Mayonnaise

I had a dream, right? Not that dream...

I had a dream Dr. Umar revoked my black card last Tuesday. Said I'm not with the times, I'm a day late and a dollar short. He told me about the new negro. Built by cornbread, BET Uncut, and non-brand double cups filled with the almighty skittles and crown royal. He told me I was built by gentrification, Zoey 101 episodes, and mayonnaise.

Mayonnaise...The white goo that goes on Arby's sandwiches? Or that one person who prays to Ben Shapiro, Gary Vee, and Joe Rogan podcasts?

But I told him I'm a proud monkey, complete with the nostrils and hog maws and Katt Williams references. 

He told me I'm whiter than Clay Aiken and Britney Spears in a snowstorm, I told him I'm blacker than Forest Whitaker and Whoopi Goldberg during a blackout in Detroit. 

Pastier than Elmer's glue more hollow than Vince Vaughn, and more unseasoned than an episode of friends.

More melanin than Fonzworth, darker than a shadow, more rhythm and flow than CL Smooth.

He told me I'm more caucasian than someone who puts sugar in grits, and I told him what's wrong with sugar in grits. 

No matter the bouts with walking home in my own neighborhood being followed by police or feeling of cocoa butter kisses from my auntie or being put in a Lil' Caesers sized cardboard box. I am done with that. Mayonaise. Underground hiphop.Murals on the side of abandoned buildings where I teach yoga. Ironic graphic shirts. Roasting people as a love language. It's the reason I'm J.O.D.Y.

I told him I'm the new-new negro because frankly, I don't give a duck.

"If It Wasn't For You" by Handsome Boy Modeling School

See How You Fly

"When I couldn't move, you showed me how to crawl. When I could walk, you showed me how to run. When I could glide, you showed me how to fly." Now see how they fly, from the mountains of Zion, roaring down the hillside, along the county lines, through Dollar General alleyways and flyways in the Mississippi where I saw Bobo and them earn their wings earlier than expected but were always accepted, But the King is dead, the tostitos are crumbled, and they tried to clip my wings. I howled that day for 3 summers and 4 winters, waiting for my chance at the throne and my seat at the table and I hobbled to Valhalla on one knee over 38 countries and 8,000 miles. I told them I was a humble knave, traveling along the piedmont for the past 13 years. And they told me "no" at the door like they worked for Fedex Kinkos. "No, no, no, no, no no" NO. I shook hands with Yahweh, consumed the blood of Christ, etched my body with ancient images, and I saw how they flew! I have done the spectacular and watched all 5 seasons of Living Single. What do you mean "no" I met the Oshun and she supplied with the ether and new bag of only a few crumbled Tostitos at the bottom. I asked "why" , they asked me "why would they let a knave fly" I told them "I can" They told me "if you can fly then you're not a knave. Walk first. Then Run. Glide. And THEN show me how YOU fly, King."

I Love You Too, Jo(h)n Whiting

 "Who am I becoming as a teacher?"

I love talking about myself. I mean I love talking about myself. I am a black man, college educated born from a middle class family who loved me who always seems to have something new to reflect on every two seconds. And it is lovely because I have been unpacking “who I am” since I was young JODY. But throughout middle school, the grade I have been teaching since 2017, has opened up a magnitude of suppressed memories and feelings throughout my entire life. More specifically, my career as a teacher.

I was a “B+” student in school; I did my work at a fairly high level, I loved to read, loved to learn new things, loved that I had two, hardworking college-educated parents, loved to earn and give respect to my teachers and colleagues. I was bullied higher than average in reference to my peers, as I attributed to my geeky yet shy personality. My middle school was a nice pool of diversity, with mixed socioeconomic status and sociocultural differences (until a new school opened up years later, making it a low SES). My friends included a band geek, basketball player, low achieving student, book lover, a physically handicapped friend, and mentally handicapped friend. Not plural but all singular, as I had one of each. School was good to me and I reciprocated those feelings.

I began journaling privately in 7th grade, as I started to find my identity amongst my peers. I loved talking and reflecting about everything in that journal.  I played basketball, loved reading, loved playing my bass clarinet; I loved doing hobbies. My parents continuously (somewhat forcibly) encouraged me to follow different pursuits and numerous activities and I even have somewhat of an interest in. I liked them but not necessarily loved them. But I wanted to know the how of everything due to my eagerness to try new things and learn new things from my peers.. This was an ideal that is now extremely important and relevant to me as a 27 year-old, as my amount of interests only increased as time went on. 

