brandon w
12-03-2005, 05:17 AM
The Name Game.
I was slightly surprised
That he hadn’t recognized me.
Old Bobby the black
Intellectual,
Who placed as an ex-egocentric friend
Of my brother’s.
Curious as to if I could observe
Any change in his character,
I brought his attention to me.
I called to Bobby,
He stared.
“I’m Chris Brashers little brother.”
Now he rejoiced with his hip happy tongue
I was ordered to
Talk to him
Before my departure.
Damn I don’t want this.
Why did I open my mouth to him?
I’m pissed.
I sipped my coffee,
And listened to Bobby.
He spoke to his company
In that forced hip tongue.
The air filled with bull****:
Bobby talking of the eminence
Of Bobby.
Every word that came out of his mouth
Had to be legendary,
In the bathroom he probably ****s crystals.
When I was young,
I thought him brilliant.
Now there is a black man
With a gotee
Desperately trying to tape
An identity tab on his sharp noise
Sticking out for everyone to
Witness.
How the poor fellow
Must long to be famous to his
Witness.
What about the things that
Are really important Bobby?
I like this spoon in front of me,
I like how they are shaped here.
Different from all other insipid spoons.
What’s the matter Bobby?
Don’t you care about spoons?
After I thought he left
I left
I was wrong,
He was outside.
Damn it all!
“Hey it’s my co cat Brandon,
How you been?
“Fine.”
It’s getting later
The sun is gone
All is shinning in the wet glaze.
“Man I lost your Brothers
Number because I left Denver”
Hell I don’t remember the rest.
“Can you give me his digits?”
“No”
Is what I wanted to say.
“I don’t remember his number.”
“He has a new one”.
“He has a new house.”
“He is far away now.”
I thought
“He is far away from you.”
I tried desperately to hide
My annoyance
At this irrelevance.
I only succeeded
In shuffling my eyes
All over that pointy face.
“I can give you my number,
Call me,
Then I can give you Chris’s
Number.
Great he said
And pulled out a note book
Probably filled with bull****
And emptied of life.
He started to write
Brandon Brasher, and repeated it to me.
I shuffled and debated.
Quite broken words
Fell onto his head.
“We have different last names.”
Oh great mother of God!
Why did I say that?
Damn it! Damn it!
Here it comes.
Damn it. What’s wrong with me!
Oh yes he crossed out Brasher
And apologized too much.
“No… don’t worry it doesn’t matter.”
Bobby argued trying to be polite.
Oh ****! Oh god!
Don’t make me say it.
He wanted to make me say it,
The basterd.
He called for my real name,
My face contorted,
My stomach dropped to hell.
I can’t, I won’t!
What a trifle this has become.
I can’t, I won’t!
Looking away I said,
“Don’t worry about it,
It does not matter.”
The basterd
The hip basterd insisted.
Oh how it doesn’t matter.
Why can’t I leave?
No rotted molded fruit
Sits in my stomach.
You know how rotten fruit gets.
I don’t know why handing out
My vocal identification card
Feels like such a lie.
Bobby isn’t worth lying to.
He insists,
I almost collapse,
I give up;
Brandon Grant
He writes.
He stops and asks.
“How do you spell that?”
Oh God!
I tell him quick,
Very quick,
Before I implode.
The worst is over.
He suggests having a drink.
Asks my age.
“18”
Astonished
He comments on how young
I am.
It is wet out.
Quickly I leave.
I know he won’t call
And yet he calls me young.
I was slightly surprised
That he hadn’t recognized me.
Old Bobby the black
Intellectual,
Who placed as an ex-egocentric friend
Of my brother’s.
Curious as to if I could observe
Any change in his character,
I brought his attention to me.
I called to Bobby,
He stared.
“I’m Chris Brashers little brother.”
Now he rejoiced with his hip happy tongue
I was ordered to
Talk to him
Before my departure.
Damn I don’t want this.
Why did I open my mouth to him?
I’m pissed.
I sipped my coffee,
And listened to Bobby.
He spoke to his company
In that forced hip tongue.
The air filled with bull****:
Bobby talking of the eminence
Of Bobby.
Every word that came out of his mouth
Had to be legendary,
In the bathroom he probably ****s crystals.
When I was young,
I thought him brilliant.
Now there is a black man
With a gotee
Desperately trying to tape
An identity tab on his sharp noise
Sticking out for everyone to
Witness.
How the poor fellow
Must long to be famous to his
Witness.
What about the things that
Are really important Bobby?
I like this spoon in front of me,
I like how they are shaped here.
Different from all other insipid spoons.
What’s the matter Bobby?
Don’t you care about spoons?
After I thought he left
I left
I was wrong,
He was outside.
Damn it all!
“Hey it’s my co cat Brandon,
How you been?
“Fine.”
It’s getting later
The sun is gone
All is shinning in the wet glaze.
“Man I lost your Brothers
Number because I left Denver”
Hell I don’t remember the rest.
“Can you give me his digits?”
“No”
Is what I wanted to say.
“I don’t remember his number.”
“He has a new one”.
“He has a new house.”
“He is far away now.”
I thought
“He is far away from you.”
I tried desperately to hide
My annoyance
At this irrelevance.
I only succeeded
In shuffling my eyes
All over that pointy face.
“I can give you my number,
Call me,
Then I can give you Chris’s
Number.
Great he said
And pulled out a note book
Probably filled with bull****
And emptied of life.
He started to write
Brandon Brasher, and repeated it to me.
I shuffled and debated.
Quite broken words
Fell onto his head.
“We have different last names.”
Oh great mother of God!
Why did I say that?
Damn it! Damn it!
Here it comes.
Damn it. What’s wrong with me!
Oh yes he crossed out Brasher
And apologized too much.
“No… don’t worry it doesn’t matter.”
Bobby argued trying to be polite.
Oh ****! Oh god!
Don’t make me say it.
He wanted to make me say it,
The basterd.
He called for my real name,
My face contorted,
My stomach dropped to hell.
I can’t, I won’t!
What a trifle this has become.
I can’t, I won’t!
Looking away I said,
“Don’t worry about it,
It does not matter.”
The basterd
The hip basterd insisted.
Oh how it doesn’t matter.
Why can’t I leave?
No rotted molded fruit
Sits in my stomach.
You know how rotten fruit gets.
I don’t know why handing out
My vocal identification card
Feels like such a lie.
Bobby isn’t worth lying to.
He insists,
I almost collapse,
I give up;
Brandon Grant
He writes.
He stops and asks.
“How do you spell that?”
Oh God!
I tell him quick,
Very quick,
Before I implode.
The worst is over.
He suggests having a drink.
Asks my age.
“18”
Astonished
He comments on how young
I am.
It is wet out.
Quickly I leave.
I know he won’t call
And yet he calls me young.