I Got You Boo

 People always talk about their “authentic self” and being in a particular space for themselves. I have no idea what that means, being honest. Sometimes I feel like going for a 12 mile run because I can. Sometimes I feel like moving to a new city to try out a different area. Sometimes I’ll put on a skirt. 

I don’t know how anyone in this world can tell me if I’m being myself or fake. It’s become a competition to become unique and innovative for social media. Yeah yeah sometimes I do it for the gram but most of the time I’m like “oh I have to try it AT LEAST once” because why not? There’s literally a ba-jillion things I don’t know how to do and everyone I’ve ever met , including my students, can teach me a skill or give me a new dataset I have never considered. Isn’t that cool? A lot of kids can speak two languages , that is so freggin’ amazing.

Anyways but I’ll pinpoint my quick entry to this point in time . I was with some friends having a chill night with wine. I spilled the wine on pants that didn’t agree with the color. They contrasted like Dame and Jay. For some reason my friends house didn’t contain replacement ones for a Shrek sized man. But apparently skirts apparently are one size fits all. 

We decided to go out that night and my friend took that picture in my super flamboyant sweater (that was mine and I still have/love it) and I wasn’t trying to be my “authentic self” as strutted down Hancock Street downtown. I was just Vivian vibin’, I felt comfortable.

I’m a science teacher and unnecessarily super reflective for a long time. I know for a fact when I’m being myself (me) being genuine to myself and I know when I’m doing it to be recognized. People yelling out “you’re so brave” or “you’re a (bad word)” was endearing but I just wanted to go dancing with poetry geeks and eat a chicken biscuit. Not a statement for myself but if someone else needs it as positive reinforcement, I got you boo. 

Plus skirts are super breathable and I can do super high kicks. Feels fabulous,

Nina Simone’s Inner Nina Simone

Sometimes you need to hear that you’re doing a good job and somehow KNOW you’re not wasting your potential. And be kind of a dick about it, 

The Jons and I were listening to “Igor” by Tyler and one of my favorite comedians Jerrod Carmichael referenced the concept of ‘wasted potential being detrimental to the soul’ (paraphrasing) which is not to be taken as a radial ideal. N*ggas continuously waste their potential every single day. Like most of the people I know in my Tier 1 and Tier 2 friendship will quickly take opportunities and then just as quick toss them in the garbage. The amount of people who loved doing activities or skills that are now lost for one reason or the other,

Why do people do that? Why do the Jons do that? Everyone does that sh*t.

One may look at self confidence and self esteem and self anything, really. You’re working a job and you’re doing great job and you’re numbers are high and you’re efficient and blah, blah, blah. At a certain point, nobody cares. People take that greatness for granted. Could you imagine be so proficient at something and people not acknowledging that you’re the lifeblood of a company. You’re probably putting minimum effort into it and you being more efficient than a heat pump. And nobody saying a thank you or a please or anything. 

At a certain point, free company yoga during a lunch break or a pizza party coddles you and suppresses you’re freewill cognitive ability. People over here in a cubicle selling paper in bulk and they can juggle knives with their tongue. Leaving no fingerprints,

Older people talk about working at a job for 25 years or talking about having kids and being married to their high school sweet heart. Some may call it consistency. Which is great and important but there’s also (I’ll call this a radical notion) that people don’t want to do those things. Sometimes people talk to Jonathan like making dance videos are embarrassing and “wait until I get older”. If I’m 48 and don’t love making dance videos over these past few years, please take my legs. Not everyone wants to be as miserable as you are,

See How They Fly

I was walking downtown with you. Everything looked fuzzy and uncertain but that's why we were walking. There could had been a Bill Murray-sized fly and we wouldn't be able to make it out. The lights were hard to miss but only a gentle dim for people on a 3D plane. I don't remember everything we did during the years during our simple, semi-adult time together. But I remember I was elated, enraged, enthralled, emotionless, empathetic, and earnest towards you. It didn't matter right now, as I only had one word to describe for us at this particular moment:

Bubbles

I had saved it for a special occasion, as I had got down on one knee and popped the question. "Will you get a mac & cheese chicken biscuit with me?" She started enthusiastically crying as bats shrieked and flew overhead. And I didn't even tell her I was paying for it.

