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Awaiting the CCT

Awaiting the CCT

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Published by AuthorBalogun
While awaiting the SLOW CCT bus in Atlanta, a young man has the encounter of a lifetime.
While awaiting the SLOW CCT bus in Atlanta, a young man has the encounter of a lifetime.

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Published by: AuthorBalogun on May 08, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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10/03/2011

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AWAITING THE C.C.T.
I WAS STANDING IN THE ARTS CENTER BUS TERMINALONCE AGAIN AWAITING THAT SLOW ASS C.C.TWHEN, OUT OF THE CORNER OF MY LEFT EYEI SPIED THIS CINNAMON-BAKED,CHOCOLATE BON-BON BEAUTYWHO HAD SOME DEVASTATING ENDOWMENTSI MEAN, SISTAH WAS STRAIGHT UP 3-DAND I DECIDED TO MAKE HER SEE MESO, PRETENDING NOT TO NOTICE HERI PULLED MY POETRY JOURNAL – THIS VERY ONE I HOLD IN MY HANDS –OUT OF MY BACKPACKAND BEGAN TO WRITE, IN EXAGGERATED STROKES,ABOUT THE BEST LOVEBLACK LOVEAND OBVIOUSLY, MY PLAN WORKEDBECAUSE CLOSER AND CLOSER AND CLOSERSHE INCHED TOWARDS ME – FEIGNING NONCHALANCE –UNTIL SHE COULD PEEK AT WHAT I WAS PUTTING DOWN ON THE PAGE,WHICH READ:Your love is like a handful of hot grits…Hurts like hellBut I can’t let go.You are the incarnation of painPassionSorrowYou are my tomorrow,Which is forecast for showersOur loveOur loveOur love ain’t pretty flowers,A big, white house,Picket fence,Or two kids: “Buffy” and “The Beaver”But our shit ain’t ghetto either No pissy projects,Skunk reefer,Or child named TaquishaOur love is Black…Veggie patties,Djembe drumsAnd the OrisaJumping the broom and a Babalawo,
 
Not a cheap ring and a preacher No playa and ho shitI’m the student,You’re the master-teacher Our loveOur loveOur love ain’t pretty flowers…It’s African Black…I’m the headBut, you?You’re the power.I SLIPPED MY PEN INTO MY POCKET,LEANED AGAINST A CONCRETE POSTAND HIT THE UNIVERSAL “I’M TOO COOL” POSEAS THE CINNAMON-BAKED,CHOCOLATE BON-BON BEAUTY SMILEDAND I KNEW I HAD HERAND Y’ALL…WOO…THIS SISTAH WAS BAD, HERHAIR IN KINKY TWISTSLIKE A MILLION BLACK-POWER FISTSRAISED IN VICTORY ON HER HEADA CHARCOAL-GREY SPORTS BRAACCENTUATED THE FIRMEST OF BREASTSNAVY-BLUE RUNNING TIGHTS HUGGED A PERFECTLY ROUNDMMH-MMH-
MMH 
AND CHARCOAL-GREY RUNNING SHOES ON SIZE SEVEN FEETAN AU NATURAL ATHLETEA BEAUTY COMPLETEWITH SKIN, BLACKER THAN A MILLION MIDNIGHTSAND SMOOTH AS POLISHED ONYX-STONEDELICATE, YET STRONG FINGERSAND SOFT, FULL LIPS…DAMN,SHE WAS MAKIN’ ME TRIP‘CAUSE, PHYSICALLY, SHE WAS THE LOVER IN MY DREAMSTHE AFRICAN QUEEN WHO, NIGHTLY, VISITS MY REM-STATE SCENES“WORD IS BOND, I’LL SCREAM” I SAID TO MYSELF,“IF I FIND OUT SHE’S A POET”THE SISTAH REACHED INTO HER COURIER BAGAND RETRIEVED A WORN, BLACK SKETCHBOOKTHEN TURNED TO ME AND SAID: “TAKE A LOOK”,AS SHE OFFERED ME HER BOOK OF POEMSWITH THOSE BEAUTIFUL, MAHOGANY HANDS“OKAY, I’LL TAKE A GLANCE”, I RESPONDED,

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