Two months have transpired void of my heart’s writings. Allow me to compensate for the unintended disappearance.
My body is in a state of craving—I need you tonight. I need you to inhabit my thoughts, my fantasy, my very bare-naked soul tonight.
Are you available this evening? No, are you emotionally available? I need the unadulterated, mentally unoccupied you, woman. Tonight. My poetry? Please read further:
Flirting with temptation is worth the risk
I must insert the Sade, Cherish the Day disk
Take me, will you, to your secret pre-summer garden
Should you misinterpret my night kiss, beg my pardon
The body fragrance inherent to you, god, I gladly surrender
All I ask of you tonight? Please don’t be a pretender . . .
Fake not that helpless, pit-of-your-belly flutter
My erotic bravado has me parting the cheeks like butter
Spread to utter perfection, allow me to go to work
Like a skin yeoman bringing gifts—and the ultimate perk:
Warm, gentle oil over these outsized hands
Woman, you’re the crux of my Pamper-Her-Friday plans
Panties are superfluous, yes, indeed, they are
My apologies if my touch leaves your sweet mouth ajar
Have your way with me, this erotic, hypnotic writer
Tonight your designated, exclusive poetry reciter
Has come back to the sacred environs of your soul
To reaffirm I am your one and only lover, my goal
Forgive me my absence as I ignite the candlelight
It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, woman, and I’m all yours tonight . . .
Come.
-Rg2
_______
***
Pamper the woman . . . like an erotic reminder. -Rg2
You ask me why I care as much as I do
Emotional am I to make our suffering people whole?
Could it be that I carry our ancestors’ broken hearts
Look around . . . my god, has pain taken its toll
Turn away could I, to close thy misty eyes
Though even in darkness I can hear their voice,
The whips, the lashes, the sun-seared spines
Babygirl, please understand, I have no choice
The scars, engrained, do they live deeply in me
The inheritor of a strange duality am I,
My liberties for which they died is their legacy
The very ones our beloved homeland would deny
Bondage and Jim Crow by law, the cold won’t thaw
Tell me, don’t you feel it in the societal air?
Heavy is sin’s stench but I refuse to flinch
Relegated to a bottom caste, damn, it’s so unfair
Listen to what I’ve learned about our sacred vote
It’s not only our voice but it’s money too,
The Clintons are now worth a quarter of a billion
The Obamas are now over a hundred million—it’s true
Marianne Williamson says her people were repaired:
“Germany’s given $89 billion to Jews since WW2,”
Reagan restored the Japanese for the internment camps
Indian tribes given billion-dollar casinos as profits accrue
The forgotten founders: American Descendants of Slavery
“Ain’t I a citizen . . . I too pay tax”; this benign neglect,
Terror remains . . . bullets, bombs, dogs and water hoses
And mass incarcerated are we to devastating effect
Backs against the justice wall, our shoulders pinned
The awakened giant—wide awake!—has lost all fear,
No longer accepting a hand so callously dealt
The data don’t lie—the facts are abundantly clear
We’re due, by God, his people are long overdue
The righteous won’t be forsaken, our time is nigh,
Ancestral spirits cloak us with the skill and will
ADOS, clasp hands and minds, together we’ll fly
Economic justice, no less, our families restored
From the bottom up, our democracy we now reclaim,
Giving honor to the gift that is our hallowed forebears
Make them proud we will, the world will know our name:
ADOS: American Descendants of Slavery . . . let’s do this!
-Roy Greer II
_______
***
“We comin’!” -Antonio Moore, ToneTalks Media; Co-founder, ADOS Movement
“Lineage matters.” -Yvette Carnell, Founder, BreakingBrown Media; Co-founder, ADOS Movement
My not feeling company this past Friday was certainly no fault of yours.
Admittedly I haven’t entertained the company of a woman since the turn of the new year. And I love the company of a sweet-scented, warm-spirited woman—more than I’d realized in her absence.
I need time to heal. Time to reckon with my foibles. More time to examine the reflection in my mirror when, all the previous occasions, I only saw the surface of a man apart.
