Twelve and Nine: Part 2

Jun-Jun was nine years old.  His real name was Kenton.  His mother knew this.  It was also his father’s name, though his father was also called Junie.  Junie-K, to be exact, since there had to be something to distinguish him from Junie-B, Junie-C, Junie-J, and Junie-L.  The five Junies made up the head of the “Back-a-alley Gang”, and had, through a matter of technicalities, been born the day Junie-K was born, which, incidentally, was also the day his father, Kenton Wallace, died. 

While most people blamed the state of affairs in the back alleys on the gang, even Kenton Wallace, when he was alive, could tell you that things were always bad.  The families that lived there had been put there; set aside like a pen or a set of keys that were sure to be lost, by the government after a hurricane had destroyed their previous homes.  They’d built ‘temporary’ shelters; quick, piecemeal wooden bungalows that would keep the rain and other elements out, until they could properly rebuild their old neighborhood.  Years later, their old neighborhoods were memorial parks dedicated to those lost in that devastating storm.  Their temporary shelters had become permanent homes.  They all shared the same square plot of low, swampy land, which soon became a city block even though the swamp was still there, in the back yard that all these houses shared. 

When it rained water invaded the bungalow houses, barging in off the streets right in through their front doors, then settling in a little too comfortably among the rest of the muck at the back.  Inevitably, flies did the same, spawning mere feet away from the kitchens, sucking the life right out of them at night, spreading disease.  if the flies were bad, then the people who acted like flies were even worse.  Just like the mosquitoes, they rutted in full view of kitchen windows, and at night they preyed on the people who lived there.  Kenton Wallace could simply wave his hands over his wife’s swollen belly in the evenings and swatted them when they landed on her thighs.  In fact he took great pleasure in doing so.   He tried swatting a man one night.  The experience was considerably less satisfying.

He’d come into the kitchen for something cold to drink and as he stood naked in his own house he spotted a curtain move without breeze to blow it.  The curtain took off running, bursting through the broken back door it had come in through, and Kenton Wallace chased after it.  So great was his rage that he couldn’t be bothered to make a fist.  He swatted at the man with a heavy, flat palm.  The first time Kenton Wallace swatted him, the thief dropped a toaster oven.  The second time, it was a blender.  The third time that Kenton Wallace’s palm, tough as tree bark from his job at the saw mill, came down on the back of the burglar’s head the thief swung round and dropped a knife deep into the naked chest of his pursuer.  Kenton’s wife found him dead and, dropping to her knees, felt a warm water draining over her legs and puddle in a rut in the yard.  Junie-J, the oldest of the Back-a-alley gang, was twelve years old when Junie-K, the youngest, was born. 

The Junies grew older, and, tired of mosquitoes and men who acted like mosquitoes, they began filling the yards.  They brought dirt by the wheelbarrow full, from schoolyards, from river beds, from most places that were none of your damn business.  One day, Junie-L and Junie-C came bursting in with loads of sand they’d stolen from a construction site, along with a sign that read ‘Future Site of Barclay’s Bank’.  “We rich now!” they’d said.  “Dis da good ting!” 

They spread the sand in all the ruts and mosquito nests.  They leveled off the back yards and shored up the front yards too.  It was the boys that made the swamp disappear but, now free to walk from one house to the other, it was the women who’d actually formed the pathways and alleys.

The Junies started wearing black gloves and carried cricket bats and clubs.  “Time fi mek wi staat do some dirty work, fellas.”  Junie-J had told them while handing out the cloves.  “But that nuh means we fi get dirty too.”  They didn’t ask the mosquitoes where they came from.  If they found one, they swatted it.  They treated the strange faced men they found in the alleys the same way.  Occasionally, one of the Junies would leave the Alleys at night and not return.  Occasionally the police would come wandering through the alleys; either looking for one of the Junies to take away for years at a time, or to tell his family that he’d been taken by someone else.  There was always someone willing to take his place though; always some young bwai who wanted oh so badly to be a Junie.

Pretty soon there were no invaders in the yards and houses.  The only ones walking in through front doors unannounced were the people that had grown up there.  The only flies people found in their yards were lit roaches.  Junie-B bought a ticket to L.A. the day before the Police came to the Alleys looking for him.  The day after that, Jun-Jun was conceived in full view of his grandmother’s kitchen window.

Twelve and Nine: Part 1

Wally was twelve years old.  His real name was Christian.  His mother, brothers, sisters, teachers, and school friends knew this.  Unfortunately, years before he was ever a tall, gangly twelve year old he was a small child who failed to see the importance of being fully clothed.  He considered the scratchy shorts and faded cotton shirts to be a nuisance and his family members would often find him stark naked in the street in front of the wooden bungalow house, swinging sticks with the other boys or spinning marbles, his bare bottom hovering mere inches over the dusty street.

“Bwai, get yuh backside indoors, yerr?” His mother would shout, swinging a kitchen towel at him as he skittered through the wooden gate on the zinc fence.  She’d gather the fabric of her wide, twice-stitched, thrice-patched skirt in the fist of her free hand, lifting the hem above her knees so that she could chase after him and herd him in through the screen door.  The little naked rascal was more likely to just run through the back yard and into the alley, where the fast-girls and the weed-smokers would only encourage him by laughing and pointing, and shouting “Peely-Batty-Paully-Wally!” 

His father wasn’t much help as far as his mother was concerned.  He’d meet his son outside wearing nothing but what he was born in and grab him up in his black-gloved hands and swing him over his head, exposing the boy’s nakedness to god and everyone.  “If ih da wa bad bwai, yuh fi beat ah.”  His father would say.  The argument, to his mind, was that simple.  “If not, then leff di lee bwai lone.  So what if ih want mek di work know weh ih got.  Da wa lee-lee bwai, mek ih have ih fun while ih young yet.”  And, later, when they were both alone on in their rooms and their clothes had all been folded and put away, including the pair of black gloves his father kept next to his shoes and socks, and just before they both fell asleep on the mattress on the floor, sweaty and tired, Wally’s father would say to his wife: “If you neva want wa lee bwai weh woulda give yuh trouble, weh yuh gone name ah afta me fa?”

 And so it stayed, until Wally was at the proper age for school and school uniforms, which, conversely, he never wanted to take off, not even in the light of physical threats.  By then, however, the name had stuck.  The fast girls, the weed smokers, and the men who played dominoes with his father outside the kitchen window all knew his as Peely-Batty-Pauly-Wally.  The name was later broken down to either Peely Batty, or Pauly Wally.  Over months, the latter won out, and was further shortened to just ‘Wally’.  In fact, it was so popular a name that on a particular hot night one June a neighborhood girl was heard shouting at the screen door, “Wally-Mommy!  Wally-Mommy!  Wally-Daddy just get shot!”

Lizard Tales [NaNoWriMo 2010]

It was dark when they first came. The clutch of us nestled in the spaces between the louvers and the nooks of the window frame. Lizards seldom abide each other's company, but there'd been rumors of a strange new threat that had driven others from as far as the hinges in the front door. Many had run scared and even more had gone missing, so we temporarily gathered together for protection. When the sun came up the light would warm our blood and we would part ways as lizards ought to.

As I remember it there were no signs of their approach. No scurrying, no hissing, not even breathing or heartbeats. From where we were the shadows of the trees in the back yard shifted behind the louvers, blown by the night breeze. My need for sleep had long overcome my vigilance, but I opened one eye and spied three-toes sprawled on the glass, his silhouette contrasting against the sparkling glass louvers and shifting shadows. I opened the other eye to get a better look and noticed that one of the shadows failed to move with the others. I tried to hiss out a warning three-toes, tried to tell him to take off running, but a terrible chirping broke the night's silence and swallowed my frightened rasping.

Just as the other lizards awoke and sluggishly stirred, the creatures attacked. They looked like lizards for the most part, but their four legs had short round toes. Their skin was pale, so pale that they blended into the white walls and were invisible from afar. They didn't shoot in a straight line, but rather took jagged steps toward us, changing directions like raindrops falling down a window pane. When they came close enough, their veins shone out through their skin and each of them had a quivering, black heart that throbbed excitedly as their jaws snapped hungrily at whatever was nearest. We saw the ghostly white creatures seize our brethren, holding them tight in their maws as they proceeded to swallow them hole. It became obvious that they were more than just lizards. They were predators!

