define:

what makes an object what it is?

is a chair a chair because we sit on it?
or do we sit on it because its a chair?

question: two men sleep in the bed together. are they gay? say they sleep naked. are they gay now? if one wakes up with the other's penis in his mouth, are they gay? are they gay because of this or is it because of their gayness that this happened?

i'm sitting on a countertop as i write this, does that make it a chair?
or maybe i just don't got no home training.

point is: do definitions define us or are we the writers of our own definitions?
Am i Tarrancce because i was told so or because i've defined to be such.

bigger question: am i Black because society says so? because they don't. in fact, most say i'm
"white" (you know, proper speakin and shit li dat dere.) So am i, in fact, white?
if so, am i white because that is my definition?

but to determine that wouldn't we, first, have to define Black?

so Tarrance = white . which doesn't = Black
Tarrance: intelligent, cunning, wise, hard-working, talented, kind, etc. = white. (?)
so Black: dumb, dense, foolish, lazy, unskillful, mean-spirited, etc. i refuse to believe such.

but to further answer this, we'd have to ignore my pigment.

define "definition": the words that tell us what we/it are/is

define "what we are": the people who make definitions

"I am what i am."

-heres to a new dictionary.

may death be with you

if heaven was hell in vicea versa.
i'd say God bless you and you'd say i cursed.

peace be with thee
would be an insult of a thing

so thank God things aren't how they could be.

but for you, and just for you.
that is how things should be.

i curse you breath
i grimace at your smile
i wish you the best at nothing, but death.

too bad the world isn't vice versa.

noting no thing.

nothing is to be nonexistent. 

thus, with the being of no thing, there must be an everything. 

thus, they must be in the same. 

tarrance = tarrance.

thus if tarrance is not tarrance then there is no tarrance. 

but if tarrance is not tarrance, there is a tarrance to know what a tarrance is.

(funny, thus far, the only misspelled word is tarrance.)

so to exist is to have not existed.

this is what we call birth, no?

yes. 

therefore, all things must exist for them to not exist. 

exist being a verb, of course. 

or a adjective, even. 

can we reach the horizon?

no matter how far we walk, we cannot. 

but it does exist, doesn't it?

no. and yes. 

we can walk until we meet defeat (de-feet) and never touch it.

so then, does it exist?

what the hell is "it" anyway?

"it" is whatever i say it is. 

that is the American way.

but then what of God, air, clouds, Santa?

we cannot touch them but they exist. right?

an English solider cannot be touched. but they are very real. 

and those who try to touch them are met with ill repercussions. 

these other things are american ideas, mostly.

which we, also, cannot touch.

damn it.

i say that to say: "nothing is everything."

but how bland is that?

thank you Percival Everett.

leveled interrogation

tied to his chair, he sat calmly.

i stooped to his level making sure to rest my elbows on my thighs so he could see my dangling gun.

man 1: you know why you're here?

man 2: i know why you think i'm here.

man 1: will you see daylight again?

man 2: is that the same as "is the glass half empty-slash-full" ?

man 1: no.

man 2: then, when did the sun go down?

man 1: did it go down?

man 2: no.

man 1: you will die here.

man 2: a piece of you might leave with me.

man 1: most of me is already gone.

both men managed to remain oddly calm, regardless of such a charged atmosphere.

man 3: who are you?

man 2: how much does that matter?

man 3: you're in my basement. i'd say quite a bit.

man 1: maybe you should leave.

man 2: i'd agree.

man 3: this is my house.

man 1: this is a canvas.

man 2: do not become the art.

man 3: i love art.

man 1 shot man 3.

woman 1: honey, what was that sound?

man 1: art.

woman 1: honey, are you okay, you sound different.

man 2: don't come down stairs. 

woman 1: who are you men?

man 1: Art and Paint.

woman 1: such odd names. were your parents artists?

man 1: i have a gun. 

man 2: your husband is dead. 

woman 1: that wasn't my husband. i'll leave you boys to play.

man 1: you will die here.

man 2: when did the sun go down?

man 1: it didn't. 

man 2: half full?

man 1: no, i just took some of yours. 

man 2: gluttony is a sin.

man 1: so is murder.

man 2: so is murder.

man 1: brief me when i get there. 

man 1 shot man 2.

imagery irony

note: this is not a story.

a Black man wears a leather jacket layered over a hoodie, hood on his head, sunglasses covering his already covered eyes, and baggy jeans. he holds three hefty books in his left hand propped against his left hip. 

a White man dressed properly in a well fitting blue suit with a white shirt and a harmlessly yellow, golf-themed tie holds a rag dripping blood. none getting on him, of course.

a Mexican man wears a traditional and stereotypical mexican poncho with a sombrero holding samurai sword in one hand and its seethe in the other.  

another Black man wears a nice black suit with black tie holding a swastika. 

an Asian man seen wearing a traditional male kimono holds an AK47

a middle-eastern woman, fully covered in black coverings, holds a baby and a rosary chain. 

ex-president Bush, in cowboy boots, wrangler jeans, white button-up shirt, brown leather vest and cowboy hat stands next to a WMD.

they are all somebody's Jesus. 

how to kill a man.

the clock read "8:08" exactly. an older man picked up the last few items off his newly scrubbed floor, packed them in his oversized backpack and walked out the door. 

his paranoia caused him to check the lock, per usual. 

he wore oversized rags and looked rather filthy and thus made sure to not be seen by anyone in his apartment complex to avoid any suspicion that would arise from his choice of clothing.

he rushed down the stairs hoping that he wasn't too late. 

he wasn't. as soon as he reached the street, he saw the bus coming. pulling out his two dollars, he got on board and paid his fare. the driver grimaced and thumbed to the back of the bus. 

the man, holding onto the straps of his bag firmly, he walked to the very back of the bus. 

everyone contorted their faces as he passed. 

when he sat, the bag gave way just a little with a faint "squish" sound. 

he rode that bus for over two hours in one direction. east. 

everytime he would see or hear sirens pass the vehicle he'd tense up but then remember that theres no way he could be found out in this mass of people.