Back to roots. Back to self-truth. Back to the very essence of Pamper-Her-Friday.
I’m not ready for new intimacy. No, not yet. I want to be totally discreet.
But if you want to meet me at the coffee shop next to the Pier 1 Imports at the corner of Fruit and Bayhill, I’d like very much to hear your voice in person, unobstructed by an e-device, and gaze into your eyes to interpret the stories they contain.
We can then visit the Pier 1 store before departing. Why? Well, the financials I’ve read say Pier 1 Imports (ticker: PIR), the eclectic-furniture and -décor retailer, has been on its last leg. The Amazon threat in full effect. But PIR has given leadership to Cheryl A. Bachelder and her team. Bachelder was previously with Popeyes Louisiana Kitchen. She revived that dying franchise and brought exceptional returns to shareholders.
And I’d like to gather your thoughts on Avon (ticker: AVP)—yes, of pink Cadillac lore. It too has been given up for dead. Except China has opened up its market. And other markets across the globe are revitalizing the storied cosmetics-products brand.
I risked 10,000 shares of PIR at .70 cents per (it broke through $1.30 Friday) and 6,500 shares of
AVP at $2.95 per—it floated above $3.20 Friday and stayed there.
My instincts say both have just begun their turnarounds. The big institutional funds and hedgers have bought shares of both recently as well. They all smell something.
Like an Avon fragrance. And a Pier 1 organic candle.
If you would accept a gift, I’d like to share the stocks with you. No quid pro quo . . . you’d owe me nothing in return. I don’t believe in obligations.
Make something beautiful happen with the profits, Amber. Treat yourself and perhaps someones who could appreciate a monetary day-maker.
I know it’s not Friday but that evening I didn’t want to compromise either of us. But do me a favor, will you?
Call me next Friday and simply ask me how I’m doing. The value of a call like that, from a sweet-scented, warm-spirited woman, is invaluable to a man. Well, this man.
Enjoy your evening, Amber. Blessings to you.
Until then,
Rg2
___________
***
Pamper the woman . . . and return to the man you’re meant to be. -Rg2
It’s only one. However, it may well represent the millions of potential votes of the restless ADOS voters on whom your candidacy’s breakthrough likely hinges.
Willing am I to ink bubble the circle next to your name on the ballot that won’t arrive soon enough for the next election cycle—on one vital condition, however:
That your platform includes both a verbal and written commitment to reparations/recompense for Native Black Americans/ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery).
President Obama secured 95% of the black vote his first term and 93% in 2012, both historic records in the American franchise. He did so, both times, without a clear, unequivocal pledge to redress the economic wrongs, sins, and atrocities perpetrated upon ADOS during 400 years of state-sanctioned bondage and domestic terror (the remnants of which continue to this day), 100 years of Jim Crow, the current state of ADOS mass incarceration, and the ungodly wealth gap that, unaddressed, will only widen in the coming years.
Pres. Obama’s net worth is now $40 million, not counting the $65 million two-book-each Penguin Random House deal both he and Lady Michelle signed in 2016-17, and the recent Netflix production deal they’ve secured, the value of which numbers in the tens of millions of dollars.
That 95% black vote has paid off handsomely for the Obama family—they are set for life, including their grandkids to be.
The Clintons, who also successfully corralled the majority of the black vote, left the White House in debt. Today the Clinton fortune is valued at $250 million—a quarter of a billion dollars. Pres. Clinton’s signature set in motion the largest, most devastating prison industrial complex development in American history, the foundation of which is ADOS men.
The utter discontent and frustration of ADOS voters has now culminated into a sleeping giant now permanently awakened. The political, economic, and criminal justice walls have ADOS pinned on all four sides, squeezing the oxygen with each inch forward.
Politics is now perhaps the most lucrative industry which doesn’t require talent.
Should you ascend the presidency, Senator Harris, your current $2.1 million net worth is guaranteed to balloon thereafter—exponentially.