Three toes hardly had a chance. They were upon him before he knew it and as the cold blood in his veins moved like tree sap toward the ends of his limbs, the attackers already had his tail. One of them had it in its grasp and the tail writhed of ts own volition. Another of the ravenous lizards seized the bleeding end and while the two squabbled over the dropped tail, Three-toes made a run for it. He'd hardly started off running when another of the creatures waiting in the shadows had him held by the throat.

Some of the others had escaped. I could see wood-brown scurrying through a hole in the screen and was about to make a dash for it when that sound froze me once again. This time the clear, startling chirp erupted from right behind me. It reminded me of the grackles that stalked the back yards, only to swoop in on an unsuspecting lizard bringing a flurry of inky black feathers and an even darker fate. That sound meant death to us all, and when the others echoed the initial cry from all directions, I felt my blood freeze and my joints seize up.

I didn't watch, like some would have you believe, but I didn't run away either. I cowered when I felt the tug and heard them slurping and gnashing, and I squeezed my eyes shut as they devoured my tail. When I opened my eyes again the sun had risen and the light warmed my blood, but I still felt weak. The creatures were nowhere to be seen, but i knew it wasn't safe. Not here. Not anymore. These new creatures had taken my home, but spared my life. Now I would have to brave the grackles and cats in the back yard, and with only half a tail to distract them with.

The Negro (In Progress)

Photo by Jorge Larios (http://www.flickr.com/photos/vasagritarwow/)

The Negro dreams of rivers.
The Negro dreams of seas.
The Negro dreams of oceans crossed.
Leeward.  Windward.  Antilles.

The Negro dreams of Empires lost;
Ghana, Mali, Songhai,
And Cries himself into forgetting
Till centuries and centuries nigh.

The Negro pines for Gods of Thunder
and deities made of sweet yam.
The Negro calls himself Ibo and Ashanti.
The master calls him Sam.

The Negro knows nothing of Mahogany,
Cotton, breadfruit, Sugarcane.
The Negro knows only calloused hands,
fear, loathing, pain.

The Negro learns that kindness comes
with cruelty to his fellow man.
The Negro snaps the masters whip
and eats from the master's hand.

The Negro learns that secret things
are where power is best kept.
The Negro summons Ancestor souls
and says 'Nah, man.  Is just a fete.'

The Negro seizes Saint-Domingue.
And moves into the house of kings.
Oh Haiti!  Oh, Mon dieu!  Quel Doux Cadeaux!
Sad land of such hopeful things.

The Negro knows that profit
is the name of the game.
He makes good on the only threat he has
and sets fire to the cane.

The Negro grew scars like crocodile skin
long before he was fitted with chains.
What was once a testament to a tribe's nobility
becomes yet another source of pain.

In time the Negro comes to know his work
and the value of his hands.
He also knows his seed will not take root
until he owns his land.

The Negro is offered freedom
and told it is a pittance of a cost.
Simply fight our wars and wait a hundred years more
and pray your children don't become lost.

Seeing Mr. Ranks

Driving up to the house I'd already sensed that there was something amiss.  My mother might have been there a year ago but for me it had been more like seven or eight years.  There's a phenomenon that always happens with places that remain fixed in your mind but not in time: a sad little play where the idyllic past is beaten down by the oppressive truth of what had become of it.  This house that we'd come to used to be the tallest on the block.  They'd all slapped him cheerfully on the back when he'd built it.  And why not?  What a clever idea it was.  For a lawyer who was not in a partnership only really needed space for sitting small groups, about the size of a living room, and space enough for filing, which with his system (Oh, what a clever fellow hi is.) was hardly any space at all.  The actual space for the office took up less than half of the house's footprint, which meant he could use the rest for ugly but effective stilts--no, pylons that raised the larger, more lavish house away from the regular threat of rising tides.  The shore was only two house lots away, and at this height he could see it coming before the other houses even knew what hit them. 

"Mi neighba nuh want bathe inna ih bathroom nuh muh." I remember him telling my mother once.  We were at the kitchen bar; which often served as an actual bar more than it served as a breakfast bar.  he had a drink in one hand and the other on the counter, and like a strange marsh bird he stood on one leg, stiffly folding the other leg around the back of his knee.  I stand like this, I notice.  When drinking with friends around a bar I take on the same stork stance, drink in one hands, stability borrowed from the bar in the other.  I sometimes try to avoid it in public places.  At times I've thought back and come to the conclusion that only a man as manly and secure enough in himself as he was can pull that off in a crowded bar.  The fact that I catch myself standing like that in bars and look around to see if anyone noticed while I firmly place both feet on the ground, shoulder width apart, tells me that I have yet to achieve such.

"Yuh hea' weh ah seh, Patty?"  This to my mother.  He was the only person I'd ever heard call my mother by that name regularly, and the only person I would ever hear call her that name without being corrected by her.  He had a smile on his face.  My mother knew this smile quite well.  It got her through some rough days at sixth form, when the tummult of her family life kept her bouncing through out the day.  It was th e smile she would often look forward to when  her eyes ghrew sore from crtying.  Crying for her mother, for her brothers, for her sisters, for herself.  Crying, and later worrying about how to best look after her siblings now that her mother had gone abroad.  it was the smile of mischief and merriment.  There was some fun at hand.  There was an adventure afoot.  my mother tried to ignore it at first.  After all, it was also the smile that once made her realize that he simply didn't understand her.  She had a child now.  She had responsibilities.  There had to be an eventual end to fun  and games.

But she couldn't resist that smile.

"Why di neighba nuh want bath inna ih bathroom now?" she eventually relented.

"Caz when I di was mi dishes." he came back after waiting eagerly for just such a response.  "I could look down and see ah di wash ih bread!"

I giggled at the joke.  I was twelve and it was right up my alley.  He laughed at his own joke as well, as he had for the last three people he'd told it to.  My mother shook her head, but with a guilty smile on her face as she said "Yu just horrible, Benny Ranks!"

***

“No sir.  Not Charlie Bogues.”  He’d told the neighbor.  ‘My friends call me Charlie Bogues.  My friends’ children call me Mr. Bogues!”  He was enflamed.  I’d only ever seen him that way twice, and heard him give the same speech.  It was probably something he’d rehearsed; and why not?  It was very effective.

I looked up at the landing as we ascended, at the place where the memory of him stood shirtless and exasperated for the second time.  He snatched the purchase contract for his home out of the hands of some dumb kid in a Guayabera with designs on becoming a real estate mogul (his description, not mine) and ripping it apart without reading it.  “The name is Norman Neal!” he growled.  “And I’ll never sell this fucking house!”

Standing on that landing now, I peered upward to catch sight of someone in the window of the apartment complex next door glancing down at me.  She squinted, the setting sun blinding her but not deterring her curiosity.  “My people…” my mother said, shaking her head as we continued on.

Now, it was only by force of habit that we didn’t stop at the first door we came to.  This door, with its screened metal bars, was a stranger’s door.  It had the twofold purpose of having those inside see which uninvited guest had haphazardly tried to stumble through a perpetually locked door, and also for those invited guests to peer in and see who happened to be sitting at the kitchen bar. 

The people I’d seen most frequently sitting there were people I’d see or hear about almost constantly.  Their comings and going were matters of national discussion.  I’d turn on the radio and hear news reports about decisions they’d made that day.  Morning talk shows seemed to revolve around their professional and private lives, particularly where the two met.  Their faces were featured in news reports and front page headlines on city billboards and satiric cartoons.  As a child, I’d struggle to separate the idea of “The Honorable so-and-so” and the man who stood at that bar having friendly arguments and telling dirty jokes.  I had similar trouble trying to comprehend other people’s insistence that being friendly to one party meant being enemies with another.  In fact, to this day I still can’t understand it.  Not completely anyway.  It’s a misconception that has taken on a life of its own.  I can understand trying to sway people’s opinions and therefore putting on the affect, but what about the new ones?  What about the up and comers?  What about the ones who enter the inner circle of politics and see for themselves the way ostentatious enemies eat at the same table, drink from the same bottle, laugh heartily and clap on one another’s shoulders?  Why don’t they get it?

Then again, I’ve never seen any of them at Charlie Bogues’ house.

The real front door was around the corner from there, where the wrap-around verandah turned to face the street and widened as it did so.  There were still chairs out there.  It gave me hope.  If there were still chairs, still tables; if there was still cool breeze in the summer months, then surely there were still people that came to take advantage of these things acting in pleasurable unison.

