~BLUEPRINT~
04-13-2005, 11:38 AM
http://slumz.boxden.com/showthread.php?t=233667
You could hear the cackle
from the Oldsmobile,
uttering "Tune-Up",
and one could feel the agitated
motor rumble throughout the car,
while the youngin's
huddled over the hood,
offering non-mechanical guesses
as to what was wrong with it,
nonetheless,
for 18 years it has served a purpose
of carpooling a family of seven.
On the front porch,
tappin' pennyloafers
and wet toothpicks conversed.
You could hear the restless checkers
scatter across the board
to the rhythm and laughter
of the folktales,
or what I call lies,
by way of disgruntled veterans
and re"tired" old men.
Inside, a soothing hymn
hovered the thin air
along the same wave
of nana's greens,
seasoned and spiced to perfection,
while she adamantly
wrestles through cupboards,
and if she sighted you in HER kitchen,
the glare in her eye alone
could train any appetite to just wait.
Out back,
preganant and menopausal women
shuffled to the "Electric Slide",
where rusted swings screamed from irritation,
and Lil' Mike could always be seen
over by the shed cuppin his face....
"READY OR NOT!"
while his friends lashed their tongues out,
taunting him,
knowing he was a big boy,
and they would never be caught
unless they let him.
The atmosphere yielded collaboration,
a symphony if you will,
of a family,
adjoined by the black smoke
gasping from the rusted grill,
and picnic tables
decorated to accompany
the most distant and unfamiliar relatives,
to regain a consciousness
of where we all came from......
You could hear the cackle
from the Oldsmobile,
uttering "Tune-Up",
and one could feel the agitated
motor rumble throughout the car,
while the youngin's
huddled over the hood,
offering non-mechanical guesses
as to what was wrong with it,
nonetheless,
for 18 years it has served a purpose
of carpooling a family of seven.
On the front porch,
tappin' pennyloafers
and wet toothpicks conversed.
You could hear the restless checkers
scatter across the board
to the rhythm and laughter
of the folktales,
or what I call lies,
by way of disgruntled veterans
and re"tired" old men.
Inside, a soothing hymn
hovered the thin air
along the same wave
of nana's greens,
seasoned and spiced to perfection,
while she adamantly
wrestles through cupboards,
and if she sighted you in HER kitchen,
the glare in her eye alone
could train any appetite to just wait.
Out back,
preganant and menopausal women
shuffled to the "Electric Slide",
where rusted swings screamed from irritation,
and Lil' Mike could always be seen
over by the shed cuppin his face....
"READY OR NOT!"
while his friends lashed their tongues out,
taunting him,
knowing he was a big boy,
and they would never be caught
unless they let him.
The atmosphere yielded collaboration,
a symphony if you will,
of a family,
adjoined by the black smoke
gasping from the rusted grill,
and picnic tables
decorated to accompany
the most distant and unfamiliar relatives,
to regain a consciousness
of where we all came from......