The Colors – January 2017

I can’t get down with people who say they don’t see color cause
On My side of town, everybody wore red. My first crush called herself damu chick.
I still dont feel comfortable wearing sky-blue fits.
I said cuz, cause that’s my family.
You know they brown skin they mahogany.
Mojo taught me how to c-walk on the southside.
MJ was light skin. Mj was born brown skin.

My girls, Girls of every skin tone.
I lost my virginity to a mulatto who could pass for white in the right light.
She looked like Mariah. It’s all pink on the inside.
First girl I thought I loved was Jewish, olive toned, with oily skin.
Married a girl cause she reminded me of daisy and green lights at the end of the bay.

My last name White.
The man who gave it to me loved the green more than he did his kin.
His toes are painted the stereotypes of Africa.
Oreo – black on the outside and white on the inside.
Grew up and learned to stop apologizing.

Took orange pills with white marbles inside.
Smoked green till it was black and grey.
Live life in the hue of blue. Depression a bitch.
Sunrise. Sunset. Palletes in the skys tapestry.
Conversations of Synesthesisa with the catalyst.

Broke the law to wear black and gold.
Never trusted red and cream.
Never cared for the purple even though I have a royal soul.
Colorado Rockies caps. Never rocked with a cardinal.
Scarlet and grey, fuck blue and maize.
Fuck the crimson Tide.

Fuck flashing lights.
Poor brown boys with faded black jeans and ashy white skin.
Red white and blue dont care about my melanin.
I say I’m Black not African-American. I get it if you don’t understand.

If you don’t see them, how could your colors ever blend?
Acknowledge them. These hues cover the spectrum of life
and life is love.


A June Letter. – June 2017

To whom it may concern,

I’ve been looking for the words to describe this; there aren’t many. The foreignness of it all makes it, interesting.

And when it’s this interesting, it feels like time is never enough.
Like, your being is soul food and I have an endless appetite.
Like learning your favorite food and color does not satisfy me; I want and need more and deeper.
Like, I want to know what you do when you’re mad or you’re sad or happy.
Do you wiggle your toes? Do your flare your nose? Little shit. What makes you blush?

It’s interesting and you’re tattooed on my mind.
When I see things as I’m out, I think about how you’d react…
For example: This would make you laugh and do that little snort thing that you do
OR: You’d get mad if you saw that man talking to that woman like that and then you’d rant about how society is poisoned by patriarchy.
And I’d drink up every word of yours like it was water.
You need agua to survive. I’d take you if there was an apocalypse.

When it’s this interesting, you can’t get enough and yet you know that you have to drink it slowly and preserve and cherish every single drop, embracing the full breadth of the process.

When it’s this interesting, you mark down numbers like 6117 because that was the moment you knew what you’d come to know, eventually, anyways.

Things like:

Your thoughts provoke me to think.
Your actions make me curious or they inspire me.
Your past makes me reflect on mine and the decisions I’ve made.
Your laugh warms my heart.
Your hesitation mystifies me and makes me patient.

Your voice makes my day better.
Your figure makes me think of poetry.
Your eyes make me lust. Your eyes make me melt.
Your eyes make me feel like there’s nothing else worth looking at.
Your questions make me humble and your style galvanizes me.

You make me want to write.
To music.
On Monday nights.
In the summer.

I don’t know everything. I just know that you’re interesting.



Ehkees Hemingway – January 2016

some call it venting. 

I’ll always remember 2015, who was here and who wasnt.
If I had jordans, with drake and future- I’d prolly be up to something
Cause I know if i got it, it’s cause i earned it, sweat and grit.
Tears and pain. The smile well deserved, it’s lit.
But since I ain’t got it, I champion the lash, pendants and trophies whips across my back is badges, .
Hard soiled skin. Impenetrable ego and capacity for compassion. I set the rubrics for my wins.
Gavels bang for my journey through gravel.
It ain’t grovelling, it’s just to pontificate behind the podium.
That’s an appropriate award rewarded.
Tailored tunics on a humbled yank, gorgeous.

In the jungle, I survived hanging comrades, swinging in the vines. Their skin scaley.
In the desert, I stayed hydrated even in the mirage of oasis.
Resilience whet my pallette, Ehkees my company in the midst of decrepit loneliness.
If I had J’s, I’d jump every time you saw me man. All i got is this wisdom, it’s only right that i floss it man.
The mysteries of iniquities and Eh Kees-struggling to fixate my Harlem shake.
Flu game pressure bearing against my shoulders every time I wake.
I won’t never forget 2015 or the cost it took to produce great.
All 72 wins gonna be mired by the tears I had to taste.
Looking at my calendar like I already spent my next check.
Liquor swimming pools, shin deep in debt.
Had to let go of one love when I found another.
Had to cut off some enemies disguised as brothers.
Had to put some dreams on layaway.
Had to hear some hard truths and every conviction in what was said
Had to look in the mirror and reconcile.
The wrinkles of wisdom left no room for denial.