I remember meeting my high school English teacher in one of those chairs having brunch and cocktails.  That same day I was taught the two go hand in hand.   After a brief argument about the last essay I turned it (It was also the first essay I’d turned in.  The topic escapes me as I write this, but it was the first one I’d actually found interesting enough to write about.  She accused me of plagiarism as a result)  I remember her laughing boisterously as the two of us, joined by Charlie Bogues, but not my mother, traded dirty limericks back and forth.  After that I never missed another essay again.  No longer were assignments merely assignments, but opportunity for conversation; a chance to speak as an adult about adult things, and be taken seriously while doing so. 

I also remember Mr. Bogues flirting with her openly.  The act itself was amazing.  Here was a woman, squat, fat, with a noticeable patina of hair running down the nape of her neck, under her clothes, and reappearing along her arms and feet.  There were curls on her toes, for god’s sake.  Toes that she dared decorate with rings when not in the classroom.  And according to Charlie Bogues, they’d known one another since high school, and she ‘hadn’t changed a bit’.  To my primal mind it defies logic.  If we lived in the arctic, then, perhaps a lovely, robust, furry woman of that sort would be most desirable, but in Belize?  It wasn’t simply that, of course.  Charlie Bogues saw more.  And had I been older; had I not been at an age where every heartbeat sent through me chemicals that insisted that sex was the absolute be all, end all to male-female relations, then I might have seen it.  He might have been able to afford a younger, sexier, more sex driven girl.  He might even have been able to charm one naturally.  But eventually you run out of things to say to a girl like that and, as unbelievable as it might sound, the same body fails to ignite the senses as it once did.  On the other hand, an intelligent woman is a sexy woman, always and constantly.

The first time I tasted whiskey was in one of these chairs.  I remember how, after the second glass I enjoyed the look of the amber spirit in the glass reflecting the sunlight, and how this even became preferable to the taste of it.  Now, I wondered if any sunlight like that even met this verandah anymore.
 

***

“Who’s there?” A voice called out hoarsely.  Just from the cadence, from the way there was hardly a hesitation between the first and second words, I knew it was him.  I’d spied through the stranger’s door, just as I had countless times before.  There was no one at the bar, which had only a single dim bulb shining yellow over it.  This wasn’t new.  He’d long ago started losing his sight, and as he saw less and less light and shadows, the less he felt the need to change the bulb.

“Dark?” he repeated to my mother the first time she pointed it out.  “Nuh man, Patty.  Dis romantic!”  He winked at her and took another sip of Black Label; another sip toward complete blindness.  Time was, Charlie Bogus stood on the precipice of inventing a peculiar brand of Caribbean feng shui.  In his old house, a cramped upstairs of a leaning wooden building, there was a constant breeze, and depending on what time of day it was, there was a regular resorting of furniture, opening and closing of windows, and even relocating of crowds of people to maintain the internal temperature and airflow at optimum.  After a while he used his hands more and more while navigating his own house, which he’d built and decorated himself.  That’s when he stopped moving things around.  That’s also when he stopped joking about his loss of sight.  We’d have to point the ins and outs to him more and more.  He’d stop mid-conversation and wonder aloud “Weh dir ass…” as his hands fumbled over the sharp teet of a staple remover or the cusion mounted bristles of a woman’s hair brush, or some other thing that had no business being near the bar.  Occasionally someone would walk ahead of him while he pretended that the cigarette he was lighting was the reason he was moving so slowly, feeling out the air ahead of him with his foot.  Occasionally, however, they’d move a foot stool out of his way and remain silent about their good deed, and he’d spend the next half hour or so looking for it as he was certain it was around there somewhere.  Once, my mother moved the foot stool.  She’d found it sitting hazardously in the middle of the room and thought of her friend falling ankle over ass, flat on his face.  But the stool was a landmark for the man navigating the seas of light and shadow; a physical beacon upon which he relied.  When he found it again he soon after collided with a four foot shelf that held his many framed achievements.  He was on his way to his bedroom after we’d all left.  We’d only seen the shattered things the next day, still on the ground; still broken.  Sticky, bloody footprints still led to the bed, then the bathroom, then back to the bed.  My mother didn’t move a thing after that.  “He’s the blind one” she’d said.  “He knows best how to manage, I guess.”  My mother rarely guessed at things.  She always knew.  When she didn’t know, it was because she was because it abandoned logic, and moved toward uncharted emotions.  Guilt was one she’ was especially unfamiliar with.

That wouldn’t be a problem anymore.  Once again he called out “Who is it?” and through the threadbare curtains I saw the figure of a man turning off his side and propping himself up on his elbows.  He’d been asleep or perhaps just lying there; the news was on but I doubt he was listening to it; and his new bed was a  lawn chair that he’d made somewhat comfortable via the liberal application of pillows and comforters.

“We’re here!” my mom declared, coming up to the front door and seeing the human nest he’d made for himself.  It even smelled like somewhere a man might sleep and lie awake for weeks at a time without moving.  It smelled of sweat and grimy skin and, perhaps, self pity. Or more like self loathing.  My mother was thrown off by it, I could see from her face.  Her smile had turned to a grimace for an instant but soon after peaked again at the corners.  She’d been told minor things; small  small reports that she now knew were rife with omissions.  He’d lost his sight.  He’d lost weight.  He’d lost his family his adopted son now grown, married, with children of his own.  His daughter; his real, flesh and blood daughter, was studying abroad with her mother, who was not, and had grown tired of not being, his wife.  ‘We still see him from time to time’, they’d all said.
But the man who struggled to sit up wasn’t like anything anyone had described.  And he certainly wasn’t anything like I remembered.

“Who’s there!” he demanded again and I could tell he was growing angry.  Or, if not angry, then certainly frightened.  His bony arms, absent of the lean but obvious muscle they once held, trembled under the weight of his own body as he sat up.  I squeezed my mother’s shoulder and whispered again “Who is it?”  She finally understood and said meekly: “Pat”.  And then, with a bit of confusion and disappointment at his lack of reaction she repeated.  “Its me.  Its Patty.”

“Oh.” He said without much excitement.  I saw him sit up and turn to the wall with the stranger’s door cut into it.  In his profile I saw him moisten dry lips with his tongue and open his eyes as if it were his first time doing so in ages.

“We come pay you a lee visit.” My mother said.  There was no fear in her voice this time, but she was upset about something.
“Aha”, he replied, as if still in disbelief.  “You she da Patty?” he confirmed.  And then, “Oh, okay.”  But he had not moved.  Perhaps he was unsure of his muscles, but I thought at the time that, as often happens to me, he’d awakened from a dream and was having trouble piercing through the remaining clouds of it.  He was dusting away phantoms to find the solid, underlying reality.

But oh, how horrible that must be?  To dream of old friends and laughing times, or even to see the faces of your enemy and the gleam of the knife in his hand; or to fly over your city, over the buildings that have swallowed up your home.  And then, wake up to uncertain shades and voices in a perpetually dark room.

Rainy Season - Day ??

[re:Stacks by Ben Foster]

I set down my cup,
you fill it up.
I drink, set it down,
you fill it up again.
We do this until we are both
laughing madly,
dancing and smiling.
Only I am too drunk to see
that you are not drinking;
that you were never dancing;
that you have stopped pouring
and we have nothing to laugh about.

How long have I been the only drunkard at the table?
Did your lips ever even touch this wine?
Did you ever even crave a sip of it?
Or was all your pleasure in the pouring
and watching me dance
and laughing?

Why I don't call everyday

[Kindred has Left the Building by Kindred Pasana]

Because she has eyes
the color of greetings.

Because she has eyes
that are just the right distance apart,
but are never distant. 

Because she has lips
that are thin and smooth,
and in their movement they turn me
into baby birds:
Exuberant and chirping and thriving
off the things that come from her mouth.

Because she has legs suitable for traveling
and set my mind wandering whenever I see them.

Because she has a neck
which I would pay to leave kisses upon daily.

Because she has hair
that thrives on a lack of discipline.

Because she has skin
the same color and texture as the warmth
that I keep within me whenever our knees touch
and neither of us moves away.

Because she has a beauty
that is made luminescent by heat
and becomes more oppressive than the humidity.
A beauty
like Remedios.

Because some days I see her
and can't bring myself to look away.