Fast forward to my college years, the same amount of energy came up. Wanting to know how things work and how I could possibly make the world a better place through education. I wanted to hold that space for folks who may not have a group they belonged too because I couldn’t find one either. College gave me this platform to finally be a facilitator of information for anyone who wanted to learn. I was a part of running club, clean-up club, gardening up, environmental science club, dance club; anything that would prescribe me this piece of mind of me finding this identity. But as I people found these loves and passions in college, I became discouraged. How was I going to find what I was looking for and become this high-level professional adult in my career?

My teaching career started primarily due to me trying to figure out what I wanted to do post-college life.  All of these skills and talents I had and learned from working as a biologist, tour guide, recreational assistant, etc. had gotten me nowhere. I did not know what to do with my college education and my vast amount of knowledge and experience for someone who was 22 years-old. And I went into my first year of teaching, tiptoeing and I got exposed. Heavily. Terribly. I wasn’t a trained teacher when I first walked into a room full of 7th graders. I was a scared 12 year-old who used to get bullied by EJ and them boy and only talked to a bunch of weirdos. Whether I was 5’3, 130 pounds or 6’4 200 pounds, I walked into my first year of teaching 7th grade like I walked in my first year into 7th grade, as 7th grader. And I cried a lot those first couple of years I taught. Not because of the kids, mostly because I had an identity crisis. If I love teaching and love these kids and can’t teach these kids then who else is going to do it? 

  So I continued to teach without any regards to my emotions to a point I was gently asked to leave my career. The career that exemplified all of amazing attributes was exemplifying all my insecurities. I didn’t know how to talk to 7th graders, I didn’t know how to talk to my black 7th graders. It’s because I was the kid who talked to all of my teachers or read during lunch break. I was not going all in with little bit of gas but constantly going full-speed. All I had to do was push it to a gas station and gently drive off. 

The feeling of not being the best or not fitting in was a common trend. Yes, I had a wave and pool of friends but I only chose those outliers who helped me learn that specific skill. Managing and holding a space for groups of people became a talent I didn’t know I had until my current year in teaching, as my culture-setting for each of my classes is now beautifully executed. My family is a big deal to me and rarely do I like something but I always love something. The glory and pain of failure is a driving force for me. All of the teasing and isolation really hurt me growing up, especially from my black peers, especially from peers that I know are hurting as well. Sometimes I took it too personally but I always knew that if someone made even the smallest attempt to connect with me, whether it be as a peer or as a teacher, they were going to have a safe space to be in. Even if it was only for 5 minutes at the bus stop.

101 Ways They Call You The N-Word

They cheered when he won. Chanted too. Cried tears of joy. Laughed. You would have thought they had just won a Vince Lombardi trophy. Would have thought someone just got down on one knee and proposed in the middle of a skating ice rink. Everyone stopping to stare at the lovely couple. So much energy, so much constant energy, (Apologies, I didn't even somewhat re-read this for edits!) I mean I cried too. You would have thought I was a Squirtle on how hard I cried. And I am a beautiful crier, as elegant as Michael Jordan with the right-left switch back in '91. I had so much energy. So much energy I ran for 5 miles at 10pm on a Tuesday night. Can you imagine having your friends tell you how racist their parents are and then just not correcting them? These are people who may hire me or at least insult me before they fire me. Correct them every single time, like how I correct myself when prompted. That was a few years ago when I lived in racist couple's garage in Portsmouth. I remember they were racist because on how they cried when he won and how quickly they asked me to leave because I repeatedly insulted their president. I wasn't trying to be rude, it's just my coworker had told me "he would have killed me if I was Trayvon and he was Zimmerman" about two days after that election. I remember when he told me, it was so natural; like the same tone and confidence when you order a Zaxby's Club from Zaxby's. Almost effortless. I am fast forward two months later, a property manager sued me for $6,500 in rent, after I refused to be pay $650 in rent for two months. Not that I know much about housing discrimantory practices, but the tub above mine fell threw my own tub. I had to shower at planet fitness. I wished the roaches would chip in on rent, they were running up my electricity bill. My coworkers at the time ranged from a white guy who just graduated Tech to some other guy who graduated from UVA and I didn't like talking them. Like never ever. They spoke of all these political issues and such like it didn't directly affect minorities. It was, uh, disgusting. They spoke about Flint like it was a tissue filled with wadded-up gum. They spoke about the school "which I eventually ended up working at" as though it was discounted Skechers. Like those people who do mission trips to remote parts of the world to go do selfies but aren't allies for anyone who doesn't look like they shop at Target exclusively. Excuse me, I believe it's Tarjay, I am not sure of where politics began and but I do know that people talk with a little bass in their voice when they are wrong. Especially when they are super duper wrong. It's weird right? Some people be backpeddling like Aaron Glenn when they're wrong, straight off into a cliff. Some people will throw them a rope but they start digging a hole like they are diglett, wondering why everyone is "attacking them". If someone says you offended them, it is not up to you to decide if they're right. It is up to you to shut up and listen, Terry Crews. And sometimes it is too late Carolyn Bryant. I wonder if that is why I love horror films so much. It's almost satire on how I think I'm the protagonist of my own movie and that I will not be the first person to be killed in the first part of the movie. THe intro is all nice and go-lucky and heart-warming then everything gets taken away from me. Because someone and some curse, yadda-yadda and I'm that missing kid from the flier or taken from my family unexpectedly. I was minding my own business, now some demonic spirit has recarnated itself into my body and now I'm somehow the bag guy off of what someone else did. Funny, right? Right?

