Cascade me, into your purple literature.

Your leather-back magazines

playfully nicknamed Shakespeare.

No! Give me none of that.

Dogs and cats bark alike,

except,

for the gray king who sits in his tower in heaven

weeping for the peace that hasn't come yet.

Don't think that I am alone in saying this.

The ruby eyed black man

on my street corner

passes my words like a bible salesman.

The little white boy

holding tight to his Arabic lover of silky olive and rose petal crimson.

There is a misogynist beside them

who screams out that he hates her

for her breasts

and her skin color

and the white boys fists clench.

What is it about her green dress that he finds so captivating

so gentle

and so fierce.

Why is it so easy to kill?

To whisper sweet nothings

while you strike your dagger into the heart of the one that you love.

I see these lovers

standing there

beside me

and the misogynist.

I see the girl

her eyes searching for a way that she and her man can escape that mans words

without a fight.

Her eyes wander to mine

is all that I can give her.

This boys

varsity

baseball hand stroking the Arabic curls that surround him

allure him

and

allude him

during this angry free for all.

It is love that pulls him

from his shaky hand

and hard words

to the woman hater

who's going after me now.

And the Arabic girl

her hand in his

pulls love up and wither.

In her hands

he will go willingly.