We had been dressed for the night out on the town; me in my Nike joggers, Doc Marten combat boots, colorful-filled bandanna wrapped around my receding hairline, and my favorite Captain America shirt. I thought I was so fly. You were wearing all the colors of red, dressed in silk and every necklace Jared has on discount. Along with a culturally appropriate headdress that flowed down past the cracks of the sidewalks and 9-inch stilettos. I told you that you looked like you just came off the farm, harvesting spaghetti squash, specifically. You cried but I lied and told you that you appearance was acceptable. You made me walk to downtown as you drove.

After the 11 miles to get downtown and not learning the superpower of flight, I arrived downtown, Cue Great Gatsby montage in a small, southern town as we painted the downtown Tostitos. The whole block and a half. As I told you once again, I don't remember a lot of that night beyond laughing, bubbles, and under-priced soul food. Willy Wonka was there too but he was pissed at us. Our legs stopped working and an invisible bed glided us to the rest of our destination back home.You were there and so was I, and that is all I needed.

But I remember the end. I never forget an ending.

We went back to my house. Your home was the barn outside. I told you to grab a soggy towel from outside after you finished your bath. I yelled about something-something from an open door as you yelled something-something back. Your image became distorted. You kept restlessly morphing into different friends, foes, frenemies, random people I met on airplanes I flown on, all in that same red dress. Your copy of Watchmen rested on the nightstand where I was calmly pacing back and forth. That was a lie.

The night aggressively turned into day and I had a feeling that we should leave. Or at least I should have. Your morphing ceased but it was still eerie. "Even for a dream" I softly spoke. I was still asleep and images came to and fro as I was unconscious but these weren't dreams. I sprinted towards the bedroom to turn on the blast shields. The alarm didn't go off. You were still gossiping as my screams filled the hallway. I painstakingly checked every single door, window, hole, crack and crevice to make sure we were sealed in. The front door was halfway open. We had entered from the garage door after our night was over. If you ever wanted to witness a black man spread his wings and leave the ground, pretend like you see me bolt towards that door to see how they fly.

I landed 2 feet away from the door, on my stomach. I fly whizzed past my head. James Wolk walked into the house, not Joe Keene Jr. "Come outside please" he said with an ear-to-ear grin. I carefully rose and followed him. I was half-naked. In my front yard numerous trucks, men, plaid shirts, and rifles greeted with warmly red attire. James had told me that the neighborhood had been doing well. And I wasn't allowed to be here anymore. I kneeled down replying softly replied "okay" and closed my eyes. James, not Joe, put his hand on my shoulder, relieved. He told me "thanks for understanding".

 But I didn't see black, all I saw was red.

New Breed by DAWN

Arrested Development Pt. 3

I looked across my room at my Nina Simone print. It's Nina Simone looking hopeful, enamored in some sort of blissful, full look at absolutely nothing. She looked like someone had just told her that life is going to be everything that she hoped for right as she popped out of Mary Kate. Her dreams looked like that had come true, and everything was going to be alright. Or maybe everything is everything.

The first time I had even heard of Nina Simone or her voice was a sample by Yeezy's "Blood on the Leaves"; in contrary to my print, her voice sounded angrily exhausted, deprived of energy, yet still stunning. Like she had been stripped of something that was rightfully hers. Like her child. Or her name. Or her identity. Or the ability to piss in your own toilet.

I have collected a lot of portraits and prints over the years. Star Wars regalia, self-portraits of myself, sci-fi stuff, other musicians. This one breaks my heart. Because this has shown so much of how much I dared to dream, how much I have been wanting to become bigger than myself. 

I am fully aware of who I am, trust me. I have spent a lot of time with him. Exuding and conveying myself in this light because it makes me feel full and whole. It makes people around me feel full and whole. Like a fat man at Krispy Kreme when the sign comes on. But that fat man is going to feel bad after that sign goes off. And I helped him feel okay to be fat even though he sort of knows it's not what he wants while I definitely know it's not the look. But I told him it was okay.

