Wayne “Box” Miller and Ty Stuckey. Cincinnati has a plethora of talented poets but these two are different. I won’t take the time to list each individuals accomplishments for they are too, too many. Instead, allow me to simply say from my perspective why these two stand out. They are consistent, actively involved in the community and totally approachable.
They’ve been supporting and performing poetry locally for years. Rather it be on the microphone or behind the scenes, they make it happen. In their own way, I have personally heard them speak up and speak out on issues such as; gun violence in our community, sports and education, equal employment opportunity and entrepreneurial strategies. I have found that it doesn’t matter if I see them at a business luncheon, a book signing, a private dinner engagement or run into them at a coffee shop; they always have time for a kind hello and words of encouragement.
So, to you, Ty Stuckey and Wayne “Box” Miller; Mac Daddy’s of the mic, Crooner’s of Spoken-Word Cool, Improvisational Professionals and Pillars of the community, THANK YOU!!!! For teaching me that I don’t have to be that ‘angry-poet’. Thank you for teaching me that it is good to aspire to be a ‘role-model’ in my own way. And thank you for teaching me that above all else, without love for self, family and community, it is all vanity.
p.s.Box, The book is definitely for the GROWN and sexy. Thanks for my autographed copy bro but that’s just too much damn homework for a ‘single’ man. I wrote my letter and I’m sticking it in the mailbox today. Can a brother get an ‘A’ for effort?!
'TIS A GREAT DAY'
Tis a great day to think about you. Tis a great day to think.Thighs peeping through your sundress, head laid back on a head rest. Your smile is so sexy that I can feel its caress. Ears, naval, and nose rings setting off detectors and reflecting sun beams. Oh how I’m blinded but not by sex; it’s the mere possibility of what you do next. Strut across my playground. Lay my life down for your silhouette. Can’t keep a straight face. Where’s my straight jacket? Picture of your back tatted on my dome. I’m the only one home and my neighbors question all the racket. Arguing with logic for a chance to stare at it. Obscene magic and I’m attracted to the illusion of you in a sundress, head on my headrest. Tis a great day…
…BUT IT DON’T STOP. Time passes and I think I’m healed then a song, a scene or a scent reveals that still…I long to feel. To feel that one kiss. To experience that one bliss. Occasionally I long for this and ‘this’, be you. Unsheltered, unguarded and unwatched by telling eyes waiting to televise how much you dig quiet time with your hips planted against the front door. Grown enough to ask for more without saying a word. I’ll be at this all day until I hear you say, ‘Come on over’.
So I’m going to fry up some fish and smell up my house because I can’t think of another good excuse for you not to come over. How much poetry should I spit? How many gifts should you get? Tired of grinds masked in a hug, pretending that I’m pretending that ‘hello’ is good enough. Damn, well actually it is for that part of me living secretly, writing poetry, and wondering if you’re over me. In other words; are you still out of reach? Hide-n-seek champion. Just when I think I’ve got a chance then someone else is tagging you. Dishy dishy got my ice cream. Making wet dreams until there ain’t any left. Dag! Got it so bad I’m bragging about you to my own self. You’re top shelf but come down selector. Don’t stay out of reach. Maybe I’m having issues with my phone because the thought of you not wanting to call when I’m alone at home just don’t seem authentic. Pretending that I’m pretending to be patient but for real, I’m just waiting for you to say, ‘Come on over’.
Conver-sutra; verbal stimulation cooler than a breeze n squeeze round your areolasphere. Well now, what we got here? You gone put my eye out all excited like that. Meant to write it like that. Throw it off the balcony while I run round back and catch it like a bullet between my teeth. Spitting hot lead till waters shed from your rain forest to silk sheets. Bare feet, doors squeak and before you can blink 3 times, I'm cooking breakfast and running bath water. Thoughts of good touches gotcha smiling and why not? You ought to. Smell like rose pedals in your Fubu cause every step you take leaves a good scent boo. Who sent you? Call you AfroNu cause you be in them AfroNubian catalogs I write to. Ship two of you cause the one I got, I ain't never really had. That's why I keep listening so bad to hear you say, "Come on over".
Conver-sutra aficionado- in other words; I'm well aware that all words emit a certain vibration. That's why women love to talk in bed. Get it? I do. Give it too. That's why grown women like you fain the sickened, childish gestures of this new ebonic plague. Young cats have no rhythm in'em.
Conver-sutra aficionado; speaking directly to your intellect, moisturizing your libido. Made it hard for me so I fight through years and walls of idle chatter and broken English that you've been forced to drink like way too sweet Kool-Aid. Hear what I say and know I mean this; don't you ever date a lover who can't practice good English. You're a good gift; worth more than all the toys on Sunday morning Wonderama and thinking about you in that sundress has become a daytime drama. Already. Yeah. I’ve already dramatized the way that I might kiss u. First, act surprised that you're allowing me to. Second, got a shirt and it’s twice your size- off of me then on you in a doorway with hands held high- TSA and I'm scanning you. Start at the bottom then work my way around from your toes to your calves. Inverted V is pleasing to me and the middle of your "X" pose got me digging this alphabet stroll up to your rib cage. I gage at this stage u flutter more than a bird caged so I disengage long enough to see morning dew dripping from you like juice off cornbread from grandma's beef stew. Tis still a great day to think about you. Tis a great day to think. Tis a great day to hear you say, “Come on over”.