Rainy Season -- Day 14

Tonight
it will be just the city and I. 
Just a street lamp dripping dew
and giving me silver and gold light
tonight. 
No moon face to remind me
of beauties far away,
of loves unattainable. 
No shattered shards of space-stuff
to dirty my view of the sky. 
No constellations in the shape
of faces we mourn. 
And no angels.  No.
The choir is at rest. 
It will be just the city and I,
and a blank slate sky. 
The hills send me fog to touch. 
The sky sends the rain. 
They sing to me till I wake in the morning
when my city will be new again.

---

My city is new today.
It has forgotten, for a time,
its heartbreak.  Its loss.
It has spent its allotted time weeping.
It has bathed itself inside a moon house
made of thunderstorms and mist.
It has flushed out
even its most private of crevices
and stepped out renewed.
My city is pure again.

The dirt of its streets
has been washed away. 
Not simply swept aside but driven
out by spontaneous rivers. 
Driven out past the hills,
carried over the valleys,
and swept out to sea. 
My city's houses are still damp. 
This is alright with us. 
Let the warmth of home dry them out. 
Let our bare feet feel mud again. 
Let the bucket tip
and the mop sop and soak
and sweep out even the insides. 
Let the city be clean today.

Let the parks know
that they haven't been forgotten. 
Let the grass be cut and mixed
with warm breezes and sunshine. 
And of the perfume made,
let it be the bouquet of
just-budding flowers
from full, verdant trees. 
Only, do not place the oil
behind the ears of the city
or between the breasts of the city. 
These secret places are for us
that have found them intimately. 
Do not let it drip down arms like juice
from the fruit of your neighbor's yard. 
Do not let it spray along cheeks like juice
from fruit of your own yard. 
Let it waft, instead, across the body
and through the streets.

If the city is as leaving Eden;
innocent, naked, and pure
but just for today;
then let this perfume be as entering Nod:
east of nowhere,
wandering everywhere.

The Only Reason I Would Attend a Cricket Match

I want to kiss you
under hot sun, spinning in
a crowd of thousands.

Rainy Season -- Day 13

[Pallbearers by Br. Lawrence Lew, O.P.]

[The Pallbearer Reflects]

Death in the morning makes a poor breakfast. 
Makes you never want to eat again.

We ask ourselves 'Were they always so small? 
So light? 
I remember a much taller man.
I remember a woman made of stone.' 
And the grave, why so huge? 
If we could could slide our dead
between the spaces in the rocks
or fold them
neatly
into crab holes,
if we didn't have to dig graves in the ground
as big as the spaces in our hearts
and in stead just let the marching ants
handle the procession,
then what would man do with all this grief? 
We can't really walk around with it. 
We can't really walk at all. 
Its too great a thing, this rock of sorrow
on our chests,
weighing down our ribs
and only letting us breathe deep enough
to shudder,
to weep again. 
These chains make our hands useless
except for wringing. 
These feet are bound to pacing
through halls and empty bedrooms
like ghosts. 
And at that point
we might as well be.

Rainy Season -- Day 8

[The Sound of its Own Stillness by Otto K.]


It is quiet in here.
It is loud with the sound of humming
It is cold in here.
My skin is wet.
But I am warm.
And if I could live and live
until the day I choose to die
then I would choose a day like this.
With a heavy blanket of rainclouds
weightless in the sky
to keep my cooling body dry.

Fairy Tale

Once upon a time
I would say something
and somehow your heart
would know my meaning.
It was back when
men knew the names of their Gods
and there were dragons in the earth.

Rainy Season - Day 4

In the night,
I would love you.
If the circumstances
were different.
In the night
I would love you
with my eyes closed
and my hands open,
searching out
something warm
that isn’t
my self.
And when
I found it
in the night
I would hold it
in place
under the weight
of my lips.
Maybe
in the morning
I might let up
and see the thing
that I have found
for what
it really is.
But morning
is too far
And may never
Really come.
So for now,
in the night
I’ll hold it
steady.
Steady
As a rhythm.
As a beat.
Steady
As a groove.
Steady!
Don’t move!
Or you’ll risk
waking her up.
In the night
I wake up every
thirty minutes.
Steady.
Outside
You’re coming down
The same way
You have been
For the past
four nights.
You’re not heavy,
But you’re steady.
Steady.
I stretch out over
cold sheets
And try not
to think of how
your beating
On the rooftop
And the windows
Makes the room
Sound so empty.
Sound so hollow.
Sounds, so steady
In the night.

Rainy Season -- Day 3

You think you can fool me?
You think you can come and
rough me up one day,
leave me bleeding slow the next
then come round and smile up
and pet up, and sweet up.
“Ay, cooch.” And “Do-do-dahlin”?

I had a grandmother
that had a separate bed
in a separate room
behind a door with an inside lock
because I had a grandfather
with a separate love
for another young brown thing.
(Fifteen years in an oak barrel?
Baby, me and you
we gwein bruk out!)

I have a puppy weh been a puppy
bout eleven years now.
when ih see me kick off my slippers
all up to now ih run.

So weh mek you think
a little bit of half-assed sun
could mek I come out
in short pants
and no shirt?
Cho!  Might be fool di talk,
but nuh fool di listen!

These Hands are Deadly

It starts with the hands.
It always starts with the hands.
Other men have words.  I don't.
My words don't work.
My words don't work like that, they can't be planted
in such shallow dirt as your ears.
They won't grow there.
My words don't work there so
I don't plant them there.
I plant them in my mind and in creases
between pages, between journals, between ideas
and they flourish in the tight spaces there.
Tight like embraces.
Tight like anxiety flooding my lungs.
And when they blossom they come like springtime,
flowering through cracks in the sidewalk.
Through cracks in my ribs.  Flowering
through fluffy clouds on blue days
that look like my grandmother smiling. They look like
beautiful things.
And their fruit filled vines sprout from my ears
and my mouth
and my eyes
and crack masts on ships.  And turn every man
that ever made you feel less than what you are
into dolphins. My words are fruit
on a sacred vine.  Fruit
that will become a sacred wine
a wine called poetry.
I squeeze the fruit with my hands. It starts
with the hands.

It always starts with the hands.

These are powerful hands.
These hands are dangerous.  You should beware
of these hands.  Don't let them touch you.
Not even in handshakes.  Not even in touches to your shoulders or elbows.
Before you know it you'll be giving me your name
for no reason other than I asked for it.
That is the very first symptom.
That is how it starts.  With the hands.
Don't let these hands open doors for you
or pull out chairs for you.
Don't let these hands catch you when you stumble.
Don't let these hands offer you sweaters on cold evenings
when we are talking late into the next morning
about life, and the universe, and the things that are in it.
and the fog, and where it comes from, and the things that are in it.

Oh!  But if you're already here
then you've already fallen prey to these hands.
Perhaps you were foolish, but its more likely
you were tricked.  For these hands are devious.
These hands have nothing good on their minds.
You could tell when they brushed the hair from your face
that these hands really wanted to touch you.
And then, only to hold you
steady while these lips have their way with you.
And all the while these hands have been doping you
into something pliant.  So that you lie still
while they move from innocuous stings to
tracing smokey paths along your hips,
over your thighs,
up your belly,
down your back,
across your breasts.
And you will hold your breath until
these hands press electricity into you
and make your heart race.
And make your toes tingle.
And leave you gasping.
These hands will beckon you to come
like springtime.

And then you are done for.

Be very wary of these hands.

Rainy Season -- Day 2

You can’t trust a gray morning.
You can’t put your trust in anything
As big as the morning,
As big as the sun moving
From one sky to the other,
As big as the song of everything-that-is
Rising into a higher key,
If it stumbles and falters
And can’t make up its mind.

When I open my eyes I want to know
That I wasn’t the first to do so today.
I want to see that the angels
Have already been hard at it,
Painting the bougainvillea and hibiscus.
I want to forget that
Bird nest nuh got no roof
And think them hollery one in the ficus
Mussy had brukdown all night
And still cyan’t done.

My morning muss mek I want
Missing things.
No, no shower today.
Too cold.  Too grey.
And the sound of falling water?
Much too common today.
No cleaning today.  Might need that dirt
To reach the street side
The way this water rising.
No talking today.  No singing.
Too much of that babbling
In the drain outside.
And too much rhythm on the rooftop,
Accompaniment for too much frog song.
Too much laughing.  Too much drinking.
Too much sighing, gulping, thirsty earth.

Rainy Season -- Day 1

You ever hear something coming for you?
Like the wind rushing around to make way
for the hand of God to come 'round
and give you one good bitch lick
to your ears-corner?
Well that's the first day of rainy season.

