A Laid off Shepherd to His Main Chick

What if Christopher Marlowe were a passionate shepherd today? What might a letter to his love look like? I think it might go a little something like this if he lived here in America. (Please place tongue firmly in cheek while reading this ... Thanks!)

A Laid off Shepherd to his main chick

Come live with me and let’s pay this rent

And we won’t wonder how money’s spent

With Two incomes no need to be nervous

And bill collectors won’t withold service

Stable living might pull us off the rocks

Fuck getting a haircut, I can grow Locks

My people, your people still talking collapse

Keep talking shit, I’ll let the phone bill laps

Life for us has been no bed of roses

Two doors rarely open after one closes

Blossoms or not, I just want you to stay

You know I don’t make my bed anyway

(Sigh)

Constant applications with no reply

Talent and skill this world will deny

Have to remember, nothing lost but a try

I Sleep just fine, my help comes from the sky

Head up, shoulders back, I repeat to self

Confidence is key to amassing wealth

Certainty grows in your garden of love

No cliché to say you come from above

The baddest outfit and Red Bottom shoes

As soon as these job searches bring good news

At some point my life is bound for accent

So come on girl, help a brother pay this rent

Big Brother and Little Sister

“Grief does not change you … It reveals you.” ― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

For a time, she seemed to be getting better. The doctors had removed all the tubes from her throat and my baby sister was able to sit up and hold a decent length conversation before exhaustion set in and she would need to rest. I tried to take advantage of those moments. I tried to talk about anything and everything that I thought would keep Toya’s mind sharp, and keep her spirits lifted.

We mainly talked about me and my life. I lived in New Jersey at the time and since she couldn’t travel much, on account of her twice-weekly dialysis appointments, she did a lot of traveling via my stories. We made a deal that once she was better, and had gone through her rehabilitation, she would come visit me. She had never been to New York and it made me feel so good that she was thinking about life after this moment.

“What is that?” she asked as I stood up to investigate out the window. “It’s a navy helicopter.” Its turbine engines were so much stronger than the hospital’s regular helicopter that the walls in her room shook.  The landing pad was just a few hundred feet outside of her window-- a reminder that she was a patient in the Intensive Care Unit. “It looks like they are practicing take offs and landings on the hospital’s helipad.” She relaxed her shoulders and leaned back, I always had a nack for explaining things in a way that put her at ease. We had a lot of practice being big brother and little sister.

“So you ready go to your new room?” They were upgrading her status away from the highly-critical ICU to the elevated-health-status part of the floor, a sign that the doctors didn’t think she was in as much danger. In retrospect, perhaps we were all in too much of a hurry. “Yeah, I guess so …” she sounded so tired I thought to myself then and I my heart whispers to me now. 

This was the last conversation we would ever have.

 

I did get to ask her a question. Her answer has kept me from loosing my mind in the years since. I leaned in close so no one could hear our conversation: “You aren’t trying to quit on us are you?” Her eyes locked in on mine, she frowned her brow saying “NO” quite firmly. Her body may not have been able to continue, but her spirit was always strong.

She went into cardiac arrest as the plane taxied down the runway, I would piece together later. By the time I was able to get another ticket and fly back, less than 24 hours later, she was gone. 

SKETCHES FROM ABROAD

Jazz was probably the last time a black man could express himself.  Every instrument a virtuoso in his nimble hands. 

Hands that find chaos otherwise. Hands that hammered out their own destruction. Hands lost to madness. Hands that could teach if not so fumble-fingered. Hands that have forgotten how to play. Hands of a has been, Hands of a never was, Hands of a fraud.

But in his music, he is the master. He is able to teach and be taught.

Hands of the singular artist. Hands that house ever busy fingers. Hands of the legends. Hands that hold the world ever securely in grasp. Hands that make mighty melodies.

With his love he is prone to extremes. Never able to find just the right way ...

Hands that are too prone to too tight of a squeeze. Hands that are absent when she reaches out. Hands that can solve a rubix cube but couldn't hold her right.  Hands umble to help him hold himself.   Hands that miss her fully in the end.

He grasps at air ...

PokemanGo forces you to connect

I know, this will cause you to roll your eyes but go with me for a moment, PokemanGo could help us solve the REAL issue with prejudice. HELL, it all but compels you to ask questions and talk (yeah, out loud, with words) to complete strangers.