I’m for the American dream. ADOS certainly are as well; yet, all we’ve known is a nightmare which seemingly refuses to end. We’re willing to withhold our votes for the results we seek. The collective absence of a voting bloc is as, if not more, powerful than one that does.
Our forefathers and -mothers are angry with their progeny. We, ADOS, hear them, we feel them, we will honor their legacy.
Will you, Senator Harris?
Respectfully,
Rg2
cc: ADOS US of A
_______
***
For Roy Greer Sr. and my great-grands . . . I hear you. -Rg2
Might this be another companionless Pamper-Her-Friday?
Woman, tell me, are you deliberately staying away?
Understand: I’m drama-free, virus-free . . . so anxiously
am I summoning the most artfully precise words to say . . .
To you, such that their most immediate effect
Will be to drastically shorten the distance between us,
It matters little which of us happens to blink first
Someone needs to break the silence of this mutual hush
You’re there, in body only, while I, here, fight the lonely
Do you realize you never wrote to me a love letter,
What’s with the self-censoring the language of your heart?
Have you convinced yourself that muted feelings are better . . .
Than your dead-of-winter vulnerabilities exposed
Lest you somehow become my subject of ridicule,
You’ve self-vowed to give no ordinary man the pleasure
Woman, why is it that I’m willing to play the fool
Curious am I of your Friday night fragrance
And the elements of your Friday evening wind-down,
Hot, moist towels to enrapture your weary feet
Southern Comfort sipped by the fire—how does that sound?
We don’t have to remove our clothes to have a good time
No harm will be done to scrawl yourself over my lap,
And in case I begin to finger-comb your hair
By all means, feel free to succumb to a dreamworthy nap
Sweep you away like a sailoress tossed on a tide
I’m as gifted a rescuer as I am a havoc wreaker,
Finding ourselves smack in the middle of intimacy
Woman, consider me your anti-thrill seeker
A slow, methodical hand is the measure of a man
In whom you can deposit your fragile trust,
You simply haven’t been held at never-end length
Come just a little closer, and let me shake the rust
Off your too-long-neglected, fully clothed body
Nothing about their removal guarantees a good time,
The shortening of distance between us is its own reward
And now the reason for this Pamper-Her-Friday rhyme:
It would be my privilege your Valentine. Will you, J.?
Yours,
Rg2
_______
***
Pamper the woman . . . present to her your heartfelt Ask. -Rg2
Forgive me the open publication of this love letter across the cyberwaves. I realize the internet is written in ink, not pencil; thus, a man must be extremely mindful what he releases into the global public square . . . especially as it regards his current emotional state of affairs.
The words, once released, never go away. So be it. I couldn’t care less what the world thinks of what I’m feeling in this very moment. Because, mocha woman, you are the sum total of everything I feel on this night, Pamper-Her-Friday.
If my thoughts are premature, if this ask meets you while least expected, then color me more proactive than overconfident.
Might you have plans for February 14th? More importantly, is there a reservation in your heart for a man, now and leading up to that date, that simply cannot be altered? If your answer is no on both counts, I suggest you consider me a contender . . . an unalterable contender.
You may not have heard of Park Electrochemical Corp. of Melville, N.Y. (ticker: PKE). The sleepy aerospace company develops and manufactures advanced composite materials for the global aerospace markets, from military to commercial to private-sector applications.
Park doesn’t make much noise amongst the behemoths of the “space-ware” suppliers, but it quietly gets it done for its clients—and its shareholders, of which this contender happens to be.
PKE has decided to reward us with a special dividend (above the regular) for the profitable recent quarters it’s had: $4.25 per share owned, payable on February 26 for stockholders on record by Feb. 5th and the shares purchased before Feb. 4th. I intend to add to an at-present 4,600-share cache next week. The current share count at 4.25 per comes to $19,550.
I figure just under 20 grand is not much good to a single man who has not a special woman with whom to spend it on the 14th of February. I’m curious your thoughts on that notion.
If this ask is a bit premature, forgive me the perceived rush. The contender knows his chances are few. So I stand before you, these words are my presence, and offer my ask, mocha woman:
Will you be mine?