Except I didn't do any of that, ever. I never told him to keep eating. I told him to stop numerous times and showed him data. And he told me he wasn't happy this way. And I said cool here's what ya' gotta do. All of the time. Never not showed him what keeps happening. And then he asks "why am I obese and unhappy" 10 years later. It makes me feel like the paragraph before this one is true.

But then again, it is amazing how powerful and how strong I could be and many people I have effected by just walking down the street. I am the unstoppable force, parallel with the immovable object. I do not play, unless I want to win a game. And this is not a game to me. It never was.

Everything has come and gone, fought and retreated. There have been people who have perished for this while I sat down and watched, watched as I could have done something about it. But I chose not to because I had to make sure my resources don't perish because people need me. And if you don't think so, just ask them. And I don't want to talk about it, unless something is being executed. It's not a casual conversation or dialogue. It's gut-wrenching and it hurts when I speak about it those who somehow, somehow don't have a single clue. 

Well, look at what it has cost me even with me not participating. Everything. Maybe because it wasn't mine in the first place. 

The Story About You

The sun played hide-in-go seek behind the clouds with a long-legged lady not looking to find it. The lady had been scouring left-behind buildings, somewhere off San Pablo. Behind her, a miniature version of herself clung to her hip, disobeying the 6 feet rule.

Long-legged twiddled her freshly matte black finished thumbs together, looking through the windows of houses and businesses she playfully thought of renovating. She patted down her lengthy braids, pondering about the broken windows and decrypted roofs that may have held an ancestor of hers. The Little-legged girl kept the same serene eyes and other various subtle yet distinct facial structures as her gangly walking buddy. Almost as though they were the same person. Almost.

"Where are we going?" the little-legged girl asked for umpteenth time. The fire in her was replicated as well. "I'm hungry, and I didn't eat breakfast,"

The long-legged girl unintentionally ignored her, humming some song she couldn't remember from a family reunion. The song didn't appear to her but the memory of her uncle's dog snatching potato salad off the table made her silently smirk. She then remembered her cousins laughing at her huge shoe size, calling her "Baby Walrus". 

"That's a stupid name, do Walrus even have feet?" Long-legged muttered , loud enough for little-legged to respond. 

"I'm not stupid," she hastily replied. "You're the one who forgot the food in the car. Now when we come back, it's gonna smell like that stinky rice in the car," Making a gas face up towards her companion, almost stumbling on an overgrown branch.

Long-legged delicately caught little-legged by the wrist, as she resynchronized herself to walk upright again. Little-legged immediately and hopelessly tried to shove long-legged, as long-legged pretended to be hurt by the smaller human's flurry of gentle punches.

"Well you're a kid, you're supposed to be stupid. It's what the actual definition of being a kid is. So you can be stupid. Besides you left the food in the car!"

Angered, little-legged ran off into a building and slammed the door behind her. She aggressively yet accidentally yet assertively yet inadvertently tripped again, this time having scraped her left-lite leg against a piece of rusted rebar pipe, immediately wishing it was a piece of rhubarb pie from Rubicon's off of 23rd. The best/worst screen of all time quickly and loudly followed.

"AaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOooooaaaaaa!"

Long-legged glided into the seemingly ran down bakery-looking building, immediately spotting her little-legged bleeding from her left calf. "I told you to wear shoes when we go on hikes, and it's not safe to have your toes showing! You know you have to protect your feet, especially with all this debris. Come on, lemme just…" Long-legged unintentionally begin crying as well, trying to wrap out the badly injured leg with her Jean jacket

"But you're wearing sandals too," little-legged replied through mild-hypervenilated sobs. 

"Yeah, I kind of am wearing them too, huh," long-legged responded, giggling while wiping away both of their tears. First hers, then little-legged. "I guess we are both stupid. Let's go devour some chicken fries rice" as long legged propped herself back up, limping and holding her jacket against her own leg.