A Little Fear of Thunder & Lightning, Part. 3

When I was in preschool, I didn't like being touched. At all. Unless it was my mom. Not dad. Not auntie. Not grandma. Not other grandma. Not a 19 year-old super senior in high school. Maybe my brother because he was strong and helped me climb things.

Ironic, as I was reading in my second grade journal everyone was fond of touching me. Hug. Grab. Kiss. Pull. Toss. Smack. It wasn't that I felt afraid at first, I (relatively) knew everyone and felt comfortable around them. Just not that comfortable. So at an early age, I didn't understand the power of the word no because folks didn't oblige. They reverse uno'd that word and said "no" to me saying no. Then a little fear came, like I was helpless. Like a fish out of water or Nick Cannon saying words out loud.

Why wouldn't anyone listen to a preschooler? 

Why would anyone listen to a preschooler?

As I got older I would be dumbfounded by rejecting a plethora of affection by tweens but was still coerced into dating Brendas by whoever I would let coerce me at the time. I guess no in middle school was like Cambodian Riel, pretty much useless. My inability to grow a backbone and lack of identity didn't help, as I slouched my shoulders, stoic arm swings, and feigned smiles. Maybe if I angle my body, plant my feet, and defiantly put my hands on my hips? Like a Nubian Superman,

"uh, na"

As many folks, friends, family, and foes know my brother was significantly bigger than me throughout my life. Even now I rather try to wrestle and hogtie a feral hog than grapple the Sasquatch. But my brother was my #1 protector, friend, partner, arch-nemesis, ladder, ogre, etc. So when he wasn't physically there, I didn't manage well. I couldn't escape his shadow, he's like 6'7. Even though he routinely was there during my childhood I was afraid. My title throughout elementary, middle, and high school was "Lil' Wayne" due to me being little. And the brother of Wayne. When he was not there or wouldn't let me sleep on his floor, I couldn't deal with a light-bulb going out, much less a little bit of lightning.

For a certain amount of years from retaining my memories in preschool at the age of 4 to my bodyguard/Tostitos-eater leaving for the institute when I was 14, there was a huge lack of "manliness" in my stature as represented a few paragraphs back. Reading those words in my journal when I wrote this kind of sucked, sucked something fierce. How was I going to manage becoming a superhero if I couldn't even stand up to flute players trying to pull my hair? Even if I have a different interpretation of what "manliness" is to me nowadays,

Of course the whole parades of bats and Jo(h)n didn't help me to find any type of courage. Maybe if thundering and lightning didn't casually threaten to take me away to Morgan Freeman's dads house dozens of times a year, I would be the CEO of Tostitos by now. Maybe I would stop romanticizing the villainy. Maybe I could listen to the sound and see the lights of fireworks without pulling the covers over my head,

New-New-New Apartment (rough draft)

I remember quite a few years talking to this lady in her later 'teens, flying from Denver to Atlanta. It must've been 2am in the morning, multiple flight delays, I was hungry. I had done my pre-flight stretches (I always sit 'Econ' on Frontier/Spirit) and was more awake than someone that wakes up in the morning who had synced their circadian rhythm. And she was kind of cute.

She discussed how godawful and terrible her life had been growing up in the prestigious Oak Hills, Nashville in her young adult life, drugs to drugs, men to women, moving from place to place, home to home, and ruining anyone's life who allowed her too including her loving parents, she admitted. But she claimed to have repent and finally settle in the rehab, for good this time. I asked her how many times she moved during from the time of her birth until now. She said 15. She asked me. I said 21.