________
***
Pamper the woman . . . present to her your most heartfelt Ask. -Rg2
Hopeful am I that your rests have been peaceful, there, in Jehovah’s arms. My recent nights have been anything but.
I didn’t realize I was so mistake-prone—being that I carry your very genes. So diligently have I tried to pace my emotional steps in walking alongside a woman, my intentions to handle with care the woman brave enough to inhabit my oxygen zone.
Denise is her name, Father. She hated it when first I called her that. I laughed internally at her reaction . . . not of humor, but because I sensed a momentary unhappiness dwelling within her, having somehow manifested itself in the form of strident displeasure with life.
I wondered if she’d ever been touched tenderly. Had she ever experienced the warmth of another sun in the person of a special mocha man—rare though we are.
Father, the woman found her way into my guarded life. And discovered me. She discovered you. She discovered mother. She discovered a genius, hapless, reluctant, awkward, flawed, unassuming, hard-headed, silly yet driven romance writer . . . like no other in this careless universe.
She somehow, for some reason unbeknownst to your son, believed in me. Denise believed in me. Something in my soul, something in my voice, something, Father, something in my slow hand touched the woman. My pen, my mind, my ceaseless creativity perhaps played a part. My body scent didn’t hurt either, I suspect.
Her fragrance, by the grace of God, her very fragrant essence, Father, I wear like a second skin still. Her candles flame as I write this, Father, but it is her fragrance they emit.
She stormed away as if she had competition. Denise had convinced herself that she had competition. Imagine that.
Little did she know: She has no rival.
My love for the woman is purely uncontested. Little did she know.
Put that one squarely on your son—my fault, my foible, my failure. I’d suspected all along, though in quiet denial alongside, that I’m human after all. But humanness, in all its frailty, is no excuse for letting a love down.
Mother, all these years later, still carries the hurt you caused, man. I know it wasn’t your intention. Ill will wasn’t part of your make-up. You know how I know? Because you live in me, Mocha Man. You are the inspiration, the very birther, of Pamper-Her-Friday as much as my own ever-fertile mind. And you should know: She loves you to this very day. Still. It’s in her eyes.
Love is stronger than pride.
My god, Father, what I would give to simply hold Denise’s hand once again . . . on a rainy winter night, walking, pace for measured pace, on the sidewalk of that holiday-soft-lighted Mainstreet. I’d forgotten my gloves (I never forget my gloves in winter!), the air was crisp and moist-heavy, it was, while the puddles along the path held a storybook romance in their stillness.
I gloved her hand with my own, Father. I really believe it’s not until a man takes a woman’s tender, bare-naked hand into his own that he interprets her spiritual definition. That he begins to grasp his responsibility—to her. If her hand gives way, if it grasps back with a firm yet soft clasp, if she gives her hand without reluctance, then she gives herself to him. And therein lies his responsibility . . . a majestic, romantic, protective, integral responsibility—she.
Chivalry lives in that woman, Father. As it lives so fervently in me.
God, what I would give to open the passenger door for her, without fail, of my motorcar just once more. We both like how that feels. I saw it in her gemstone eyes, Father.
Denise is a romantic. And she recognized that hallowed quality in your son, perhaps long before I took her hand on that rainy winter’s night.
What I would give to romance her once more. Romance her to the edge of winter, throughout the rainy, snowy season. Romance her to and in Cancun’s sandy-beached, warm-breeze allure. Romance her facing the mouth of a flaming-logs fireplace on a cuddle-worthy love sofa. Romance her to China and India and South Africa and Newfoundland, where the natives are reciting verses of Pamper-Her-Friday creatives in both English and their native languages—because it sounds and feels so soothing to the universal soul.
Romance Denise—alas, pamper Denise—with the dividend checks from long-studied investments your son has made with the forethought inherited from you, Father.
Pamper her with, more than all, the unfettered, unadulterated, unconditional love that she knows in her heart your son is capable of.
To pamper her, Father, is this writer’s, your son’s, wish . . . if only once more.
On Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .
I love you, Roy Sr.
Ever your son,
Rg2
_______
***
Pamper the woman . . . before she gets away. -Rg2
It’s the final Pamper-Her-Friday of 2018. You’re in my thoughts, so I’d like to mark the special occasion with an extra under-the-tree gift of sorts. Christmas day can be somewhat of a letdown, what with its month-long build-up of advertising and shopping . . . and then, poof, it’s gone, feel?
What do you say we extend the gift-giving just a bit longer? (Yeah, I figure you’d begin smiling at your phone screen or desktop monitor right about now.)
Have you heard of VMware Inc.? The Palo Alto, Calif.-based company is a leading innovator in enterprise software that powers the world’s complex digital infrastructure. VMWare’s (ticker: VMW) compute, cloud, mobility, networking and security offerings provide a dynamic and efficient digital foundation to over 500,000 customers globally, aided by an ecosystem of 75,000 partners. In other words, not much goes on in online digital operations without VMware touching it.
Well, today, yes, Pamper-Her-Friday of all days, VMW pays a special dividend of $26.81 per share of the stock owned by shareholders. I know you’re familiar with Microsoft, Google, Apple, Amazon and the other obvious tech players; however, VMware has quietly operated below your radar, no?
Not today, love.
When I sold most of my Amazon shares a few weeks ago, I scooped up, among other equities, just over 1,000 shares of VMW, especially when I read that Carl Icahn is a holder. One thousand shares times $26.81 sums to just shy of $27,000—not a bad little incentive for simply holding the shares, eh? I’ll keep the shares into the new year, watching closely the market in light of recent turbulence. I wanted to hold onto Amazon into infinity, but a wise man must know when to hold and when to fold. Besides, I’ll get back in at a lower entry price.
But today I wanna get into you . . . your inner sanctum, into your holiday heart and soul—if only for the duration of this Pamper-Her-Friday, the last of 2018.
At your doorstep today will arrive a package that will feel essentially like an empty, small postal box. By all means, unseal the contents and behold the blank cheque featuring only my signature, along with an enclosed writing pen. I’ve owned that pen for several years, its significance heightened by the fact it was the pen I used to sign the official contracts that certified me as the innovator and owner of the trademarks Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® and Romance by Rg2®.
Cradle the pen with your tender fingers and fill in the cheque an amount to your liking: Not to exceed $26,810. Trust me, however. That limit is purely superficial. Should more be needed, it’s accessible to you on one firm condition:
You let me know this love letter made you smile in this very moment and that I’ll be in your thoughts for the remainder of this day. Until we see one another again. Tonight perhaps? Lol.
It was the night before Christmas
Teeming within his creative mind,
Yuletide reindeer and lovely angels
But, oh, there’s one particular kind . . .
Her majestic eyes like diamond sparkles
That enthralling smile remains aglow,
Her fragrance lingers from that winter
Her enchantment he simply can’t let go
As the window mists from falling rain…
He rubs the pane to clear the dew,
Sleigh bells jingle in the distance
Behold, her silhouette comes into view
Seated next to ol’ St. Nick . . .
Rudolph gleefully leading the way,
Could it be: that starry-eyed angel?!
Such beautiful cargo aboard Santa’s sleigh
“A special delivery,” St. Nicholas bellows,
“But remember to handle with exquisite care”;
“Absolutely!” says the creative writer . . .
“Less than an angel? I wouldn’t dare”
He extends his hand to help her down . . .
Invites her into his warm embrace,
She lingers there like a fireplace refuge
His hands cradle her tender face
Even more lovely, she, than before
He takes her hand, escorts her inside,
Yule logs ablaze capture her gaze
Memories surface when once denied
Words escape them—they’re without need
While Nat King Cole begins to play,
She rests her head upon his shoulder
A wish come true…this gift of Bae
Silent night, this moonlit night
The hearth aflame, the tree lights aglow,
Breathes on her is his intimacy
A forehead kiss beneath the mistletoe
And since there’s no other place they’d rather go…
Let it snow, let it snow, let it flow….
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Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 