“If It Wasn’t For You” dictates the needing for one to not be special to one specific person , rather it explains the essential of one person

Unlimited Tostitos, Pt. 2

Do you ever just hear people say words out loud and you're just standing there like

"Nope."

I was listening to some comedian talk about "the older you get, the more you just spout of stuff you know nothing about" in regards to a regular conversation. For example I may ask someone who is the name of an actor in a movie, and I will get the runaround for 8 minutes in which most of the words are probably just a random sequence of sentences that have taken 8 minutes of my life. 

Because for a while I believed myself to be stupid, so I would eagerly await people to say words to me, all of the time. It was though I was waiting for little bit-sized bits of wisdom that I could enlighten myself with and be the next Nelson Mandela. Or Clay Aiken. 

But instead I received a lot of bit-sized bits of unseasoned trash. Am I eating trash? No. But listening to numerous professors in college saying incorrect facts or a mayonnaise amount of information helps me sift out the fecal matter. 

Can you imagine in that 8 minute time frame of me listening to someone say whatever, I could have created a blueprint for how to build a baby-sized space-shuttle? I could have created a cure for all the cancers. I could have won unlimited tostitos from a scratch-off from Food Lion. I could have took 10 seconds to google the actor in that movie (it was John Malkovich, duh!)

But instead I got this value-menu-Jonathan-Livingston-Seagull-probably-volunteers-to-picket-at-planned-parenthood-guy telling me about why Miller High Life is not only the "champagne of beers" but the "champagne beverage of all the beverages" and didn't even provide any scientific evidence. No articles from JSTOR or GALILEO or faux Wikipedia article.

As I may interject, as I am talking to myself, that most conversations are essentially useless. Unless we are talking about how to harness the power of unlimited tostitos, how is this topic helping us be better as people? 95% of conversation is small talk, and I have the faux Wikipedia articles to prove it. I'm a scientist, so I can throw out numbers and you won't fact check it. Believe me, I did independent research for my Hydrology classes. Nobody cares about where the numbers came from. *Wink*

Yes the phrase "constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating" always pops up in my head, but there are plenty of other talking points that help improve the human race, besides unlimited tostitos. (Reminder, I need to go to the store before they close!)

Here are a few constructive topics:

1. Did you delete your search browser lately?

2. What are your feelings towards the second season finale of American Idol?

3. Why aren't you trying harder, like, in general?
4. Do you not like to wear deodorant? 

"You Ain't Gotta' Lie" by Kendrick Lamar is the staple of this entire article. It's okay , you really don't have to lie!

I Asked God To Come and Get Me, But I am Too Uncool

Some of my favorite/worst memories of my childhood was waking up real early on Sunday mornings to go hear Dr. Lance Watson preach in Creighton. I would never have my hair combed by the time we would leave, so my momma would always drag the comb through my hair, almost making my scalp come off. Call it the first ever S-curl accident. Sometimes if we were a little early to get to church, me and my brother would get chicken biscuits from McDonald's. While we sped to church down 95 and across 64, listening to Momma Caesar I would steal my brother's hash browns for the extra saturated fat. There was this girl there at the 10am services, she had cornrows and braces like it was her first day out. She probably already knew how to shoot a stepback jumper, heavily contested. I never spoke to her, but she looks like a Jamillah. Oh, and there were a few kids from my school who went there and I would try to make eye contact but as soon as they looked up, I looked down. I always wondered where I got church shoes from. I felt like they always appeared and I never asked for them. I wish it worked that way for Gameboy Advance Cartridges. While we sat down, my momma would give me a crinkled dollar bill to hand-off to some old dude who smelled of moth balls. What was he chewing all the time? I always held on to the money plate longer than I needed too because it looked like his arthritis was starting to kick in. Whenever the music would play (there was a score for walking into the church to breathing in the church to squirming in the church to passing out in the church) I wanted to dance or any clap my hands. Never understood why I didn't do so, even to this day. It was a continuous struggle to get to church everyday but it was a spectacle when you got there. If I took one of my white friends with us like Adam or Alex, you would have thought we were watching a soap opera. Pastor rapping off bible verses, old ladies passing out, single mom's interpretation of snakes, drinking the blood and eating the flesh off of some dude you haven't seen but apparently is ubiquitous. And there were so many hats. I would be so proud to invite seasoning to their lives. And you swore you left refreshed and anew and accomplished as much as Nelson Mandela himself. You couldn't tell someone anything who just walked out of church, not a got-dern-ting. Saying bible quotes and giggling with your best friend named Brenda you saw twice a week. Once at bible study and another at the line at the Piccadilly's. The one at Southpark. Wait is it shutdown? Sometimes I would pay attention to the pastor to intentionally, like I would  be the next up there. Like Martin Luther or Allen Senior. T.D. Jakes would be my speech coach. Mase would serve as my financial adviser. Everyone from my 3rd grade class, family, and friends would be there. Screaming and hollering righteous and sweet sayings right up there at the pulpit, guiding someone to change their life. To see their mom or their kids again after too many years. God would tell me I was cool and said I had a seat with them at the gates because I was so cool for being patient. Jamillah would be there too.



