned, teak dining set, before flawless bone china smothered with shitake and Matsutake and chanterelle and truffles and we would poke fun at the food, the life, stuck and squirming in each other's teeth poke our bodies, our souls under the cool night, shifting constellations.
Revenge of the Pink Pony There is a machine gun in my head silencer slightly unscrewed safety, broken Jack drilling Jill in the Cobb-webbed catacombs of my cochlea It sounds ra ta ta tatta in slow motion like the echoes of butchered redwoods felled on bloody cotton dreamscapes light years away, but it is real it is here it is now! The trigger finger is cramping and numbing and I didn't wear rubber this time because I want all of you to know that Iiiiii did it!
No rubber band-bound locks, no brown sheer stocking face, no imitation limp or false moustache on my lip I am here multi-colored, multi-national, multi-spiritual, multi-sexual, fucking up any functional mind connected to one leg or more or no legs and the revenge is so sweet.
Sex in a Box It was funny the way we fumbled and fell sang and yelled some moments were drowned in pleasure some, drenched in pain nevertheless, we chose to climb each other again having sex in a box really sucks so we pressed play on our busted, dusty stereo and carelessly turned the volume to twenty-five Brazilian tunes grabbed our hands and danced us away to love land It was rude the way I fell into her unannounced although she told me she likes surprises it was awkward the way we kissed, our tongues discovering and swapping tasteless leftovers the dessert was still sweet
and the Rojo was still stroking our nerves gently It was the first time she had cooked for me, and the only time we were not afraid to talk dirty, or come together wildly with the neighbors listening, watching the only time I had been able to marvel at her full, salty breasts drip as if we were loving in hell, and swing his way and that, batting blushing angels away to the coldest reaches of the universe loving her any other way would have hurt far worse than losing her to conservative custom ever has
Speak! Jesus walks, Buddha rubs your belly and Father teaches you an uplifting tongue; yet, you still find a way to weigh yourself down, lie yourself flat-spine on the fresh tarmac, fantasize of blinding green flat lines streaming while the non-stop Japanese jumbo screeches a perfect touchdown, screaming. Feel your face smash as Virgin bleeds between each eyelash. Scratch the itchy arm tire rash on the verge of becoming inflamed. Now, throw yourself limp and flesh-naked into the flames, crux-christened and rosary chained. Fling yourself into a mĂŠnage trios starring housewife faith and slut depression. Force faith to suck slow, and adorn depression with black pearls. forget your pleading wife. ignore your wailing infant girls. Jupiter revolves around a capitalized Y.O.U. Cry your tear ducts dusty; spark a plump Dutch or snort a pile. kiss a cloud or drown a mile. moon hope boldly with a brown curly haired ass and totally disregard Jesus sprinting,
Buddhaâ€™s full-body massage, and Father teaching you the way to speak better things into your life!
St. Louis Blues It has been a rainy evening on the rails The rude are puckering for patient, plump cheeks and Judas is warm, tucked in his bed Even the rail stationâ€™s rodents appreciate their moonlit shower The drizzle and breeze burden my arm hairs, and keep them from flapping around in them and just over that wall is where I would meet her across the walkway, down the escalator I would middle finger the bastard that would unknowingly drive into the crosswalk I would run across, heart throbbing, crotch bulging, sweat drops peeking through my pores then being decapitated by the quick wind passing She would wait in her little blue car, a scarab lost among cell towers and I would go to her grinning, with roses on my boot soles, and rubbers in my knapsack.
Thank God for the monkey wrench and those condoms with the studs and twists all around and men stronger than I am and women softer than I am and marijuana and nuclear fission and sperm eggs Cherry Coke Grandma Alston and her tickling fingers and her ice milk; cell phones penicillin the ability to read out loud the ability to think to myself chicken watermelon chocolate and steroids; thank you for voice-recognition software whiskey and Irish people corn and queso â€“ I would surely not be alive!
Thank you for the lever the wheel the abacus the pyramids the dome and nipple rings; beautiful people ugly people polite people and motherfuckers; the sinner the saint and the hope of salvation Thank you! The list is infinite with all of your faces all of your names all of your history all of your methods my love for you is without End ...
The Lines There are people who don't read people who do what everyone else does; people who walk up to the shop door the lights are off the sign is dark nobody's home And the people peek inside DEEP inside, not knowing what they are searching for, not realizing they should just jot down the store's hours and the phone number pasted in the window and just go home Instead, the ever curious people touch the door push the door jiggle the handle get lucky sometimes and get a foot in the door before being smacked in the nose by the reality that there is no one there to help them
They make lines for dummies just like these lines to be sat in stood in waited in for hours days eternity lines not to be broken or manipulated or colored outside of; lines never, never to be crossed by the intelligent
The Lucky Ones If there are never any hurricanes or tornadoes, earthquakes, floods or rotting roots, some trees will get the chance to be around when either the poem or the human being evolves into something greater than extraordinary These are the lucky ones the ones that don't get bulldozed or burned down or sliced apart at worst, they are pissed on or crapped on regardless, they are allowed to bear flower and fruit until the end of time; the rains will surely accommodate for the waste They have it good the lucky ones get to be swung on, kissed under, climbed on, wondered at and loved by grandmothers and grandfathers lying cuddled in their hammocks, staring at the wind tickled branches, wondering where all the time had gone.