When you could stand somewhere so high
That you see the hills surrounding 'Pan
And watch the mists rolling
Off the mounds where Mayan bones are kept.
When you can hear the trees' whispering
Grow to screaming out your name.
When the wind blows at you from side-on
And press you up against a wall
Saying:
Yow, Fam'ly. Which paat yuh think yuh gwein?
Then yuh know the rainy season come.
And yuh know seh it come just for you.

The Second Rescue

As the car came to a stop all six feet of my mother unfolded from the driver side door and headed to the front door of the house.  Even in her regal glory, she was outmatched by my grandmother who was a little under five feet but made up for it with a throbbing fury and determined march.

Oh, and a baseball bat.  I do remember a bat that day.

It was already growing late when we left, and I'd wafted through an undulating sleep, one of the effects of August heat in a city where the buildings were too tall and too crowded together to allow any significant breeze to pass.  To a five year old confined to the back seat the journey seemed to take days, but I did drift into consciousness often enough to notice what I considered to be a series of unique landmarks.  There was the clover shaped freeway that pressed me against the driver side door just before tossing me toward the passenger side, the overpass with the grafiti that I could just barely read, but even then made no sense, and of course there were the rows upon rows of cookie-cutter houses that said we were most definitely not in the Bronx anymore.  No, we were going to Aunty Morgen's.

The curtains were drawn in the window and I could spot them inside.  Aunty Morgen's boyfriend was yelling so hard his white face had gone red.  Aunty Morgen herself moved by like a ghost in front of the window.  She had a frazzled red 80's coif, great big hoop earrings, and a near lethal application of mascara that had run most of the full distance down her cheeks.  Craig, her boyfriend, tried to cut her off from opening the door but the crack of space was all the two woman cavalry on the other side needed to push their way through.  Like a trained swat team they both forced their way in and while one secured the hostage, the other subdued the target.

And by subdued, I mean she pinned him against the wall with a baseball bat pressed firmly under his chin.  What Grandma was saying to Craig was the only thing I think I didn't hear that evening.  Whatever it was though, it was intimidating enough to keep Craig at Bay even after Aunty Morgen had been placed in the back seat with me and we all waited while Grandma backed out slowly.  Craig regained his confidence, along with his anger when the car was started and we began driving away.  He was beet red and came out screaming for Aunty Morgen, and calling the others names that I wouldn't understand until years later.  For a moment, Aunty Morgen seemed to hesitate, and she turned toward him as he ran along side the car.

"Ey!  Look at me!"  Grandma had turned her intensity toward her youngest daughter.  "Aint shit back there for you." She informed her sternly, then turned back to face forward as we drove on. 

I hugged Aunty Morgen almost all the way back, hugged her just like I hugged my own mother when she cried.  I remember thinking how menacing they were, and remember seeing the same bat in the trunk of the car that took me to school, and to museums, and to the beach.  I remember thinking how strong and determined they were in that moment, and how much I looked to them for nurturing every other.  And as I sorted through what I once thought were conflicting attributes, I remember how proud I was, and still am, that they were on my side.

Once upon a Time

Once

Once upon a time the world was flat.

Unicorns lived in magical glades, tended by winged sprites and tiny elves.

And there was a vast difference between being dead and staying dead.  And that difference was a simple matter of choice.

Yeah.  Simple as that.  A man (or woman) could simply say 'I'm tired of this life business'  And give up on breathing.  And later, once sufficiently dead, he could decide that he'd like to go pay cousin Eustace a visit in the country and he'd be there, quick as a thought, rattling chains or moaning through keyholes.

Then, something happened.  It was gradual of course - time being relative and 'sudden' simply meaning 'details lost to human memory.' - but irrevocable.

So, before this 'something' - which we will call 'the sundering' since that's what everyone else calls it- happened people had a pretty good grip on things.  Flour spoiled in the jars or bread molded over because the piskies got to it, or fires would erupt in forests unannounced because will-o-whisps were angry, and people died just because, and they came back for the very same reason.  And for the most part they were spot on.
:
But things changed around the sundering.  Men wanted to understand things.  They invented enzymes and bacteria that were invisible to the eye, and they invented refraction that could focus light and create fire, and they invented disease, sickness, infirmary, and they invented death, and the dead, and the insurmountable barrier between them.

Science killed the unicorns.

(besides, unicorns - the female ones at least - are actually vile, mean-spirited creatures.  Many an Elf had been trampled and gored in the course of tending the glades.  This leads some to believe that they had a hand in the sundering, selling out the secrets of the universe in order to make a place for themselves in the new world.  And who can blame them.  It was an inevitability.  And it was either them, or the unicorns.)

Right, so science killed the unicorns.  But it wasn't all astrolabes and microscopes, oh no.  Philosophy was as much a part of the physical sciences as experimentation was.  Great thinkers would sit for hours on end and sort of guess stuff, as they had done since the beginning of time.  And it would lead them to some really nutso ideas.  And in that time, just around the middle of the sundering, there were four schools of thought that managed to siphon off the last of the worlds magic.
The first were the Algrins.  Pronounced All-greens.  They were botanists and apothecaries, healers and biologists.  Their interest was in living things, plant, animals, and otherwise, and what it was that made them tick.

They came up with all sorts of kooky ideas, like humors - viscous liquids in the body that controlled mood and behaviour - and a blood tide that ebbed and flowed within all living things.  There was even a common belief among them, highlighted in the Flora Angelicus Tract, that Plants were the purest and most pious of gods creations, and that even though plants were alive and possessing of a mind, their entire being was dedicated to constant prayer.

Eventually the Algrins sort of went collectively insane.  In a sudden fit of practicality - what alcoholics often call a moment of clarity - Florida Algrin, the schools founder, rounded up and dissected the his three brightest students.  Finding no Humors and no blood tide he retired to his bed and made his surviving students swear to continue the explorations he'd begun that day.  Then, Florida Algrin promptly died, convinced that there was absolutely nothing that was keeping his 138 year old body going.

The school continued, and flourished, and their most learned students became known as the geomancers.  You've probably never heard of them.

And then there was Ignacio Giovanni.  He was an apothecary, though not a very good one, and he was obsessed with Florida Algrin's teachings.  The geomancers, however, would not accept him.  They saw him as a bumbler, and an ignoble butcher.  Ignacio was just as interested in the workings of the human body as any other Geomancer, but unlike them he wasn't so much interested in the healing arts.  In fact, Ignacio killed more test subjects than any single geomancer in his time.  And when he was done he would find ways to re-animate the corpses and receive second hand accounts of the land of the dead.  Later, Ignacio would meet Guido Romero, a self proclaimed medium and half hearted undertaker, and they would use Algrin's teachings as a springboard into their own endless ocean of crackpot ideas.

Their school was completely unique.  One had to be naturally gifted to become a necromancer - a term they gave themselves as a form of bitten thumb at their geomancers who spurned them - And as they became the last few people who still trafficked with the now alienated and often lonely dead, their school grew where others all but perished.

They built their headquarters in the open in Rome and in the Catacombs in Venice, the city of bones that kept the gilded city above safe and try, in more ways than one.  When the plague struck, they moved to Paris and found it teeming and most fruitful.  And when most were afraid of possessed warriors and cannibals, they found helpful friends in Zimbabwe, friends who even taught the now ancient pair a thing or two.  Their school was the second most helpful in history.  Though you've probably never heard of them either.

The story of the elementalists is a sad one.  They are, if I may use a school analogy without reproach, that kid that always gets picked on because they're too smart for their own good.  No one took the elementalists seriously, you see.  There was very little space for their sciences in a world ruled by faith.  So when they said things like 'Everything is made up of spinning particles' everyone laughed.  When they said 'said particles get hot when they spin faster, and cold when they spin slower' they were scoffed at, and when they said 'everything in the universe spins: The particles, planets, the stars, even god spins' they were run out of town, usually by the geomancers.  They were the least loved of all the schools, the smallest, the frailest, the last picked in any sports.  If anyone had taken the time to actually look at things the way they looked at things, they might have learned that they were the closest to the truth.