Then I woke up.

"Unhappy" by Outkast has remained one of the songs played when I am normally, well, happy.

I Wish I Had a Friend Like Me

If someone asked me about one of my favorite childhood memories, I would tell them about me and Lil' Greg riding in a hoopty when we were kids, probably somewhere in PG County. 

During this car ride, I was interrogating Lil' Greg about how many action figures his dad had and about movies our moms would let us go see in theaters. Regular hood stuff. Through the banter about our prepubescent garble, a man who sounded like someone stapled 85% of teeth together with peanut butter had been reciting lines with some old lady by momma' used to listen too. After 2 minutes of listening to this song, I realized I didn't want to listen to Lil' Bow Wow anymore.

In the mid 2000s, the man who was doing "pretty hood in his pink polo" had lodged himself in my brain; ordered cable, internet, phone, and started a tomato garden. This was right around the time MF DOOM, Outkast, Jay-Z,  N.E.R.D., and most old school hip-hop had infiltrated my airwaves. Even with all of these artists, it seemed I was more emphatic about this college dropout's everyday life.

In 2008, I knew everything about pledging 'Broke Phi Broke', diamonds from Sierra Leone, Jesus walking, coming home, wanting to get on a spaceship after being a token black, having Deray Davis impersonate Bernie Mac as an alarm clock, listening to Marvin Gaye, Luther Vandross, with just a hint of Anita. Songs that I believed to sound like poems (which a lot of them were) climbed up through my earphones and car stereo speakers, filling me with stories from a ghetto pop-up book. It became my fuel for the day and safe haven at night. It became the #1 topic starter and my #1 topic stopper. Still never understood the bear thing though.

Then there was the introduction to heartbreak. There were the ghost writers, the erratic and completely unexcused behavior, the tragedy that soon followed. There were some things The World Famous Tony Williams couldn't fix. I had seen him perform months after his mother died, on Mother's Day performing "Hey Mama". The inconsistency as an artist and as a black man in America came to fruition. It broke my heart, and it still does. I remember watching him do interviews with David Letterman; it was gut wrenching. To this day it makes me cringe when mayonnaise people go to his concerts and talk about how great his music is and they don't even know the man I grew up with. I wanted to help him and let him know that it is okay to seek treatment for mental illness. But I was just a teenager from the south, from the outside looking in. 

Most recently I did go through and block any image or news article of him from popping up. It hurts to see and talk about it unless you know where I am coming from. Part of me knew that this is the same person who sat down on "Life and Rhymes of..." and blared Souls of Mischief on MTV. Could you imagined I used to get hilariously huge headphones and would put my head down, bopping until head bopped off my neck? I wanted to go to college even if I had registered late, dropped out, but I knew if I could do anything if Magic made it and graduate. 

