I enjoy spoken word so...
To sit and listen to the ideas, issues, and isms
shared by sistahs and brothas who bravely step to the mic.
To sit, ponder, and marinate on knowledge gifted to crowds
of wide eyes and open hearts.
Many subjects not unheard of 
but 
often left unspoken.
Topics interestingly spun
Teasing you into wrapping your mind 
around that shit on your drive home.
But on this night
He...
Blessed the lounge with an unassuming presence that begged my eye.
His long stride told me he had something to say
And more importantly, 
Something needing to be heard.
He spoke of wanna be poets
and fake introspections.
He challenged us to dig deeper into our souls
To address social sins and moral indiscretions
But as I struggled to give attentions to his tear jerking
and heart tugging lecture,
All I could hear was the bellow of his voice
and all I could think was
"DAMN!!  He Fine!"
While he spoke of love of self
of man,
and of woman,
I thought, "Who's loving him?"
While he spoke of revolution and spit conscious rhymes
of unconscious times,
I ached for the full lips which formed his words...
Beautiful was he 
...shrouded in his royal passions.
Did my eyes glued to his mouth cause discomfort,
arousal,
or both?
While bits and pieces of intricately woven patches of knowledge
penetrated my soul,
I knew this man didn't even see me.
No...
This man saw through me...
But this man knew me.
Through me he looked but to me he spoke.
On my slow drive home
I remembered his messages
and with myself I discussed his mind stroking verses...
With a last look at my night and the amen in my prayer,
Still I think back to him...
...
DAMN!!!...He was fine.