Eddie Oliver

Introduction by Catherine Maddox

“When I close my eyes this is what I see: me on top of you and you on top of me,” Eddie Oliver is narrating. This part is erotic no matter how many times you hear it. Ultimately this particular piece will result in two resurrected lovers having sex in front of God. That kind of passion is characteristic of Eddie Oliver. I’ve very recently encountered Eddie, a spoken word poet, no relation to Mary Oliver, performing at the Blank Stage, an increasingly popular comedy improv theatre in Marietta, GA. What a fortuitous meeting it was for me! Eddie, with his chiseled looks and sensuous voice, is the perfect narrator for Unpredictable, the Valentine’s Day show entirely dedicated to the question of love. Oliver is a soft-spoken charmer, and though instinct tells me he’s delivered his lines many times, ever the poet, he always emotes directly from the soul. It is his sincerity that makes him sexy. Maybe it’s cruel, or perhaps its human nature, but we love our poets best with bleeding hearts, do we not?

Amongst a sea of homogeneous writers, Eddie Oliver has retained his own voice, enabling him with the ability to create something real, something, raw, something actually representative of itself. Captured in Oliver’s poetry are situations as well as perspective. He is the kind of artist that lends himself the freedom to break free from description to exclaim “Yiggy Yes Ya!!!!!!!” in a moment of unguarded excitement, enhancing our understanding of his poetry and bringing the reader closer (Reflections 16). The latter exclamation comes from “I’m Digging You,” a poem from Oliver’s most recent publication, Reflections. Avoiding the tawdriness found in the burgeoning society of overexposure, Oliver is explicit and artful. Reflections is naked with a purpose, an offering without an agenda. At the same time he confesses “I like my sex wild and untamed” he cautions “Always remember emotions need to flow like Oceans” (Reflections 4, 38).

Equally as compelling as his love poetry, Oliver’s segment entitled Tears re-enforces the ardor in Reflections as a whole. Rife with thoughtful concern, Tears gets real about racism, abuse, and the tragedy of the violence propagated by the "gangsta" mentality. In a piece entitled “If I Could Change the World” Eddie predicts:

I would turn a future drug dealer

into a scholar

and have him give a lecture

on how knowledge is power

I would up the minimum wage

to twenty dollars an hour

so that taste in your mouth

wouldn’t have to be sour

This is the earnestness that creates a hunger for positive action- the first step in a calling for a necessary attempt by our society to beget positive solutions. In a world where it is easiest not to care, I offer you a glimpse into a fresh voice that asks that you do.

DRIP DROP

We made love in the shower

for hours upon hours

Water splashed off our bodies

and dripped and dropped into the drainage

like cum.

As we made love in the shower.

Never before has anyone made me feel so good.

Let it be understood

that she had me calling her name.

I kept yelling, “Damn baby!

What did I do to deserve this V.I.P. treatment?”

She gave me no reason

She just told me, “Shhh!”

and kept on pleasing

like I was going out of season.

But I had no plans on leaving;

not that night.

I was too busy trying not to lose the groove.

As we bounced around to the beat of the water.

She gave me orders

Like, “Hold up, baby!

Let me turn around.

Eddie, I want you to lick me down.

Eddie, I want to lick you down.”

I responded with no sound

just nodding my head

as I kept her fed.

Keep in mind

we had no bed

just a steamy hot shower

in which we made love for hours upon hours

with the red light on.

She climbed my tower like she was King Kong,

And proceeded to treat me

like I was a king on a throne.

At times I felt like I was the one who came

with the dress on,

and she wore the pants.

As she continued with her romance

my penis, my body

felt like wet clay in her hands.

At first glance

it looked like we were doing an erotic dance.

We were in perfect motion

Like waves coming in off the ocean.

We made our own lotion.

A love lotion,

a magic potion

that kept us both groping

as we fought with the notion

that this night that had suddenly turned into morning

had come to an end.

Once it was over I felt like I was born again.

I found myself lying on the floor

in a fetal position

with her love marks,

and her smell

tattooed all over my skin

from making love in the shower

for hours upon hours.

The Real Pleasantville

I’m gonna take you to a place where

mothers be crying

because their babies be dying.

You see they’ve been gunned down,

now they’re laying down

crooked

in those damn streets,

and nobody in this world seems to care

about that little girl over there

who be walking around the projects with no shoes on her feet.

Now it just don’t make no sense to me

that same old drunk man be getting pissy;

he be walking and talking to himself,

but everybody just seems to ignore him, as they pass him by

they act like he doesn’t even exist.

Welcome to PLEASANTVILLE

where everything seems so unreal.

Welcome to my city, my town,

some call it the ghetto.

I like to call it the real PLEASANTVILLE.

This ain’t no Hollywood version.

Negroes be splurgin.

They live in the projects, they drive benzes,

Chevy impalas, Cadillacs,

and have sex with young virgins.

Nobody on the block be working,

not a real nine to five.

Instead they base their income around playing the lotto,

standing on the corner,

and I guess hoping for something to fall from out the sky.

It’s a place where dreams are nightmares.

Families are on welfare.

Children are sick, but there is no sign of any healthcare.

It seems these people are living on air.

I got to wonder

does God even hear their prayers?

Welcome to PLEASANTVILLE

where everything seems so unreal.

Welcome to my city, my town,

some call it the ghetto.

I like to call it the real PLEASANTVILLE.

It’s a place where the police visit often

with their guns cocked.

Next thing you know negroes are in coffins,

and ain’t nobody talking

because they scared of the police

or should I say beast

because on negroes they seem to feast.

Late night you can hear the screams

overshadowed by the sound of sirens,

and if you look out your window

you’ll see that the night sky shines as bright as day

from the light of helicopter high beams.

Shhhh!!!

Listen carefully, and you can hear the ping ping

of a negro getting shot.

The next sound you hear is the sound of his body

as it drops.

Will this madness ever stop?

Welcome to PLEASANTVILLE

where everything seems so unreal.

Welcome to my city, my town,

some call it the ghetto.

I like to call it the real PLEASANTVILLE.