I know everyone can't be saved and everyone isn't who you once thought they were. But this is family business; never in my life have I gotten angry at a cousin then never talk to them again. When I get mad at family, it is more intense and lethal because I love you there's an expectation expected out of you. Never in my life would I have a family member struggling and not help them. So if you know what I am talking about, understand it's that same energy to some of these celebrities I grew up with.

Just to serve as a reminder that it's okay to hate something but I feel as though you have to had at least loved it first. 

I Love You, Morris Brown

"Sometimes you gotta' move backward to go forward"

I wish I didn't remember that quote from a Lincoln car commercial but here we are in Decatur, Georgia. Me, you, and a shirtless Matthew McConaughey driving along some parkway listening to "Morris Brown" by Outkast.

I'm back in the south right now and I'm content yet flabbergasted. It was 2 weeks ago when I was pacing back and forth, irritated by own presence in a space. The Jons out of control, bacon was burnt like Michael Blackson, called sick out of work (ironic I actually had a bad case of diarrhea but intended on going to work anyways), and the rare instance of my palms being sweaty (mom's spaghetti).

I knew what was up; the same symptoms that came about in my exit from Norfolk. But here I was, trying to hold on to something that I loved but it was all lubed up, like a thing that excessively gets lubed up.

The Bundles of Jon could act out a 2-hour choreopoem, write a whole manuscript, conjure up a dissertation with works cited on why it was time to end my lease, job, and tenure from Colorado. I personally couldn't explain it using crayons and speaking perfect English in a one-on-one therapy session. I do think Jon could put it in the intuition category or some sort of primordial feeling.

Same urge when I moved from Milledgeville, Georgia immediately after college; Norfolk, Virginia after my break-up; and Denver, Colorado after my hiatus from teaching. But hey, I loved Colorado; my doggies, brunches, yoga, running, all of that jazz.

I told people every reason for the sudden leave. Too expensive, lack of emotional support, lack of good paying jobs (main indicator), etc.

Quite honestly I was also sad for multiple reasons. For all of those reasons and more. It is unfortunate I wasted a lot of people's time but my friend and family support in Georgia is unmatched. It's too overwhelming and consistent for me. My expectations for people are exceedingly high because they set the bar at that level. Vehicles have transported me to dozens of states and my legs have ran thousands of miles, I have met some folks and stayed in some places. And where did that lead me?

Back here,

Reckon I am upset because I thought I could build something out of some Popsicle sticks and crazy glue in Denver. Maybe some sort of infrastructure was manifested during my stay in the Rockies but not how I planned after two years. There is also the impatient piece; could be me not being diligent with the process of attaining (best) friends, high paying side gigs, and inner/outer peace. Which is what it came down too. Who knows the Greater Metro area of Atlanta may give me the same result. But at least my auntie and momma out here.

Of course they money aspect; if I stayed here any longer the money would literally be evaporated. And the hiatus from teaching had overcame all of my emotions. The luster of Denver had worn off like every other place I had lived. And it was time to make a decision even though it could have came earlier with jobs and my lease being up in May. All of that stuff is not difficult to handle. My friend did ask how was it being homeless and unemployed, which I believed that to be a huge slap in the face to everyone I know. No one is going to let me end of being homeless and penniless in Georgia, that would only happen on my own accord.

But I am motivated, a little nauseated and dizzy, hopeful. I will get back into teaching, pay off this substantial credit card debt, teach yoga at a studio, find some freggin' zen, and continue to make dope dancing videos.  Definitely a bump in the road but I know some folks who work for GDOT. It is time to build here for a little while and I am ready. If not, then I only got three words...

Somebody Gotta’Love The Spiritual Immaculate Hoodrats

Oh yes, absolutely. Here comes Jonny with some rhymes about some mild insecurities, infatuation with fat booties, and night runs around the city.

Oh real quick, as I mentioned before, my love language includes but ain’t limited to double gin & tonics, Running 10ks, and cosplays. Cool let me start my ramble,

I’m probably here to talk about how people have gentrified cornbread or how much I miss my momma’s sweet, SWEET cocoa butter kisses on my left cheek,

I did slip on a banana peel like I was an extra in an infomercial, I’m sure every actor/actress is an extra on informercials. Grabbed every invisible ropes I couldn’t 

Find. No wonder no one rarely finishes rainbow road. 