The final school was founded by a man known only as 'Greyface'.  He was a merchant by some accounts, a Duke by others,  but most usually - and most believably in my mind - he was a priest and advisor to a certain line of kings.  Whatever he was he had the funding needed to organize his school without anyone knowing, until it had grown to match the size of the geomancers, and spread to rival the reach of the necromancers.  They were hermetics, they were gnostics, they were alchemists.  They did not know The Truth, but they knew A Truth and it was the most important truth of all.  "There is no god." says the preamble to the principia hermetica.  "There is only the faith in one.  And faith, being a product of man, can be turned with the slightest of gestures.  It is not a god who makes the sky stay up and the ground stay down, it is not a phantom hand or the devil that plucks the breath from mens chests and leaves their rotting husks.  It is faith, belief, concentrated from every living being that makes this things happen.  And with the faith in our hands, we are the gods."

A grim truth to be sure, especially when a certain greyface - as their most learned members take on their founder's dour persona as a mark of prestige - caught wind of the other lingering schools.  Radicals that were an affront to their paradigm.  How could they control the masses, and as a a result the universe, if there were these other wackos out there filling people with ideas like praying petunias and communicative corpses and spinning.  And so, Greyface waged war on the other schools, silently but effectively.  There were witch hunts and crusades in those times.  Churches that had once told stories of spirits impregnating virgins and men reviving their best friends from the dead because they were REALLY looking forward to that dinner party, suddenly spoke of loathsome tales of defilers and commune with evil spirits.  Kings that had once been mostly concerned with counting their coffers and mounting the prettiest virgins in the land became suddenly transfixed with the ways of the universe and had scientists, real scientists, on their pay-rolls.

The other schools were slowly having their last bit of power torn from them.  The necromancers sounded the horn.  The geomancers said 'leave us heathens' and slowly died out.  The Elementalists; they'd switched sides, sold out, became hired geeks for the goon squad.  And the remainders went into hiding.  The alchemists called that time, and the time just before it - the time when all the schools had formed - the sundering.  And as a result, so does everyone else.

The Things We Could Do

We could make love, you and I.
We've already become intimate friends
and at no loss to virtue or distance
between Me lips
and She lips.
Already we know what the other
needs, wants, hopes for.
Already I've stolen grasps
at the slender bone at your waist
and the softer flesh of a thigh.
Already we know too little
not to want to know more.
Not to want to know how the rest
of one's skin feels under the other's
fingers.  Or lips.  Or appreciative eyes.
Already, I've thought about it
enough times to see it all.
Already I've seen so much
That I want to see more.

We could do all that.
We could consume one another.
Savor flesh like fruit
Until every ounce of juice
splashes brightly on our tongues
Or drips languorously
down our chins,
staining our favorite shirts.
We could giggle when anyone asked.
We could smile into the morning sun
walk straight, but slow.  Be there, but not now.
As if to say: What stain?

I could hold you in my mouth,
carry the taste of you with me
like hard candy.
And no one would have to know.
You could dance on my tongue.
You could dance.  Just for me.

Oh, the things we could do.

The Fortunate End of Jonas Black

'Moss' by Sandra Lara (http://www.flickr.com/people/cambiodefractal/)

There are dozens of other stories born of each tale we tell. There are stories which travel in different directions than their parents. Like embers from a fire, these asides are often overlooked, but hold within themselves the potential for a beautiful dance of flames, or a horrible conflagration.

When Hook ordered his crew to bombard black tooth cove and take the fight directly to Peter and the lost boys, they also managed to add another enemy to their already long list of enemies: the mermaids who made their home there. A mermaid's wrath is a slow, painful thing. Perhaps, that has something to do with the nature of the creature.

The juvenile mermaid is hardly a threat to anyone. Her teeth and claws are dull and her powers of allure are like those of young virgins: unrealized at their worst, and undirected at their very best. Her breasts are small and her hair too wild and too short to distract from her grotesque shell shaped ears. They linger along the shore mostly, as all young sea dwellers know that shore is the best place to practice hunting.

The adult mermaid is quite better off. Her breasts are full and her hair luxurious, and in the water her speed and strength are unmatched.

The elder Sea Hag, on the other hand, looks precisely as frightening as on would imagine, though not because she is ugly. After about a century or so the sea turns her hair a pale green and she carries her breasts lower than in her youth. Though in certain cases; when she is gliding through the water, or when seen from a distance, or after months at sea surrounded by irritable, swarthy men, this is hardly a deterrent. After all, she still has dark, round nipples which certain men find alluring the way a wet tongue exploring bright red lips can distract the mind from the absence of certain teeth. Or the way the smell of cheap perfume on a lady of the night can cause lust and curiosity to override fear or self-righteousness. No, the Sea Hag is terrifying because, for as much as she is obviously inhuman, to a man longing for the comfort of solid land beneath his feet, she is irresistibly beautiful.

The Hag also has a voice, one which defies simple description. Simply put, it is the kind of voice that can cause as much as five fine, regular men to cast off the thrill of battle and clamor quickly and stupidly into the sea.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" The call raced along the starboard side, from bow to stern. By the time the crew had assembled for a rescue three of the men were already eaten. A fourth man, the salty brigand known as Jonas Black, was seen in the water laughing and weeping simultaneously. The mermaids had surrounded him. Four of them swam with him at the surface of the water. Their hands caressed his sun-beaten skin. Their teeth sank deep into the flesh of his chest, his belly, and his legs. A single hand grasped passionately at his matted hair. Later, at his wake, the men would remember that the only time Jonas had responded to something with anything more than a miserable grunt was that day.

"Don't save me, gents" he'd manage to say just as he kicked away the buoy and rope meant to save his life, or at least give him hope. "Oh god. Oh heaven. Oh hell what awaits me! If ye could feel what I'm feeling ye'd beg for the same. Don't ye dare save me!"

At that moment the sky, the sea, and everything around him had grown exceptionally bright in Jonas’ eyes. Several points of light danced before his eyes. The sensation of the mermaids' hands carried his mind to a time long ago, a time long before the salt water casually filled his mouth and attempted to ease its way down his throat. He'd had too much to drink in some port town or the other, they all had. The entire crew, with the exception of the Captain, had filled themselves up to the gills with grog and native honey-wine. But the bar wench, who some said had taken a shine to Jonas, allowed him to sleep it off by burying his beard in her mountainous bosoms. It was the only act of affection he'd ever been shown, and in his secret mind Jonas called it love.

The feel of the mouths on his flesh now was something immensely better than this…love. The saltwater had been burning his eyes for so long now. The pressure at that depth hurt his ears, and each breath of brine was like fire in his lungs. It was all so exquisite, even as the dancing points of light faded into the stark white glow of death.

I Could Call you Brother

(Also got an 'Aww' or two at Literary Night.)

Oh, what brown a face!
What a wide, well shaped nose.
You, my friend, were made a thing of beauty!
But you smell, quite strongly, of sweat and fatigue.
Is that what you were doing, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a field of high grass
Casting angry looks at the fruit cart.
And then you came charging along the path,
excitement in your eyes as if
you knew you'd done something wrong.
You blazed by me.
I could run with you
in the heat of mid day sun
and call you brother.
But only if I threw my human life away.

Oh, what brown a face.
What a wide, well shaped nose.
Don't you know you were made a thing of beauty?
But you shine, not brightly, sweat and frustration on your brow.
Is that how you were feeling, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a sea of bodies
until strong fingers snatched free a thin gold lace.
And then you came charging through the street,
hunger in your eyes although
you knew you'd done something wrong.
And you blazed by me.
I've seen your kind of hunger,
Brother.
I could run with you.
But only if I threw my life away.

Dreaming of Flying

(Edited, slightly re-tooled.  Recieved 'Aww's at Literary Night, April 24, 2010)

Thelma had a dream. In her dream the sky was the purest of blues. The only clouds were the ones that were scattered by her outstretched arms as the wind folded obediently under them. Below her the sea flew by. Below her the land grew out of the water. Below her the island circled, and the village on the island craned its head, and the many hands reached up. Their finger tips wanted so badly to touch her perfect skin. But if wanting could make it so, we would never feel that earthly heaviness that comes with waking from such dreams.

***

"You have such perfect skin" he whispered. Thelma could see why he would think that. His skin was rough, like his hands, but not like his voice. His voice told her sweet things, and did so smoothly. His hands were made pretty by the glinting metal that choked his swollen fingers. His skin might have been nice if she ever saw him in any kind of light aside from the street lamp or the club lights that danced while they did...something else. It was something to slow to be called dancing, and a little part of her was jealous of the other girls her age, with boyfriends their age. She wanted to dance like them, with abandon. Dance with her entire body. Dance until she was dripping with sweat. But years from now, those girls would still be here. They would still be dancing to the same songs while Thelma was in Paris or Japan or New York. All she had to do was move slow and sexy. It wasn’t really dancing. The many orange hairs on his arms and chest might look handsome in the sunlight on a beach somewhere. He could look like—Like who? Like Brad Pitt. Yes. He could be her Brad Pitt, only with rougher hands. And a smoother talk, if not a gentler voice.

***

He has such a gentle voice. Thelma usually heard baby's crying and crying and they sound like they could shatter glass. The ones she babysat for would bawl for no reason, just to drive her crazy. Not this one. This wasn’t what she thought it would be like. He has the gentlest voice a baby ever had. He was so quiet for a baby. Too quiet, in fact. She’d thought none of it had worked but what if it had? The bitters, the bad medicine, what if she’d tied her belly too tight in the final months? What if she’d tried so hard to make it go away, to keep it all a secret that now that he was out he was continuing the lie.

She could hide him when anyone came around. If they didn’t know, they didn’t have to find out. He was quiet. So quiet for a baby. The gentlest voice a baby ever had.

***

Come baby. Walk fu mommy. Ih nuh far. Come, you could walk. You’re a big boy now. A big boy. Come, come. No, mommy can't back yuh. Mommy too tired. And you too heavy, baby. You a big boy now. No man…Shhh...nuh cry. Nuh cry, we soon reach. Just wa lee bit further. But you have to walk. Mommy can't back you, baby.

Okay man…Ay, mi back. Ay, mi legs. Mommy can't carry you, baby. Nuh fi too long. You too, too, heavy. This baby just too heavy.

***

”Nuh too long now. Good thing we reach here early though. Ay, yuh see how much the baby like the plane? Now, when you reach you know how fi get weh paat yuh gwein? Personally? I nuh see how a man can send for you but not have the decency to pick you up from the airport. Thelma, he nuh own wa car? Well ih cyant at least pay for a taxi? I know, I know. You da your own woman now. Woman by law and nature. That nuh mean your aunty cyant worry. Now when you reach yuh muss call and mek we know you alright. And you have fi mek the baby hear yuh voice so he nuh miss yuh too much. You di listen? First chance you get you start saving up, hear? Don't depend on no white man for too long, you hear? Take it from me! Maybe in about six months you can send for the baby? A year? A child needs his mother. And you must call regular so he know your voice. You hearing me, Thelma? Well answer me then! I swear, you acting like you already miles away.

Against The Light - Part 3

There was light.  There was light all around him and Carl's eyes, wide as serving platters, took it all in at once, too quick for his brain to make any sense of it.  It was a bright, flickering yellow, spiced with reds and whites.  It was huge and filled his poor vision, this light.  And below it, as if frolicking, were the constant shifting blurs of blacks, grays, and browns.  People, like him, enjoying the light.  This must be what it looks like outside the gates of heaven, Carl thought to himself.  It was a lot like a day at the beach.  Except it was night.  And they were in the middle of the city.  And it was cold. 

So wonderfully cold.

“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic.  Marie was silent.  She pulled her arms closer to herself.  Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck.  Lowered her head and braced against the wind.  Silently, she cursed her own vanity at not wearing the dull black knitted cap Ruth had offered her.  She was too cold to be amazed.  Too cold to look up in such a tall city.  She'd be looking up forever if Carl had his way.  He hadn't asked her to describe any of it, but she knew he wanted her to anyway.  He must have.  She didn't know the words for the architecture.  She only new the shapes.  “This one's got these little protruding squares on the corner, where the bricks overlap.”  She said as they passed yet another building in little Russia.  “They're faces.”  She whispered, as he stared at the the exterior details St. John's Cathedral. 

In their own separate ways they'd practically become 'New Yorkers' during their three days of being there.  Carl was a busy-body.  He struck up conversations with complete strangers, people they sat next to on the bus or couples they met in the park.  Marie still had horrible flashbacks of the man Carl sat next to on the bus.  Marie had only stepped in, seen people sitting and and hanging on to straps, chatting casually but gravitating toward the rear of the bus.  And yet there was a bench right at the front, empty except for one man.  Marie took one look at his pale face.  His dry lips.  One look at his thin, bony fingers holding his jacket closed where the zipper had failed to do the job, and she knew.  He had it. 

Carl, of course, sat right down next to him.  He patted the seat beside him, staring up at Marie's shirt.  “Its not that long a trip, Carl.” She said, forcing herself to look at everything else in the bus except the man.  “I'll stand.”

“Suit yourself.  Just tryin' to be gentlemanly, is all.”  Carl replied.  Marie's heart skipped a beat when he leaned over to the warm, breast-less shape next to him and jokingly muttered. “Women.  Am I right?”   Somehow, the young man; looked just as shocked as she did. 

Carl had an opinion about everything and never hesitated to share it.  He spoke about municipal matters as if it affected him directly, as if his vote mattered here. 

“Such a shame” he'd commented after they'd passed what was once a community garden, only someone had planted a single stalk of marijuana which grew tall and proud, as any other plant does.  Not realizing that it should be discreet about itself.   And by the time the children started asling about the plant with the purplish-reddish things on top, there were chains on the gates and the garden was left to be overgrown.

“They shouldn't be able to just do that”, he'd griped to no one, because by that time Marie had stopped listening.  He'd never even seen the garden, she'd thought.  Not really.  Just the black of the gate and the thick green of the overgrown weeds beyond.  And maybe, at some point in passing to or from the Twins', he'd caught a glint of red from a rotten tomato or something.  Normal people wouldn't be concerned about this in the least.  But not her husband.  Oh no.  Not Carl. 

“There's probably rats living in there anyway.”  She said the last time they'd passed and his feet slowed by the garden.  “Now would you come on, we're going to be late.”

Marie was thankful that her husband couldn't see the bland shape of her face.  As Carl stopped in the middle of the subway platform to rifle through his pockets for money to drop into the open guitar case of some mediocre musician with no teeth, she got the feeling that she'd gotten her fill of this crummy city.  When the coins fell from his hand and missed the guitar case completely, scattering all about the subway platform; and when not a single soul stepped forward to help pick them up, her feeling was confirmed. 

The truth was, even had someone stepped forward, she still would have led Carl by the arm away from that place.  She was suspicious of everyone; and a great many things, at varying times.  Secretly she was glad at least that her suspicions transcended race.  She didn't trust young white boys in baggy clothes as she imagined that, in their twisted minds, they might perceive violent, thuggish behaviour to be another aspect of the 'coolness' they were trying so hard to attain.  She didn't have a problem with young black men in baggy clothes, so long as they didn't seem to notice her (And if they did notice, she would notice, because she watched them nearly constantly from the corners of her eyes).  The well dressed black men on the other hand...

“Well what if he does try something?” she thought to herself while eyeing a well groomed black man who was sitting directly across from her in the crowded train car.  He was wearing a long wool coat, polished leather shoes and pinstripe slacks.  “He could grab my purse at the next stop and dash out before anyone even knows what to do.  What if he does?  Would the police even believe my description?  Who does he think he's fooling anyway?  What's he doing on a train at this hour of the night looking like that?”

It was like that.  A certain hyper-awareness that she was careful not to display as fear.  Young white men.  Young black men.  Women speaking rapidly and animatedly in languages she couldn't understand.  Anyone Carl struck up a conversation with.  Anyone who struck up conversations with him.  Anyone with a beard. 

The only ones she hadn't found suspicious, the ones she hadn't really encountered were the Asians.  This wasn't a surprise to her when she thought about it in the grand scheme of things.  She saw them once or twice in business shirts flitting about, or in the occasional store or restaurant.  “They are a very industrious people, the Asians.” she'd said to herself when she realized it one day.  But that was before they came to New York, and long before Carl had gotten it into his head to visit Time Square in the middle of what had to be the coldest night of the year. 

They'd climbed the subway stairs, exiting onto the street along with the the surge of bodies that seemed to have been squeezed out of the subway car with them.  It was as if they were caught in a rushing channel of people.  Like fish swimming toward the spawning grounds.  And no matter which way Marie tugged at her husband they still found themselves caught in the same rushing crowd.  Not even the terrain could slow them, as they dipped the step at each curb to rush across the intersection, dodging cars, one with the entire mad city.

