It Doesn’t HAVE to Rhyme…

Still

Baby, you can lay there.

Baby, you don’t have to go out. Your friends seem to want you too, though.

I want to be forgotten, yet remembered. I want to be the one to poison my ego, not them. Why aren’t they sad about me being sad? Hell, is she? But really, how are they so happy when I can’t seem to be? What don’t I understand?

Baby, you dragged me to that used CD shop and your face lit up and you picked up this Terence Trent D’Arby album. I don’t know how you came to know about him, but you put this in my hands and…your face; baby your mouth curved up at one end. It wasn’t a smile but…but I have to take what I can get. You handed this to me and held your hands out. You weren’t begging, but you darted your eyes back and forth between the CD case and the counter, just hoping. And I didn’t think twice about it; anything to give you happiness is a small price to pay…

Music has dictated my mood for as long as I can remember. It’s emboldened me enough to throw eggs through your windshields. It’s infused me with enough confidence to saunter up behind your girlfriend at a pre-dawn. It’s blared through my headphones on the train, helping me forget that where I arrive is a stop, and not a destination. It’s helped me to believe, to dream, to cry, to pontificate, to seduce…to fucking smile. Knowing that, why can’t it get me off this couch?

Baby, I want to see you smiling. I-I just don’t know what to do and I can’t lie to you; I wish that I could, because seeing you like this makes me sad.

I remember when you would run around my office building, selling your paintings and writings to my coworkers for fifty cents. They couldn’t believe anybody so young had the confidence you had, baby…

I remember how much Christmas meant to you; baby, I would hang your stocking up over the TV and watch your face when you reached in it for our 12 days of Christmas. I used to cringe when you would go up that ladder to hang lights on our gutters, but you smiled the entire time and I just, I..uh…I don’t know where that kid went. 

Maybe I’ve been insensitive. Maybe I just don’t understand. I don’t know. I just miss my baby. 

The television illuminated the room, as it was the only light that flowed in, even in the midday. The shades were completely drawn closed. The sight of barren lawns and naked shrubbery only served as conduits and understandable excuses. That TV failed to brighten anything other than my complete disinterest.

Baby, what happened?

Baby…please, PLEASE tell me how I can help you. 

…I ju…I just don’t know what to do, Joan. He won’t move. No…he hasn’t said much of anything. My baby is hurting and I don’t know…I-I don’t know, Joan…

The sun’s sudden intensity shone directly on my face, making my lower eyelids flinch painfully upward, as they barely had to shield my bloodshot eyes over the past week. Why was she still here? And- for the love of everything holy- why did she open these curtains??

My back yelled at me as I adjusted myself. My legs seemed to exhale as I straightened them out onto the arm of the couch. My neck resigned itself to an uncomfortable state of commiseration and had completely gone numb; it had no plans of returning during my sudden readjustment. My stomach growled, awakened at the idea that its’ host may not be dead after all. My shoulder, completely defying my brain’s wishes, relaxed at her touch.

Baby, I tried; I made an appointment for you. This isn’t you. Not this time of year. You aren’t yourself. I can’t force you to do shit but- for my health- please see this specialist I found. Happy birthday.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World Of Oddities

Agamemnon’s Manifesto

I am the reason for indulgence, for I am King of all I survey. I was birthed into royalty, washed by the blessings of gods, and feared by even the powerful. My significance is not simply conjecture; it is fact. I exist because I am necessary. The heinous crimes of my ancestors did nothing to prevent my ascension. I am both builder and destroyer. The greatest warriors of our time are indebted to me. And for my bravery, honor, and loyalty, the spoils of war are mine and mine alone. I am not only King. I am God.

I am omnipresent, for my influence has only become more formidable with the passing of time. Look what I have created some three thousand years later. I am selfish and deservedly so. My gratification should be instantaneous and the priority of others. I am entitled to what I want and whomever I choose. I am an advocate of the affluent. I am a fighter for the entitled. The world shall be carried on the scarred backs of the lowly and placed in the opulent dwellings of the fortunate.

I am a ruler. My beliefs trump those of all others, for I do not deem their conviction worthy. I condemn those that are a threat to my hubris. I am appalled and defensive when asked to explain my prejudices and chauvinisms. I am a leader and a lawmaker; I do not tolerate disrespect. Soldiers that history exalts and idolizes dared not attempt such. I will admonish any plebeian insubordination thusly.

I am self-important. My accomplishments are no longer relevant; my mere presence alone is worth the undivided attention of friends and strangers alike. I demand that you care. I command you to care. I am the center of a microcosm that requires your unwavering devotion to my vanity. I am your King. Therefore, you will understand why the adulation of my followers will not be reciprocated. I am your leader. I am above you.