Uh, I kissed a boy 👨‍❤️‍👨

Nah, I ain’t like it 🙅🏾‍♂️

Well, I still hate Jordan Howard and when my dad cries.

Still gotta’ fetish for the spiritual hoodrat immaculate ratchets, but only when they don’t receive child support 

And known to tell other people’s kids to stop acting up in Public settings 

But I have to remind you that I was the Last Black Superhero in Willacoochee & Arvada, 

I’m still dropping science whilst others drop English,

I heard the call and culled the heard, paid the piper, pied the payers, became the player, but Chance said players are quitters 

And the bat signal doesn’t show up when the sky is clear but I’m pretty sure Woburn and Flint’s water supply is still burning,

And the dog is dead, the girl is gone, the chicken is unseasoned, and I’m sitting off of 16th and Colfax with my brother. Wondering why he always has mayonnaise on his lips. 

If I say I don’t give a shit, I give 100% of the shits.

And if I ever told you I love you, 

And if I save a love you, I do. I do, I do-oooo-ooooo. 

If I say I don’t I love you, I don’t.

And I believe in you, and you, and you. But not you.

And I believe in Jonny.

I Believe in The Pop, The Lock, AND The Drop

Dirty Shawn Bradley’s, the cracked screen of a MP3 player, and my mom’s flimsy headphones. 

Stretch the thighs, hamstrings, shoulders, lower back, fingers, neck, biceps, triceps, and most importantly your spiritual animal.

Flip through Outkast, Dangerdoom, N.E.R.D., Yeezy, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, & start with Young H.O.V. to get started. Wait for Ms. Storm’s menacing scowl and short strides to pass by.

Start.

Up Twin Cedars, right on Twin Cliff, loop around Cedar Cliff, down to Stoney Parkway, up Greyfield, wrap around Wraywood to Old Happy Hill to come back. Negative splits so high schoolers don’t mock your efforts.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Pump your arms, relax your double-jointed hands, caress the chest, evenly breathe from your diaphragm, strike the ground more, lower your forehead; your body is synchronized and one with the infinite, whatever that means. 

T.R.O.Y. starts to play as I loop back around, my second wind keeps my pace honest but my hand-me-down baggy clothing exposes my left shoulder. The saxophone medley makes my heart sink, and I phase out of this world. Into a sort of ignorant bliss.

Have you seen it? It is truly spectacular. The spectacle of a vista in the tundra could not compare. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind if only for a fraction, a millisecond. The deciduous trees reach out to bid me a greeting to an elevated space, to feel every cell in my body to work as a whole system. Complete synchronization.

Goofy grin on my face, middle school composure, ashy kneecaps, arms flailing carelessly, headphones keep falling off, half a mile left, 30 minutes until my bus arrives at Foxwood. 

Chris Diamond, acne-prone 16 year-old, 4th string quarterback, 1st string white trash. I initiate an euphoric wave to the hormonal group of teenagers, showered by routine calls of “faggot.”

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Romanticize The Villainy Pt. 2

Dear Fair Citizens of America,

I did not mean to try and enslave the human race.

Now that,

This whole scenario is a misunderstanding.

I’m not Chris Brown, not a bad guy.

Let me explain, about me and my product and what will happen next.

Now we are here

With my super evil photon death ray I purchased from some dude called Patty on Craigslist  and it is currently orbiting Earth, over there in space somewhere.

It is aimed at the White House and Betty Whites house. It will go off when I stop speaking sporadically like a leaking spigot

I am letting you all know this because I am making you all an offer than you won’t, can’t, and ain’t refusing 

I want every form of government on this planet to fizzle up and evaporate, I mean dissipate immediately, and terminated expeditiously. This is not a request Trudeau, 

I’m  telling you,

This is now an anarchy, chaos, mayhem, I’m fixin’ to start a riot. You ask me what’s wrong with this world, what is right? I had to default all of my student loans to buy a $350 super evil photon death ray. If I show an American a cat video, they are immobilized for three hours, I met a man who works 90 hours a week, just to stay alive long enough to die of malnutrition. And humans are so damn fickle, senile in any environment, no one even listens to Ruben Studdard or plays with tamagotchis no mores.

