Burdens Q & A (with Charles Banks, Jr.)
for Spilt Ink Poetry
Solace
To tune out the horrid sounds
of the outside world,
I will do anything!
It should be outlawed to openly discuss
celebrity tweets and political scandals.
Well, at least outside of coffee shops,
sports bars on Super Bowl Sunday,
and crowded Irish pubs on St. Patrick’s Day.
Such extraneous talk is not worth absorption.
I’ll settle for a dingy gray hoodie,
Beats headphones
blaring a symphony of Marshall Mathers
my encomium transmitters
of pertinent information
an outlet from impurity and bullshit.
© 2014 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as Black Angel
Why are you so judgmental?
Always smiling your little sunshine grin.
Why can’t you just mind your own damn business?
Mirror, Mirror, on the wall
why do you reveal the worst
images of them all?
In the graceful peaks of dawn,
you disclose a private side of me,
a side that no one should know
lingers in the pit of my existence.
Why do you judge me so harshly, Mirror?
Someone is going to railroad you one of these days.
When you least expect it, someone you know well
will strike and shatter you into a thousand
prickly pieces of pathetic sadness.
Your judgmental brow is always arched at me!
But why?
Oh, unfair Mirror!
Why?
You remain silent.
© 2014 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as Black Angel
Excerpt from “Burdens”
Published by Spilt Ink Poetry
FLEE
I am slipping
deeper and deeper
into this asylum
I call it my mind.
How do I escape?
Long enough to grab a smoke
and catch a fresh breath.
I promise to return once my time is up.
But the sun sets on my optimism
and the dusks of reality cascade over me.
I am slipping
deeper and deeper
into this windowless room
I call it my misery.
© 2014 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as Black Angel
Excerpt from Burdens
Published by Spilt Ink Poetry.
I sat vigil over Tony’s bedside
for sixteen hours before he died
on Christmas Eve, five days before
his nineteenth birthday.
Nurses came and went, checking his vitals,
propping his pillows, asking if he needed
warm blankets or the window opened.
We traded cancer stories and laughed about how
the hospital food reminded us of radiation treatment.
I went through 37 rounds
and had been cancer-free for nine months.
He went through 28 twice before the cancer
came back and took over his entire body.
When I got to the hospital, Tony was frail,
pale-skinned, and frequently lost his breath
in the middle of a good memory.
He died just before midnight,
as the Christmas carolers sang from down the hall.
I remained at his empty bedside
long into the silence of morning,
sitting vigil over what could have been me.
© 2014 by Charles banks, Jr.
Writing as Black Angel
Excerpt from Burdens
Published by Spilt Ink Poetry
Hello followers! Today, my third chapbook of poetry, Burdens is officially available on eBay and through direct PayPal payments! If you’re in purchasing a signed print copy, please head on over to eBay http://www.ebay.com/itm/Burdens-Writing-as-Black-Angel-/121255777643?pt=US_Fiction_Books&hash=item1c3b68556b or send PayPal payments ($8.00) to spiltinkpoetry@hotmail.com. PayPal payments also come with free shipping!
I would like to thank Fernando Gallegos for providing artwork for this project, including the cover art! Also, thanks go out to Denise R. Weuve, whose selfless help aided the project’s completion!
Happy reading!
Sincerely Yours,
Charles Banks, Jr.
Stories from the Streets
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Just Another Poetic Gadabout............
Poetry & Art
I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.
~Weaving Words in her Web~
(re)Living History, with occasional attempts at humor and the rare pot-luck subject. Sorry, it's BYOB. All I have is Hamm's.
It's not easy being me!