In 2014, God walked me through Damascus and I thought it was prophecy.
In 2015, Saul turned to Job. Every moment was bittersweet.
But I’ll remember every single one, store them under lock and key.
The tribulations are tools to success, mine to use responsibly.
It was almost too much. I met they and they tried to put me in my place.
I almost let the troubles put me in the grave.
Marijuana clouds to disguise the pain couldn’t carry me away.
Thank God Queen and baby royalty kept me grounded anyways.
And now I gotta be honest in reflection cause there ain’t no revision in the lake.
Skip every honest rock across the water and pause to hear what the echoes say.
Smooth mountains don’t get climbed any day.
At least it make for good poetry, Ehkees Hemingway.

Laundry – September 2015

I put the summer on the board for next year, Chalked it up for the remaining months.
I pinned my projections, dreamed big. Mortal disappointment.
Looking at my diaries, seeing what all my ambition have become.
Maybe I hoped for too much; I’m intolerant to those thoughts–never wished for anything that couldn’t be done.
Suffering from futility, that’ll sink the captain into depression.
Be honest with the mirror about fate. Re calibrate and plant them seeds.
Pray for fertility and wash ya hands of it.

I put an ex beside her name, archived her memories in the photo albums. God give us roses in December.
I tried, swear to God I cried. I gave it all, launched all the ships
Went to war for Helen; this aint even a white flag waving:
It’s the last breath of a Private succumb to grief and gangrene.
Ain’t no blood flowing, don’t even get them flutters. aint no blush.
Spent too much time in the trenches. Caught too much flack. You let em flank us..
How you let them insecurities grow? How you aint cut em out like cancer?
How you let me go too long without your company, you knew your company was the only thing pushing me through it?
How you… why you… It wasn’t enough. I’m washing my hands of it.

I poured a lil henny out for the dead friendships.
They used to get my daps, till they true colors showed. I think that cognac is trash, i guess it’s apropos.
Poison in the Earth, who spilled the blood..Who mixed the mud.
No love lost on cut grass. Least i aint gotta worry about venom in my back.
Shot for my girl, shitted on my cerebellum. Fuck ’em.
I’m washing my hands of it.

I pledged allegiance, and aint renew my vowels. If this shit in my heart… it should show in my lifestyle.
These days aint what I thought they’d be. Keep on adding to the numbers… still weak.
What’s a servant of sincerity to do? Shit don’t look familiar.
How I’m supposed to press on in this phoniness, that shit is a weight.
Fighting against my comrades. Brothers caught the most L’s to date.
It’s about time to wash my hands of it.


Raine – 2015

I looked up to heaven and asked for queen in order to begin my reign.
The sun smiled down , indicating once I met her, things would never be the same.

Destiny rolled around and I ran into my childhood friend once again.
I knew her, and her love rained down on me, but the floods never came.

No tears, no frowns, just memories I’ll never wash down the drain.
Life changing, we boarded shuttles to the moon, she flexed my range.

My heroine on short trips; I still belt my biceps. Arm stretched, needle my vein.
Do I ever look back with regret? It couldn’t have happened any other way.

‘Sometimes the monarch waltz into your life to make an impression, not to stay.
Queen just know your presence still shines on me, I stay warmed by your rays.

God bless the day that I met you. I’ll never forget the sweet smile of milady Lorraine.


Born Lovers Reared In The Hood Lost In The Beauty of Life – August 2015

Wanna take a walk in this shower?
Don’t tempt this poet’s soul. I’m in love with the living prose.
I race towards storms. I’ve always been obsessed with the sublime.
A hopeless romantic, poetry in my spirit.
Live it and love lit, child of the Gothic era.
Matters of the heart, they’re tragedies.
Try to end the cinema before the credits roll.
It’s just lightning. No it’s frequency and intensity. It’s drama. It’s glow, it’s glory.

We are mortal, Powerless against the lines of streaking white. I’ll just admire because I don’t understand.
My old head: “It’s a light show above the hood, my nigga. ”
The ‘razzi floating above groveling stomachs, they’ glow illuminating our existence. There ain’t no stars.
Just flashbang grenades and we try not to get PTSD. Or caught in the shrapnel.
Weary, peering from behind dusty cracked window panes.
Our ebony spines on the pined panel, backs at rest on the floorbeds. Hard comfort, re-casted tough love.

Sometimes ill start and never finish.
We won’t recall the first bolt, nor the fading rumbles of thunder.
You just kind of know, when you’re in the thick of it.
And you hope you can capture as much as you can. Rembrandt.
Write in ink that sings to the heart.
Coax the tears to swell and fall in the same way as a rain dotting a shield. Merciless. Irreverent. Unpredictable.

Pound the pavement and set course for a trip during a lightning storm.
Muted the philosokees, yall silenced the lamb.
Close your eyes and you can fly while you’re grounded.


Recitals and Sonatas – September 2015

You inspired my poetry.
Tryna swim in your oceans to be frank with ya.
You’re my drug of choice on the weekends.
Stick out your arm. Let my fingers graze your palm. Draw from your veins and pen the script from your vanity.
..Your finger prints all over my canvas…
Ya oils permeating and staining. Words dipped in your wrinkles.
The scent of your maturation wafts up from the pages. I’ll surrender to your endorphin.
I’ll study your wisdom. I’ll learn your knowledge
Untill the trace of my finger, along your curves, becomes recital.