Mass shooting A-Day.
Shitty workshift A-Day.
Sexual disappoinment A-Day.
Presidential embarrassment A-Day.
Lost in the mail A-Day.
Missing everyone A-Day.
Celebrity overdose A-Day.
Broken promise A-Day.
Escape A-Day.
Escape A-Day.
Escape A-Day.
Mahogany Beach
Walking to the beach
from Pineapple Court Hotel
the first day we were in Jamaica
gave us room for pause
as we pass a large house,
its roof burned through,
the mangy dog waiting there, thin,
its hair more off its body than on.
That sobering scene,
located only across the street
from our hotel’s property
could have caused us
to leave Ocho Rios
for Montego Bay
or Negril,
but we walked on.
Bars on the windows
of the shops we pass
would give a tourist, new to Jamaica,
in town from a cruise ship
for less than a day,
the impression that Ocho Rios
is not a good neighborhood,
but I have visited the island many times.
I spy a young lady,
walking toward us,
& I motioned for her to stop.
Ange & Ryan keep walking,
men, old & young,
calling out to her
an orchestrated question:
“Will you marry me, momma?”
I asked the young lady:
“How far is it to Mahogany Beach?”
She asked, “Do you want me to take you?”
“That would be nice,” I tell her.
She turns around toward the town,
with me aware that Jamaica’s economic condition,
in the places I’ve been,
is similar to or worse than Ocho’s.
The young lady catches us up to
Ange & Ryan,
taking us in the direction
the desk clerk had told us to go.
Had she not been our guide,
we could have meandered for quite some time,
for no signage existed.
She took us downhill
through a broken canopy
of shade and sunshine
to a secluded bay
with a sand beach,
small, but big enough
to accommodate many people.
I give the young lady a tip she’ll remember.
I know you’re just like me
Short, mean, condescending
When you see someone different
Your brain hates before your mind can say
It’s organic, this fear
And must be overcome by thought
But there isn’t any these days it seems
Effort is not required when everything is so easy
It’s wonderful the stupid things we can care about
When nothing really matters
Having this opinion no longer means starving
Having that philosophy no longer means death
How many things do we really know?
Gravity, fire and electricity hurt
Water is good and bad
Everything else is the rumor of someone else
Those crumbling chunks of poorly mixed mortar
Are the cornerstones of our beliefs
These broken bones and twisted torsos
Are what we used to build the rest
Let your children name themselves –Saul Williams
I just want
to talk with you
sirens interrupt
silence abruptly
before I can finish
what I was saying
and then,
soon as you speak,
elevator muzak,
grocery aisle
announcements
interrupt as you
insert white plugs
into ears intent
more on beats
and lyrics
that resonate
deep within
your newly
evolving soul
I so crave to speak.
Again, speak
not with fervor,
embarrassing heat,
but instead
with dignity
from your soul
radiating through
your feet.
And I so hate rhymes
as well as all caps each line
but in my haste
to capture my craving
to be involved
in your journey
as you withdraw
as you should
punctuations found
within fire drills
at school must be
endured for me
to prepare for you
to leave, as you should
insert parenthesizes
and paragraphs. Chapters
if you absolutely must.
And you must.
Divide the line.
Continue culture
only as you see necessary
to your own existence
or more importantly,
relevantly, impossibly
what you teach beyond
yourself through stories
to friends, lessons to students,
anecdotes to protégées,
which in itself is such
an awkward term
in the era of tossing
around the word, mentor.
Nonetheless, stories
to protégés are wonderful
in their honesty
and hyperbolic humility.
Hubris a coat worn
in shame. Name yourself.
Rename if necessary.
Echo the moon.
Boomerang beyond Mars.
Forget astronomy
and question authority
and then pay attention
to the stars.
I walked down an empty street in the darkness of the midnight.
The persistent buzzing of lamps casted long shadows into the darkness of night.
I stopped and took notice of the moon and I could not help but appreciate the stars.
I recalled my father showing me these constellations, and knew I had not walked far.
For when you find your place, you leave a blaze.
To mark the way, the path unfollowed, the places you stumble upon might just become hallowed.
I smiled and walked, for the blaze in the night pointed home.
I sit by the window.
The sea is grey, distant.
My fingers are cold,
though the cup between them steams.
You’re next to me,
eyes on the table.
I should be warm,
but I’m not.
Oh where has my love gone?
He leaves me blue…
thought to be the fable
i find myself to be the myth.
nothing resonates so clearly
as clarity when it is entirely dark.
I’m suited up for cycling:
50 SPF sunscreen greasy on my skin,
helmet, spandex shorts with padded crotch,
half-finger mesh gloves, SPD cleated shoes,
wraparound sunglasses, water bottle.
On the tandem, I peddle behind Charlie, matching
his swaying rhythm. Cool morning breeze,
generous pour of sunshine, lush spring green.
I take in random whiffs of something sweet blooming,
of newly tilled earth and the tang of mulch,
of mossy creek water, a dead squirrel festering
in the middle of the road.
Sweat gathers on my upper lip, tickles
behind my knees. I register the flex
of my quads on the down stroke,
grateful for that strength,
grateful to be moving beyond my age.