Why the only time anybody listens to anybody is, is, is if they have a gun or is a rich, old white man? This is why,

And this is why I locked myself in this office with Mike Huckabee deep throating my 9mm glock.

But don’t worry, fair citizens. Nobody will stop me.

Superman? I got a methodical-diabolical contraption that turned him into a peanut butter-flavored contraception three weeks ago

I just have to ask you this question:

How many people, how many humans do I need to kill to become a hero, a legend? 

Why was I already profiled before I donned the mask, created an evil laugh, and carried my soul is a metal flask?

They were only humans, it’s not like I beat a german shepard with a newspaper, 

I am not a monster.

Now,

I may be a little upset that my imaginary friends walked out on me after refusing to pay rent

Or maybe this third lobotomy is getting to me

Now, I just thought destruction was the ultimate form of creation,

I just thought “the first lesson of history, is, that evil is good”

I just thought all these negatives I am doing would have a result of being positive.

I just thought someone would treat my depression as an illness and to stop telling me to get over it

I just thought my mom wouldn’t die of even though I thought I persuaded the cancer to let her stay

Because I will never fade away, I will never fade away, I will never fade away?

I was born like this, there’s nothing wrong me, I am of natural man.

I don’t care that I know my fate,

But didn’t God hear? The world is mine…

God is throwing biblical floods and wildfires and tsunamis, even hurricanes with great white sharks in them. Who is he to judge…

I’m not a bad guy…I’m not…

I just thought maybe, maybe a little dip of cyanide would go well with your tea.

Sometimes I do bad things, I normally do bad things, but I’m not a bad guy I just make bad guy decisions…but I am not romanticizing the villainy.

But what else am I supposed to do? I’m the epitome of all what is wrong with world, and its fine being a martyr.

I may be a flawed individual, but my biggest flaw is that I am surrounded by all you idiots.

You are all fools! You just need to all SUBMIT, I am trying to save you, I’m your savior.

AND WHEN I SAY CULL THE HERD, it’s because that’s. What. I. Do.

I’m just trying to save you all, from yourselves.

And if you think I am ill-judged,

Then Silence will be your only friend

Bundles of Jon Part 4

My name is Jonathan, half blank, half give a shit.

My name is Jonny, half black , half licorice.

My name is JODY, half black, half don’t give a shit.

My name is Jon, 

But listen, without the ‘H’, 

Half black, half ordinary negro.

These are my bundles of Jons, all of the Jonny bravos, Jon hamms, Jon-Jon, lil Jons, and John Henry irons.

I’m energetic, sometimes translucent, elusive, electric, engaging, enthralled 

Bothered, shocked, Baffled, appalled, and sometimes a straight goof, goof, goofball.

Some days I’m  informative like a Stewart, sometimes I’m going HAM like Ham, 

I’m good and bad for your heart, like John Candy,

I go well with Tater Tots like a Heder, irrationally emotional like a Bernthal

I got lips like a Lovitz,

Fry some french fries like a Favreau

I’ll surf through it  like a Tsunami,

And boring like a bald headed black kid bearing a board and named Two-By-Four

BUT NO F*CKIN’ ‘H’ 

It’s just, I’m sorry. Wait no I’m not. Wait, yeah I am. Wait, no, yes, uh.

I apologize. 

I just love the Jons. It’s as though I couldn’t promote self-love so I promoted the 4 quarters that make me, me. I’m not on some Split or MPD stuff. There is no we’s, there’s only me’s. Jon is sweet, Jon is protecting, Jon is loving, Jon is brash. I’ll beat the sh*t outta of a super sucka’ but I’ll explain why I did afterwards. 

And when I say cull the herd, it’s what I do.