And just as she was about to haul Carl aside to get her wits about her, the crowd seemed to spread cross a wide intersection, a congregation in the middle of the street.  There were lights, and noise and the postcard image she'd seen many a time in many a movie.  But famous Time Square had something else that Marie had never accounted for.  While Carl gawked upward at the gaudy advertisements and mute television programs displayed pointlessly for all to ignore, Marie was marveling at all the Asians.

Asians by the handful.  Young Asians, some wearing baggy clothes with metal in their faces.  Others in tight denim with their hair dyed and twisted into spikes or thorns.    Asian women who spoke rapidly in languages she couldn't dream of understanding, then covered their faces or mouths and giggled.  They didn't have beards, but they had little soul patches, tufts of hair between their bottom lips and chin.  And more than once someone had come up to her at random and asked her something in broken English.  Marie mostly just shook her had no, but she could see them now, rounding up with another as if searching within one another's vocabulary for enough decent English words to make a decent english sentence.  Soon she'd find herself in a conversation with a couple dozen Asians  and she'd--

“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic.  Marie was silent.  She pulled her arms closer to herself.  Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck.  Lowered her head and braced against the wind.  She should have taken that ugly hat.

Summoning Charm

Your particular brand of bad habit.
The light that you left behind.
The breath that made the voice you loved
only, in reverse.
And butter for the skin
spiced with hazel and amber

And lo, I've summoned the smell of you.
In my alembic, I've made the taste of you.
Under moonlight, I've called forth a ghost
to sit at my mind's rear door.
Just sitting. Still smoking. Already thinking
of things you'll never tell me.

Perhaps you were thinking then
of how best to leave me now?
Perhaps you've decided its best
just to fade away?
Like smoke in the air.
Like tastes left exposed.
Like ghosts.
Like...you.

As of yet untitled

Thelma had a dream. In her dream the sky was the purest of blues. The only clouds were the ones that were scattered by her outstretched arms as the wind folded obediently under them. Below her the sea flew by. Below her the land grew out of the water. Below her the island circled, and the village on the iland craned its head, and the many hands reached up. Their finger tips wanted so badly to touch her perfect skin. bit if wanting could make it so, we would never wake from our dreams.

***

"You have such perfect skin" he said. Thelma could see why he would think that. His skin was rough, like his hands, but not like his voice. His voice told her sweet things, and did so smoothly. His hands were made pretty by the smooth metals that choked his fingers. His skin might have been nice if she ever saw him in any kind of light aside from the street light or the club light. The many orange hairs on his arms and chest might look handsome in the sunlight on a beach somewhere. he could look like Brad Pitt. Yes. He could be her Brad Pitt. Only with rougher hands. And a smoother talk, if not a gentler voice.

***

He has such a gentle voice. usually baby's cry and cy and they sound like they could shatter glass. Or they bawl just to drive you crazy. not this one. he has the gentlest voice a baby ever had. Its almost like he's singing.

***

Come baby. Walk for mommy. its not far. Come, you can walk. Come, come. No, mommy can't carry you. mommy's too tired. And you're too heavy, baby. Shhh...Don't cry. Don't cry, we'll be there son. Just a little bit further. But you have to walk. mommy can't carry you baby. Ay, mi back. Ay, mi legs. Mommy can't carry you, baby. you too, too, heavy. This baby just too heavy.

***

Won't be long now. its a good thing we got here early though. See how much the baby likes the planes? Now, when you reach you know hotw to get where you're going? Personally I don't see how a man can send for you but not have the decency to pick you up from the airport. Doesnt he own car? Well then can't he pay for a taxi? i know, I know. you're your own woman now. Woman by law and nature That don't mean your aunty can't worry. Now when you reach you must call and let us know you're alright. And you have to let the baby hear your voice so he doesn't feel left behind. Are you listening? First chance you get you start saving up, hear? Don't depend on no white man for too long, you hear? Take it from me! maybe in about six months you can send for the baby? A year? A child needs his mother. And you must call regular so he knows your voice. You hearing me, Thelma? Well answer me then! I swear, you acting like you already miles away.



(This is probably the roughest draft i've ever written, but i was feeling rushed that day. I like this story. i really like this story. i was hoping fo something greater from it though. I wanted to link each paragraph with the one after it, but that fell apart by the third. I also don't like that ending, its too harsh. Too solid. Doesn't have convey enough idea or emotion. I do like the fact that 'Thelma' either speaks or thinks actively in all the others except this one. When I re-work it, I want to keep that.)

For My Dawg (Very first draft)

Oh, what brown a face!
What a wide, well shaped nose.
You, my friend, were made a thing of beauty!
But you smell, quite strongly, of horse manure.
Is that what you were doing, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a field of high grass
All four legs in the air.
And then you came charging along the path,
excitement in your eyes as if
you knew you'd done something wrong.
and you blazed by me.
I could run with you
in the heat of mid day sun
and call you brother.
But only if I threw my human being away.

Oh, what brown a face.
What a wide, well shaped nose.
Don't you know you were made a thing of beauty?
But you shine, quite strongly, from the sweat on your brow.
Is that what you were doing, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a sea of bodies
until strong fingers snatched free a golden lace.
And then you came charging through the street,
hunger in your eyes although
you knew you'd done something wrong.
And you blazed by me.
I've seen your kind of hunger,
Brother.
I could run with you.
But only if I threw my being away.

Stay Classy, Benicio Romero

"Oooh!  Way to put me in my place."  Benicio thumps the table, pleasantly ammused with the reaction he'd incited.  He stands, adjusts the lapels of his black and gray vest, the collars of his silver polyester shirt, and the sides of the wide mohawk.   And then, he begins to recite his own lineage.

He knows why they do this.  He recognizes yet another method for sizeing each other up.  Obviously he's done it often enough to mention the names and exploits of all four Kindred between himself and Troile.  More names between himself and Caine than many in the room, but also more names to have passed down their aggression, cruelty, and passion.  Each city destroyed, each stewardship sacked, each decade of barbarism and banditry he names with gusto and a gleaming grin as the light reflects off the gold teeth flanking his left fang.

When he's done he sits again, looking around the conference table for whoever would speak up next.  And while he waits, one steel toed boot thumps on the far edge of the table, and the other rests crudely on top.

For someone who considered this all a hassle, the Brujah seemed to be quite pleased with having gushed at his predecessors, and therefore himself.

[January, 2009]

Against the Light: Original Inspiration

In New York they walk against the light.
There'll be no delay of our daily pursuits
No insincere righteousness to fix us
to someone else's worn, bitter road.

Why should we walk when our goal is flight?
Why should we stop?
For a little thing like danger?
A little thing like fear?
A litle thing like failure?

For a little thing like the loss of life?
Which, until we stand to lose it
we have no idea of its true value.
And what would a life spent be worth
having never walked against the light?

[5:40 PM, watching the sun set from 5th floor window at Filene's Basement across from Columbus Circle. Also inspired by waiting at interections, holding Merri's hand, and wondering....]

Eulogy Time

Its the beginning of a new year.  Or the first month, at least.  In my prime (which I hope has only lagged behind, rather than past) It would be the time I close another writing journal, banding up another Moleskein or twisting the cheap notebook out of the make-believe leather covering.  And before I'd start fresh, letting the ink sink into the first unsuspecting pages of my replacement, I'd look back one last time at what I'd written, attempted to write, or failed to complete throughout the year.

Because its always somewhat bittersweet, and because the memories soon fade and are replaced with new ones, much like new life replaces death, I called it 'Eulogy for a Journal.'

But, I haven't quite been performing like i was in that prime lately.  Not only have I failed to exhaust my journal, but through some wonderful folly, I wound up with two journals.  One, the same faux leather covering over a stiff, simple, easy to carry notebook.  The other is something I picked up at a Borders in New York.  Beautiful hardcover, magnetic flap, and covered with elegant, driven scrawl.  A speech by Abraham Lincoln.  In the one that's easy to have everywhere, I have the thoughts that I have everywhere.  Including many of the banal things that I simply have to write down.  In the other beautiful, writing inspired/inspiring book, I have my beautiful writing.  Or, what I try to write, at the very least.

It works out well, I suppose.  Two books.  Two blogs.  And going back and seeing the failed attempts, or the poor successes, has always lead to great things, in my mind.  So I'll be having a eulogy for both.  Check in at The Changing Leaves if you want to know some of the foolish, boring, insane, truthful things that went through my mind in 2009, and check Eulogy for a Journal, if you want fiction, poetry, and pretty words that don't quite belong anywhere. Lets remember that year together.