I am a God. I am the most high. There are millions of men and women who believe they are to be mentioned in the same vein as I and this disturbs me. You dare allow your society to afford you the comfort to speak so incredulously? I am a ruler of men, a leader of an empire, and favored by millions. Do you converse with the controllers of your destiny as fearlessly as I? Do the respected bow at your feet? Do the powerful relinquish their authority in deference? Will you leave behind a story rich in inspiration? What I have accomplished will forever be unattainable. You may not refer to me as anything less than the historical titan I truly am. History will quickly place your importance into its proper perspective.

I am the reason for indulgence. However, I am not the architect of your egotism, pride, and self-involved behavior. I was a victim of the jealousy and vengeance of others. Your downfall shall be of your own creation. You are not a God. You are not a ruler. You are not a king. You tumble blithely through life searching for confirmation for simply existing. Until your significance is more than mere estimation, you shall not be mentioned among Kings such as I, Agamemnon of Argos.

All of us really aren’t anything special; we just kinda THINK we are. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Beautiful Mistake

I followed my heart but every time I do, it gets me lost and left in the dark/But I think it’s clear this time, I guess; we’re just not compatible…

We were terrible for each other. I get it; we were both so self-destructive that we needed each other to justify why we were so fucked up. Our intoxication was killing us and we didn’t care. We kissed with numb lips and altered emotions. The arguments took such a toll that you finally realized how unhealthy our encounters were. It would be for the best…if I weren’t so worried about your wellbeing.

I didn’t even know you were in so much pain the first time we decided to deal with each other. You hid it just as well as I hid mine. You laughed with the same halfhearted smile creeping along your face; it fooled me at first. The jokes didn’t mean anything to you, either. I never noticed and kept feigning confidence and goofiness. Who would have thought a friendship birthed out of keeping up appearances would become something much more? Our arms show the stress of life’s obstacles and each alternating puff alleviated us from it all.

The worst part is that I barely remember. Every vodka-chased pill and loosely rolled Swisher Sweet was more than temporary bliss. Everything was so hazy; it was picturesque in such a terrible way. Descending into a hellish trap never seemed so desirable before. Judgment wasn’t allowed to exist in this glossy-eyed microcosm. Every vulnerable and slurred sentence only spoke to the shared injury we wrongly attempted to run from. Every blank stare became so irresistible and made everything that followed so uninhibited. Desperately holding onto someone falling off the same slope felt oddly comforting.

It is what it is…

I cling to the memories, trying to leave out the toll it eventually took on us both. The final argument was unhealthy and both our stubbornness was only fueled by the intoxication. The very thing- our thing- that made us close tore us apart. Our hands never stayed off each other but this final encounter was created out of the wrong passion. I whispered terrible things and grabbed for your neck clumsily. I saw fear in those dilated pupils and can only now cope with those actions properly.

In our self-destruction, everything was so impulsive. I just hope the death of our friendship provides a healthier lifestyle for us both. Our relationship wasn’t created in sobriety so I never act on my many passing thoughts. Those hazel eyes and slender legs came with a price I almost killed myself in paying. All of those altered times meant everything yet left no moments I can specifically recount. Clarity didn’t come easy because of what I barely remember and I can only hope you feel the same.

A.J. Armstrong is a relieved friend of both and the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My First Poem

“The Mandatory Poem About Black Love and Black Women That Every Black Poet Feels Compelled to Write Because of Some Ridiculous Ideology That Makes This Subject a Prerequisite Point of Conversation Amongst a Pseudo-“Enlightened” Group of Neo-Soul Negroes That Show Up at Poetry Readings in Shirts Made From Hemp With Their Unkempt Dreadlocks Flailing Over Their Faces as They Eat Ostrich Burgers With a Fork and Knife as They Trade Condescending Glances Amongst Each Other as They View Me Wrist-Deep in a Plate of Hot Wings Covered in Excessive Amounts of Old Bay Seasoning in a Booth Next to Another Group of “Artists” Clad in Chicletas Reciting India.Arie Lyrics as They Prepare to Give Their Excruciatingly Long and Drab Depictions of the Magical Prowess of Afro-centric Sensuality in an Attempt to Stay in Their Manufactured, ‘Love Jones’-Inspired Microcosms While Real Poets With Valid and Creative Spins on Daily Life Are Eschewed by Those Who Believe Social Consciousness Exists Only After Reading Cliffnotes of the Works of Amiri Baraka and Shunning Traditional Bodywash in Favor of Bathing in an All Too Common Aura of Inflated and Unwarranted Sense of Self-Pride in Urban Awareness Because Their Bathroom Sinks Contain Ambi Products Free of Dyes and Other Ingredients The White Man Apparently Places in Products Solely to Keep Niggers From Realizing Their Truly Annoying Potential to be Pretentious at Their Newfound Nubian Awakening While Maintaining a Patronizing Tone for Any Black Man That Actually Takes Pride in Being Honest With Himself.”

 (Insert poem here.)

A.J. Armstrong is not a fan of Bohemian A-Holes. He is also the creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities.