They judge a man by the shoes he wears. Clean as they come to darken his day. His skin is stainless brown. He wears a plaintive face that hides history in a half smile that holds memory. Of all and none. He walks in my direction, holding my gaze in his shaded eyes. Faded out of view, I turn my head to loosen the neck tie of my intrigue. A lit cigarette in a righteous hand grips him tighter than his laces. The smoke is heavy. I can’t see him as he is behind his pose. He walks on the shallow perception of the disdain that surrounds him. Cool knows the envy of the dull. His feet are subject to the ground that curves around the lies he was sold. About himself. He stops and makes the sign of the cross. Some incoherent unspoken words escape into the world with his nicotine soaked breath. He continues his walk on the concrete surreality, paved with unfurnished dreams and fleshed out fears. Without ever moving his legs.
What did you see? Only the lie of everything I thought I knew. About people I will never know. It is the silence that knows my heart best and honours my pain. No bullsweat. No story to trade for my crocodile tears that part reason from deeply felt confusion. Clearly seen. I still stare. Thirty nine times I was a candle to the flame of fallacy and waxed lyrical just for sake of saying something. And I will never know exactly which long words chased away the feline that stuck me with daggered eyes in my day dream. I never saw her enter the way she left us. But I am awake now with a loaded cock. Pulling on my love, I will not shoot to cure the disease of wanting to be inside her. Let it fester, as time tends to an immortal wound.
Wide shut while you were open. Wide open while he was shot. The trojan Horse is led to water by the willing eyes that woke the fears that do not sleep. Needy eyes. Too open to see. Too close to everything that distracts their vision and attracts their confusion. Order out of chaos. Death controls them. Annointed eyes with the oil of sleep. You fear what you can’t control. Love.
Metaphors provoke the page, that words might march the field of battle to muddy the water of our discontent.
Eyes roam across the cold grass in search of the pearls that fell out of our mouths as we ran into wonder.
Discreetly. Ever so slow to open that door to right now. I already caught you, when you fell head first into my heart.
Found a throne for the uncommon man. A little rough. Greener surroundings are healthier than the hours unlived in hospitals full of throne rooms for the chemically altered, wired up to one level of existence. Parks do not service the bottom when the benches are occupied. Since I now operate on my own state of mind and manage a life of some worth between centres of healing or the placebo factories of private alternative health care, I spend what time I have accessible to myself to run errands for loved ones and I cook more than I ever did in my past life. Not too shabby. Not too clever. I like this throne. It digs into the bottom and thats as true to life as it gets.
….Bodies on loan, the numb heart is a tomb not a home. And where is temperance? How about the thriving mass culture of nihilism, and consumerism that sucks the light of the eyes that watch the world? Out of hollow bodies of mostly water. The blood is thinner than the skin.Thicker than the blade. Shallow minds drown in deep waters. How about the indifference that festers in the wounded, heard in communal banter? How about socially engineered depravity? When they say the world is yours but the choice is an option of poisons. The opiate of the unheard and unseen is in the proverbial air we breathe. What about the trigger finger of apathy that doesn’t consider the epigentic possiblities awakened and passed on? How about the spiritual? Cause everything is seemingly permissable. Who dares infer the questions yet forsake the answers? Holy rollers attract the wrath of Moths but that’s an aside. Like an Elephant in a room of mirrors, it remembers everything it sees but it only sees itself. Or a version of itself. Reality distorted. Humanity filtered, but at least the filth is honest “and ugly as ever.” Its yellow. Its black. Its of it. Or on it. Its a riddle. Its a word. It speaks violence. It calls to silence. It’s the journey of tears that travel inwards. Some might say its terminal. An incoming extinction level event. What law can tame such pain? Such life? Legislation doesn’t govern the heart. Mothers will cry tomorrow as they did yester and today. How do we stir up vision? How do we nurture hope? The seduction of evil has a catchier beat. Still. Still….love can afford that well worn idea, unvarnished, without eloquence, or enviable style. A reason to believe in the sanctity of life. Perhaps if they learn to love, themselves, not the image in the black mirror, and steel. Still. If love could find it’s way through the numbness, and seep into their pain. If love could meet them in the grime, unadorned, and address that pain. And wrestle with them. And hold them. Pinned down by love. The brutality of the embrace they couldn’t afford. Just a thought that crossed my mind. The loose change of pennies, are loveless. And we can not afford not to love them.
I fell into you. A lucky catch. You caught me before my eyes landed on yours. Wide open. Iris to nose. I was born wild before I lived in you, but I was so eager to escape into a world with more breathing space to fail. Now when you crawl on your feet to get a word to me, I crawl on my knees to serve you.
Teenage dreams were purple, I wore blue and saw red when it got to me. Temper the beast with green, and watch it grow on the other side of the grass I inhaled. Roll without it. Like luck. Washed out. Like denim. Once or twice. Leaves and lies.
Teenage love was letters sent to her mother’s address, with words that spied on her thoughts. She thought. And she’d reply in kind and cursive, signed with a four letter promise of peace and hair grease.
Teenage fears were dying young without knowing that I ever was. I stole and ran, got caught once. A cast hand was clutched by desperation. Who writes poetry for a mute heart? If they didn’t kill me in Harlesden then it wasn’t my time.
Teenage hope was a prayer and a song to quell an asthmatic larynx and shoot hoops to high school glory. It was trying to master lessons of speech therapy and fulfill the prophecy of a Physio. A narrow Queen’s Park corridor was a palace of practice to double dribble and carry my fate quietly.
An Igbo couple in Lagos, 1955, reads the caption. I still find myself in contemplation of the fact that once upon a time most lives lived were untold or rather undocumented. And it didn’t matter. Your world was a village. A town. Maybe the expanse of a city. And that’s all the world that might have known of you. The people you encountered. Perhaps they wouldn’t have a picture of you, so you would have only existed in the memories of people till they unremembered you. Cause you still existed in the memory. At least in real time, when you encountered and were accounted. So what can one do with images without a context? Maybe this is one of the chief reasons why fiction as a literary form is enduring and vital. These people caught in the lens of their lifetime could be any number of possibilities of character and story that is invented. It is probable, though I can’t prove it, that every human scenario has already been lived before so that even projections into vacant images to invent narratives are old tales retold in new clothes.
Paul. Medgar. Malcolm. Martin. Bodies of murder. Not all by the bullet. Hazel. Claudette. A day for one. A day for all. Slow death tames the loud and proud. They burried the living and laughed with them as they turned pages and cheeks. Mighty like Jehu. Zealous too. Lap the water with cuped hands and you keep your eyes open so that you don’t fall for the dream that sleeps with your unfaithful heart. That young man you see is that old man that sighs. Been here before. Been new. Been clean. Been old for sure. Been dead. Some die to live. Some love to death. And some tarry with the years they accumulate. Caesar takes his cut but no deals with black messiahs. Hoover up the Hamptons. Freddie’s dead as Curtis said. Been here before. Known the soil like they knew soul food. Like cotton. Like candy. Like us. We were sweet. We were lovers. She loved him dearly. Loved us to life. Dreams. That’s what it was. We were ideas. Not fixed. Not defined. We were possibilities for the pulled trigger to decipher. And bullets explore continents with names like Robeson. Evers. X. King. Scott. Colvin…….. ……… ………. ….. ……. ……… ….. …… …… ……. ……. …….. …….. ….. And years blow back to hunt the now before we wake with ideas to fix and define today.