Case in point, I am walking through the park today here in North Central Jersey.
It's a park I frequent now that I have begun my quest to catch them all, I mean it's my destiny ... I digress. ... I am simultaneously .3 kilometers away from hatching a 10 kilometer egg and 10 percent away from a dead phone battery. Sigh, my mind is weighing whether I should press on and hatch the pokemon or admit defeat and head back to my car. Nevermind the fact that I am an American, so the last time I measured kilometers there was a grade depending  on the outcome. Screw that noise, 10 k eggs give you powerhouse and rare pokemon ... didn't you read the earlier line about catching them all?

Anyway, as I pass the growing crowd of "millennials" and late"Gen Xers", who like me seem to have their heads buried in there phones, I am approached by another of the park's regular visitors. A commuter from the adjacent New Jersey Transit train station. "Are all these people playing Pokemon?"

He almost didn't stop to ask me, I could tell. On account of how his body stuttered as he passed me on the side walk. "Yeah!" I said, answering his question and realizing just how many people are nearby. There are probably 30 Pokeman "trainers" in this one general area, heads in phones. Add in the commuters and the late evening runners and this park is jumping.

"Why is it so popular" he asked? On his face a puzzlement that exposed the trueness of his question. "Everybody has their heads buried in their screens," he said, barely able to mask the befuddlement in his expression. "I work in the city and all day all I pass are people playing that game." You could just tell by his tone he wanted to now just what was the big idea with this game?
"But what you didn't see is the conversation that I just had with five other people. Different races, different ages, from different backgrounds, complete strangers. Exchanging info on where to find hard to find Pokemon."
See, what you find out early in the game is that you will go much farther much faster if you am actual words at one of the other phone zombies next to you. Pokemon has no time for strangers.

"One of the kids was saying there were a lot of a particular pokeman at Saddlebrook park." "Some of them were making a plan to go over there. They just met."
"They were talking to each other?," he asked.
"Words and everything," I said, trying to temper my sarcasm with the respect required when speaking to a stranger.
"I mean think about it, you stopped to talk me."
You see, during this summer, this hot summer of 2016, anytime a white man walking home from work stops to talk to a black man that he doesn't know to strike up a conversation in THESE United States, we should disect the idea of why.

The expression used to be "turn on your television and you will see why." Now those screens are much smaller and they fit in our pocket. Shootings, racial unrest, violence all over the globe, and the dreaded cloud of "economic uncertainty " all hang over our heads right now. We are all searching for a way to connect with one another, and as usual, the young people are showing us the way.

The Passenger's Sinister intro

A leaf tumbles through the brisk November night air. Downward toward its inevitable end it falls, until it lands next to a most specific boot ... a most sinister boot. A field general's boot, which leads upward to the uniform of  a circus ring master.
  A tall dark man stands in the center of three rings. A tall dark color and complexion, shrouding a tall dark soul. The Sinister Ring Master is present purely to signal the start. But he is a messenger you almost certainly would shoot twice.
  Not a hulking monster, simply a well kempt lean man -- with a smirk. It is perhaps, the single most knowing smirk in the history of humanity. And he has managed to point it, as well as his gaze down his nose at you. Right at you, even though you are seated about fifteen feet up in row ten. Still he smirks right at you. He steps forward and drowls out.

 "There is a reason why universally understood in all of humanity -- once translated -- is the word HOME.
"Just saying it out loud evokes pleasant responses. In games and narratives alike, its place in the psyche is the same -- home is where you feel safe. Sometimes you even feel loved there ... but are you? Are you always? More on that later." He turns and  begins to pace while gazing out into the night.

"What if you had to face as fact that you were not! You were not loved nor were you ever really safe anywhere.  That would have to mean that you never really had a place in the world, know wouldn't it?"
What would you do to return that feeling of security to its rightful ..." He raises his cheekbone in a smirk that would make Prince proud " ... Home." What would you do to return its meaning back to its proper place in  the world of your mind?"
"Would you look to the heavens, what would you see? A master clock maker, a grand design? Would you see the entrance to the universe? Would you see order or chaos? Good or ... Well you know."
"STEP RIGHT UP .. or stay cowering in your seat. Either way, prepare ..."
The ring master raises his outwardly stretched arms up above his head, making himself into the tallest letter Y that you have ever seen,

"Mindscape Escapes Circus Incorporated presents the most death defying of all performances! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, I take pleasure in presenting a parable made into physical performance ... the Passenger"

Fade to black ...

