Skip to main content


I stand before the mirror and practice my speech,
It's a long speech that I must myself teach,
To speak with a fake Oxford accent and inflection,
A speech that would say nothing yet rumbles on,
Falling on deaf ears that trigger automated applause,
I practice so that if I can believe that so was I born,
Then maybe the world would believe it's no con,
soon the world would see,
witness what I'm meant to be,
but till then,
I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting.

Because I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting,
I practice hard everyday,
I wear arrogance like an expensive suit,
Spic and swank, black as soot,
with a matching hauteur black boot,
with which I step on toes everywhere I go,
I wear pride like an offensively bright tie,
and reek of extravagance like cheap perfume.
Though I'm not a big man yet,
I'll surely be one,
Till then, I need all the practice I can get.

I'm learning to be fashionably late,
to throw tantrums about little things that don't matter,
like the temperature of champagne and it's taste,
like the position of the dessert fork and wine glass,
like the napkin is satin not silk of the finest class,
like how the lobster is not bright red enough,
like the onion is not in rings but in halves,
I'll shout at the poor waiter and say,
Even though I'm yet to eat in a hotel,
I've gotten so good no one could tell.

I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting so I behave as such,
I misquote Shakespeare and speak archaic English,
I hang out with other snobs I don't like much,
discussing fictitious business plans,
quoting random percentages as inflation,
pretending I understand the economy,
complaining about oil prices and recession,
and whining about how kids of today got it easy.

Now I am a Big-Man-in-Waiting,
but soon I'll be money tasting,
and egotistically coasting,
having had enough training,
I won't look too out of place,
when I'm a Big Man and no more in waiting.

*****March 3, 2011*****

Popular posts from this blog

Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

I concluded
You are a figment
of my imagination,
You must be...

God is not so cruel
That he made a Heaven like you
Then condemned me
To the Hell of perpetual longing
Wanting, and never belonging...

*****September 14, 2016*****

God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

the Vulture
pays any mind
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂

The Vulture

In times of famine,
The Vulture does not eat grass.
When Leopards are lean
because antelopes nowhere to be seen
The Vulture sits and watches,

Those who mocked his baldness
Will do well to remember
None has seen the Vulture's corpse
And he is secure in the knowledge that none will.

when it rains
And they mock him
For having no nest still,
He holds his peace,
For the Vulture, he's a patient animal.

The Vulture is not vindictive,
Those who mocked will die,
Those who didn't will die,
It matters not.
For when carcasses lay ripe
The Vulture does not ask
If his feast was once friend or foe

*****February 1, 2016*****