Two Shits and You're There! you know the feeling you know exactly what it is before your clammy soles slip on the cool beech, or soak spots into the prickly wool Your alarm clock has been beep beep beeeeping for the past hour and a half, and your torso is moist but you have not peed yourself - it is body water from the warmth of the sheets and the comforter and your lover's legs having been locked with yours through the night Your pelvis is still slick from the session just hours prior and you can still smell him or her on you you stare into the redness of your digital devil fix your focus turn your blush face slowly to the sun burn, then quick to the clock
The time CANNOT be right, but the sun IS brighter than it should be at this moment rise from the bed sharply, pop your knuckles and knees, and yawn your unsavory morning breath all around the room Choke the silverfish feeding under your air mattress and send the spying wasps home to their mother there is no time to be stung or annoyed at your infestations; you were supposed to be at work an hour ago Strip fast, stumble, stub your pinky toe twice once on the night stand, once on the hallway door burst into the bathroom like your favorite super hero and start the shower so it is hot when you come back
Run through the house naked and find the clothes you did not iron the previous night you do not have any clean socks search the house destroy the house stack your findings in the bathroom sink or on the toilet seat Hop into the shower ahhh... ... Shit! too hot wash scrub your balls or breasts or underarms and pubes only the important parts brush your face and wash your teeth in the shower get out and dry yourself incompletely pull and stretch on the items in your stack of clothes and struggle with the dusty socks you wore yesterday and the day before that Discover your shoes flattened and funky in a place where
only your evil stepmother's ghost would have thought to have hidden them now, stuff a stale Pop Tart and a paper towel in your mouth and run miss the last morning bus or slide into the car that will not start curse Shit! Run do not call and tell them you will be late just run stop run walk breathe choke cry die and pray that you will not get fired this time.
When it Comes When you’re a poet and you haven’t written in a long time, you get the feeling you get when you haven’t had sex in a long time you may be at an open mic and there is a man or woman on stage and that poet is sweating bullets of the brown liquor he drank to mellow out before reciting, or her hands are shaking so badly that she can’t keep her poems in her hands One poet gets up there and farts loudly during a break in her piece, and another nearly trips on the wireless mic cord and you sit there, your spirit laughing its ass off, rattling your insides, shaking the stones from your kidneys, moving your bowels
Your spirit is hollering and rolling on the floor because it would be embarrassing and indecent to actually do so in the center of the packed coffee house you just haaad to sit front and center you are tickled and inspired at the same time you have not written a stanza since seven Saturdays ago and you are about to burst Your face is red, you are getting hot and juicy and your brain is about to explode memories are flooding back, imagination is galloping like ponies into a sunset of little girls, God is speaking to you and your nipples are getting hard For some reason, now, after all this
time, you want to write something you want to express yourself – either because you really have gallons of juice to spray all over the page, or you just think you can do it better than the poor soul you are laughing at either way, it’s coming it’s coming and no one will be leaving with a dry face.
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Born and raised in Atlanta, Ga, Cambridge has been writing poetry for over 5 years. He has performed at many local venues and events, including The Apache Cafe, Java Monkey and the House of IntegriTEA. In 2007, Cambridge served as a panelist for the National Black Arts Festival. He also has an interest in spreading his poetry to the college and university communities. In May 2008, Cambridge embarked upon a journey which was his first, and definitely not to be his last, university experience. Along with Tim'm T. West, meeK and Ken J Martin, Cambridge traveled to Furman University in Greenville, SC to perform alongside the aforementioned artists in a production aptly titled The Front Porch. In addition to serving as CEO of 84th and 5th, he produces the Atlanta independent artists market and showcase, The Corner LIVE! Also, Cambridge is the self-published author of two works, "Dedicated - a Collection of Poems", and "Revenge of the Pink Pony". "Don't Shoot the Messenger" is a forthcoming title, due early 2009. His works are published under 84th and 5th Press.
Mission and Vision 84th and 5th is an ever-growing vessel and support system for all indie artists truly passionate about sharing the gems of their creative depths with the world. There are so many songs which go unheard; so many paintings and sketches which go unseen; so many poems and stories which go unread. Many times, the only way for certain artists to be noticed is to have the money or connections to do so. These very opportunities are not always available for indie artists - even the best ones. Because of this lack of opportunity, 84th and 5th is stepping up to serve as the magic doorway that will connect the worthy with the way-makers â€“ and the community will be the judge of who captures its heart the most. I am determined, ultimately, to bridge the gap between serious indie artists and serious lovers of this art â€“ of all kinds. I aspire for 84th and 5th to be comprised of many products and services dedicated to the development of independent artists in all communities, and to the education of those communities from which those artists have sprouted. These products and services include quality open mic and showcase events, a small press, and a storefront (online and physical locations) exclusively for local independent artists. And this is only the beginning! Mission: * To recognize and show appreciation for the community's role in the development of independent artists. * To provide quality venues and services to independent artists, which may aid them on their road to success. * To infuse the independent artist with a sense of direction and a vision of hope, so that the artist may succeed to the best of his or her ability. Vision: * All artists, everywhere, being their best at doing what they love - feeding the starving masses with their passion, and being fed in return. As the dream grows and the manifest is greater, more support is needed from the body, which makes any artists dreams possible - you, the community. As this Corner, 84th and 5th, grows, things will change so that it may evolve more efficiently. These changes will allow 84th and 5th to serve both the artist and the community in a more reliable and effective manner. Thank you for your support. And Iâ€™ll see YOU on The Corner!
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