Internet Misstress

I will admit a selfish desire. I totally want for her to think, " I betta give up the pussy. Cuz he will definitely fuck somebody else if I don't!" Urges.  I don't really need it for the psychological advantage. There is no relationship warfare going on here ... there is no relationship, currently. Just a relationship. Everything and nothing occupying the same space.

Words running together, no stanzas. Ideas run together, no filters. A constant fight against paranoia.

The Internet is the new mob of Rome. You can only appease it, never resist. You may find yourself lost in the savage cyber realm. The Internet as Succubus. Not the band, but the bandwidth. It will leave you lost in the foggy marsh. Alone. The World Wide Web wants to snare you. A joist in the mirror.

It can even influence your yearning for human contact. Jesus can save your soul, but nothing can keep Rome from your flesh, Unto Caesar what is Caesar's. Unto the man his own desires, pray they don't consume him. The consumption already has his mind. Consumed, consuming, consumes ... In the dark he conspires to consume flesh. Skin.

The sound of skin smacking skin. Sweat burning eyes, lungs lacking air. Hearts pounding, racing. From love? Quite the opposite, hearts pump, pulse and throb because of ... reasons. Self intended reasons.

These reasons often find no rhyme to them, often compensating by adding more rhythm. The mind is able to move and flow just fine, albeit it isn't getting to it's goals. Rhyme gives rhythm reason. Rhythm is the act of living. And Reasons are why the struggle continues.

Beam breaks the thick haze. Inspiration can always be found. More than keystrokes. More than shared videos. More than what is done or said in the DM. A person, a heartbeat, a love. Beloved,

She speaks ... He thinks (No.1)

"Why don't you move with more confidence?" she asks, making a face that conveys massive disappointment and perhaps, a slight bit of encouragement.

HE ANSWERS INSIDE HIS HEAD: I have no experience with anything like this. But even deeper then that I never believed in myself enough to be TRULY confident. I confused boasting and ego with real confidence. The most boastful people often DO NOT believe in themselves. I have been able to fool most people into thinking I believe in myself. But you now know better.

Writer's Block Therapy
Trying to get through writer's mental constipation, a REALLY bad case too, so I am just going to put thoughts down until I jar something loose.

Session 2

What am I MORE afraid of losing?

On the surface it would seem to be so very simple. I profess my feelings for you to anyone who will listen. I tell everyone within earshot that I would do anything for you. I claim to be fearless about showing my love for you. But when it comes down to it, I do love something more than you.

No it is not myself. In fact quite the opposite is true. I am more afraid of losing my last spec of hope. This fear keeps me frozen in place in this game of life. You see, as long as I don't attempt to make it as a writer, then there is no way that I can fail. An opportunity can never be lost if it is never attained. There I've said it. I don't want to truly try. I have been so conditioned to subdue the fighter in me, just as a means to survive.

Tupac said that by the time a black man reaches the age of 30 in America he usually has had all the fight beat out of him. Things got so bad with me that I just tried to disassociate myself from my history, my story. Now I have a problem ... you.

You have no place in your life for a coward, as it should be
You are a warrior queen, and you have to find your equal, as it should be
I sold myself as an equal, but I had already abdicated, as I allowed it to be

So now I have a dilemma, chase the uncertain and prove myself as good as I think. All while having NO guarantee of finding you at the finish line. Or I can keep doing what I have been doing and lose you for sure.

Face my fear or lose all hope ...

Writer's Block Therapy
Trying to get through writer's mental constipation, a REALLY bad case too, so I am just going to put thoughts down until I jar something loose.

Session 1

When you met me I was the writer stuck in a cage, a song bird cooped up. Only know do I realize that was and is the case. For years I believed that bird's neck rung and his song ended.

Every day I returned to that coal mine of negative energy, my spirit just became weaker and weaker. And I retreated into myself. The whole time you have had your son, your parents, your LIFE, and I ignored you to stay stuck on me. When I should have just relaxed, related and released that shit. I was having too much fun at my own personal pity party. SELFISH. I can't help but understand if you never see me "that way" again. I failed the vision of us.

In a previous poem, I wrote that we stand on opposite sides of the river of life. I know now I was wrong. We stand side by side at the river, you see me for whom I really am. You stand close enough to see my cracks, my flaws. I am left to wonder if you could ever see me as the conquering hero you originally thought I may to be?

Will you believe me when I say to you that I AM him? Or will you see it as just more slick talk from the snake oil salesman, the fraud? Please here me ... I will not lose, again.