"hiding in plain sight."

by midnight, the was the last person on this particular bus. he saw no more houses and knew he had reached his destination.

he got off and walked the main road until the bus was far out of sight. 

the bag was heavy. certain parts poked him in the back. but he walked on. 

he walked to a place where the streetlights were no more then veered off the road and walked for another hour or so.

finally, he knew he had found the perfect place. 

he placed the bag on the ground and stripped glad to be free of the putrid stench. 

he unzipped and unbuckled the bag and the smell hit him in this throat forcing his gag reflex.

vomit spilled on his clothes. he took a match and tossed it on the vomit littered, wreaking clothes. they caught fire instantly and crackled loudly. 

he pulled the rest of the contents of the bag out.

an arm. leg. torso. another leg. arm and finally a head.

he placed them in the fire individually. carefully. 

the stench worsened. but he took comfort in the fact that only he could smell it. 

he watched cooly and emotionlessly as the meat charred and burned to ash. 

he, then, took the bloody bag and placed it on the fire to kill the fire and burn the bag itself. 

it died slowly but it died, just as the recently cremated man. 

in the stiff desert night the man stalked, then trotted, then walked then stalked again to another specific point not too far away. 

he saw a familiar car parked. when he got close enough the banged on trunk; it opened. 

inside, there lay fresh clothes, a bucket of mostly spilled cold water, soap and axe body spray. 

he washed quickly and got dressed. 

he made his way to the passenger side.

"thanks son."

"yeah..."

"whats that smell?"

there was a silence as stiff as the night itself. as stiff as the man's back from having carried 200 pounds of human weight. 

"we can go now."

"can we?"

"yes."

"great."

but the driver didn't start the car.

"what are you waiting on?"

the driver looked at the man blankly. as emotionless and void as the night around them. as plainly as the crime they had just committed. there was no soul in his eyes as he looked at his father. 

the man assumed that his son was in shock and began to get out to take the driver's seat. with his back toward his son and one foot out the door, the driver pulled a gun and shot the man in the connecting spot of his neck and head, aiming upward to make sure the bullet would disconnect the brain stem and exit through the forehead. 

blood and thought flew forward, not a drop on the inside of the car. 

the man fell limp next to the car. the driver reached in the back of the car, grabbed a red canister and poured some of its contents onto his father, struck a match, dropped it out the passenger door and drove off.

he stayed silent.

he missed his mother much more than he missed his father.

good mornings.

i awake with a start and a slight jump.

nightmare.

on my back i look to my right and see the alarm clock: 5:55

ah yes, right on time.

i roll onto my left side and see you.

you.

you and all your beauty.

you and your perfection.

the sun is just starting to rise. 

the sky is streaked purple and splendor compliments your features.

your light skin, your wild mist of kinky, dirty blond hair. if it wasn't for its natural texture, which you wear so willingly and flawlessly, no one would know you half Black...yet alone fully of African decent.

your perfectly sculpted face. perfectly pressed lips. moist. begging for a kiss.

sleeping with your hands under your pillow, curled neatly under this shared comforter. 

the sun has peeked over your high cheekbones. i feel its heat on my face and begin to radiate the same heat. i squint to avoid its blinding shine and when i muster enough tolerance to further open my left eye, i see you staring at me.

vivid green eyes. not looking into my soul, as the cliche goes. 

but looking right at me, as eyes do.

as I do. 

taking me in as i've done to you every morning since our first morning together.

"what are you looking at?" smiling. perfectly aligned and white teeth. 

have you any flaws?

"the only thing worth seeing."

you turn around to face the sun.

"enjoy the sunset, love."

infuriated. i pull you back around, "please don't deprive me of my pleasures."

you smile still.

"grant me a kiss"

i don't know if you said it or if your lips did

or if i did

but i couldn't deny any of them. 

so we meet.

you shuffle towards me and wrap my lanky arm around your tight frame pressing your hand firmly against my cold chest.

you are warm.

a fire burning inside me

on top of me.

"you love me?"

"love is a strong word." how could i let you know?

"you do. i know you do."

"you do?"

"this is the second week you've let me sleep in your bed without trying anything on me."

"it is. you're right."

"you love me."

"maybe i think you're ugly."

"but you always cradle me to sleep, wake me up with you're staring and kissing me."

"maybe i do love you."

another smile. a smile brighter than you and that damned sun trying to drown out your shine. the sunlight glints in your green eyes as you look up at me.

"whats today?"

i think, "sunday."

you pull yourself closer to me, "thank you, God."

if my skin were as light as yours, i'd probably blush. thank God, indeed.

an unseen smile will have to suffice. 

an unseen smile. the memory fades as the alarm sends its warning. 

you, again, open your eyes. those, still, beautifully green eyes. begging lips. perfect teeth.

"good morning, love."

i smile. yes...a good morning.

actually, "they've all been good mornings."