Richard A. Jones


You’ve rearranged more nuts than a squirrel.  —Edina Monsoon

Girl wasn’t a coquette
Nor was she a gold digger
She wasn’t a street walker
And she wasn’t a nympho
The girl was a ho

She wasn’t a courtesan
Nor was she a slut
The girl was a ho
And everyone she knowed
Knew she was a ho

Now there’s prostitutes
Who’ll charm you
With they attributes
And working girls
That’ll give you a whirl

But she was straight up a ho
For call girls come to you
And whores are for anyone
Wenches that’ll do you more
With a snatch and a twat

Puta down on her knees
For a quick and nasty blow
But this girl was a ho
Who’d walk by you and know
How much jizz was down below

And drop them drawers
To the floor as fast as that zipper
Could unleash your wiener
Cause she was a hubba ho
Who’d tickle your balls

Fuck all your friends and relatives
And ‘lo for all her tricks
With all those fatty pricks
We loved her poontang all the more
Nonetheless for after everyone

Had come (twice)
And all was said and done
There was always more pussy
Fun with the doggy-style
Because the girl was a ho


.50 Cal

.50 cal—caliber—9 mm—.223
Jingle bells shotgun shells ++Santa’s got a gun
Oh my god shot to hell+++++++Rudolph’s gotta run
That’s the gist of it
Thinking of Christmas
A tired Trismagistus
Like the failing peace amongst us

As the vets say “I’ve been to the Suck”
“I’ve been to the Shit”
Afghanistan & Baghdad and
Home to the Ramadi/Ramada Inn

Dead-eyed Samoyed terrorists
Twistmogistus on Christmas
Like a CNN not seein’ anything
Squeezed in amidst the Viagra
& Cialis commercials the Muslims
Adoramus in their seething contempt for us

But on a bright Sunday morning
Near the Fruitlands with green
Apples still atree the steel hammers
Resounding through the hills
Ripe with minimum and maximum
Security prisons housing all-pros

Target practice thunders the Wampanog
Rebounding and echoing Prince Phillip
From the “suck” to the “shit’s”
Vanquishing long ago in shattering

Peace shells punctuating a high-velocity
Heaven of an assault rifle’s healing
Prayers at the church bell’s distant chiming
Their nine-millimeter angels
Smokin’ hot full-burst auto


Idle Minds

Sun minds sometimes drowsing in the light
Kinds of nothing like idle Tamsulosin stuporous
Bon mots to Black History Month’s Superniggers
So high in glittered platform shoes so thick
A seven foot Negro gotta look up to them
Even though or although they only five-five
And jive so elevated on they ownself and
The hype and the chronic hydro-cultivated
On watermelon and pussy juice that NASA
Had to send up a rocket to try to get them down
Cause he was already DOWN wid his booty momma
LaShuana Tiesha boo with her astronomical
Emphasis on ass (assoliciousness) that had
Negroes orbiting that butt like the moons
Of Jupiter or asteroids getting their swerve on

Supernigga’s dick so hard he challenged John Henry
A steel drivin’ man (and owner of the Boston Globe)
Hammerin’ Hank drilling’ them spikes left and
Right and Uberswarztenmench hammering them
In wid his dictus sparks a-flyin’ as LaShuanaTiesha boo
Sprayed yellow piss to keep his nuts from exploding
Like two black powder kegs and dick glowing ruddy
From the sledge hammer pounding redhot
Reached down to kiss LaShuanaTiesha boo
With his plunger like balloon lips with a force
That suctioned up the chicken wings from her
Small intestines and pulled up my drooping socks
Again because an idle mind with a prostate
The size of Mississippi hasta I S I pee-pee I Boo-boo

Supernigger had convinced the NSA and the RAND Corporation
That his super strength and huge dick were because
He and LaShuanaTiesha boo’s bootilicious ass were from
The Black Tralfamador—the planet Jiggaboo
In the Porchmonkey Galactic System
Marooned on Fair Terra—planet White Terrorism
After a dope run in their spaceship
(gangster white walls/ diamond in the back)
Went sideways after dey got lost in dey high
On dey way back to Jiggaboo where he was gonna
Do a three-way with LaShuanaTiesha boo and
Nicki Minaj (a trios) because when she walked
Down the street you could hear the sounds
Of Negroes nuts popping like popcorn in the microwave



If everything is a problem
There can be no solutions
And if everything is a solution
There can be no problems
Chiasmus in the χ
As the Buddhists say
“Before my enlightenment
I carried water and chopped wood
And after my enlightenment
I carried water and chopped wood”
So there are no quandries
The dichotomy contraposed
In John Dewey’s mid-world
Where universals and particulars
Can’t exist one without the other
Nominally like the “frenemies”
Plato saw in the Lysis
Like the gray mist on the pale
Green gloaming New England
Hills is not a problem no problemo
But a blessing of dizzying concentration
On ten neighbors in yon Fitchburg
Overdosing on Fentanyl while writing
Logic in Fitch notation last week
Unable to eat enough Dunkin’ Donuts
To render unto meaning what is
Meaningless on a pale gray day
In a spring stuck with all motivations
Lost to repetitious Candy Crush
And dreamy evenings watching
The Living Dead on the 50-inch flatscreen
And for all that still a zombie’s
Wet dreams again


Poetry Isa

Isa is a species genus picker
Like an apple isa fruit

Or isa predicate applier
Like a red apple isa apple red

Particulars and universals wedded
As in isa certain man good?

But poetry isa platonic shadow
Or isa Aristotelian catharsis

Sandburg sez poetry isa “Star
Dropped from heaven with

Two blue ice pick holes in the back”
And Žižek warns poetry isa Big O

Other “where we suffer inna
Torture house of language”

Parole inna Big House of langue
Blindfolded and waterboarded

So I conclude poetry isa
Tortured cathartic illusion

With two blue ice pick holes
Innit’s back and consult

In exhuming Carl’s “star”
The corpse of Best American Poetry

Of 2013 & 2014 & 2015 & 2016
And tortured by the “Contributor’s Notes”

Not by “Big Shoulders” but
A parade of MFAs from Writer’s Workshops

Able replacements for the academic poets
Of prior generations

With their PhDs and inaccesibilities
Poets writing for other poets

So I listen for poetry in the streets
For poetry isa expression of da people’s

Struggles after all in the rhythms of
Busta & Biggie & Tupac & Slim Shady

Anna hear the beats and flow
An’da weary wisdom of da underclass

Dead Prez and M-1 and the Coup
50 in the Clip and Pick a Bigger Weapon

And Dre and Snoop and sweet cultural
Oblivion and lose myself to the metaphoric

Hyperbole of the timpani of raindrops
On the Shed’s metal roof and redolent kerosene lamp

And know that poetry is a sense of resonant
Wonder and order where the poets understand

The places of fallen stars and displaced objects
And sounds and smells like poetry isa bitch

In the end Ben Lerner teaches me the greatest poets
Are the ones who cease writing poetry at all

As Derrida says “Words are a poisonous virus”



Richard A. Jones is an African American writer who was born in Virginia in 1945 and grew up in Washington, D.C. His early poetry and fiction appeared in New Letters and Writers’ Forum. A life-long educator, Jones taught mathematics, science, and computer science at upper/middle-school and college levels, and concluded his teaching career as a philosophy professor at Howard University. Now retired, and an angry old man, he lives and continues to write in central Massachusetts.