--

The transition to Norfolk, Virginia to the metropolitan area of Denver, Colorado was the most gentle transition one could have. Leaving my high-paying job, destroying any chance of having a decent relationship with my ex, running up my credit card, not having any place permanent place to stay, and of course no job. It was probably the most important move of all. It was the only place I wanted to move to when I was in college, besides Atlanta. But I had and still have 200% faith that it needed to happen. I began to perfect my yoga practice, had free reign to run any and every time in the city, and I lived in one home for over a year, the longest time spent in once place since I was 14. But during my time in the midwest the details could have been more tight. Leaving my suitcase out in the middle my bedroom was psychologically breaking me and the inability to just go over someone's house and do nothing was heavy a strange yet relevant uneasy feeling. Everyone was "on-the-go" and it seemed like I made 100 associates for activities and 2-3 actual friends, who honestly had left or talked about leaving. 

--

Conyers, Georgia to San Antonio, Texas was (is, right?) found me in a move strictly to achieve my professional goals as an educator. It was the first time moving and having no desire to move. Georgia was and is my home, and I wouldn't have known if I never left for those 4 years. I rekindled and maintained friendships as well. Honestly it's not about where you live, it's only about who you're with. Plenty of times I exclaimed I would have stayed in Denver if a few friends and family were in the area. But the few months in Georgia, there was no reason that I didn't have to leave but plenty of reasons to leave. It's nerve-racking because this is the first area ever where I know absolutely no one and we are in a freggin' pandemic. But if someone offers you graduate school and a job then... 

--

Chester, Virginia to Norfolk, Virginia. First full-salary job. First time not backing down (professionally) from bullies. First apartment. First time getting a gun drawn on me. First serious relationship. My early 20s was a world-wind, mostly spiking in the area of the Hampton Roads. The 757 showed me literally what not to do in any sort of setting. The way I carried and conducted myself in that area was nowhere near the attitude or standard of any other area in my life. Everything seemed to be right in my face; whether it be bugs, my student's mothers, poverty, racism, lack of synergy. I never could fit in and build anything there. It was such a polarizing community and it made me wayward. I was going on a run and had to keep circling one block because the surrounding areas got me shook. My relationships with the people I loved made me feel comfortable sometimes but that place ate me alive and left me as crumbs. I hated the socioeconomic aspect of 757, even more than Hannibal Burress. 

--

But out of the dozens of places I moved, I've always appreciated the time and effort of living in those spaces. Moving to Texas also includes its firsts as well, but hopefully it'll include some lasts.

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!

Throw The Whole Jon Away

Sitting on the edge of the universe, we were eating black-eyed peas, collard greens, and gentrified cornbread.

As our feet hung down into the cosmos, she calmly yet quickly asked me:

"Do you love me?"

I told her only "partly", I only love my Jon, and my JODY, I'm sorry, not sorry. I mean who's "Jon is it anyways"; I wish I had a best friend like Jon; like 'oh my Jon, oh my Jon'; if I were a recipe I would be half Jonathan, half Jonny, half cornbread, half JODY and 100% that Jon; that's the Jon of all trades remember when I was using Jon with a 'H', but now I'm back at it;

1,2,3, the JODY's after Jonny, 4,5,6, Jon's always throwing bricks, 7,8,9, Jon misses every time...

I wished I could love me like how Jon loves JODY; Wait if Jonny is on second, Jon is on third...who's on first; I gotta' bundle of Jon's ready go off like a Jon in a China store; you showed up to my show two hours too late, and the show was only two hours, that's how to lose a Jon in 2 days.

Jo(h)n Jonny JODY-heimer Jonathan-Schmidt, his Jon was my Jon tooooooooo,

I only run from high blood pressure and all of Jonathan's problems; Jo(h)n Witherspoon is dead, Jo(h)n Marston is dead, Jon Favreau won't pick up my calls, and I still haven't found Jonathan Livingston Seagull to fly me home. The eternal sunshine of the spotless Jon, I erased you like Ben Wallaces would and took you off as an contributed author to my Wikipedia.  

Pec-popping like Jonny Bravo and gotta imaginary friend like Jonny 2x4 and say everything twice like I'm Jonny two-times. Because I'm the Jon, and I'm AWE-SO-ME

I glanced back at her pools of big eyes filled with a bountiful of brown that reflected my appearance. Which at this point looked exhausted and hunched over after my Jonny-laced soliloquy. She gently replied:

"throw the whole Jon away"

"Wikipedia" By Jean Deaux put me in a vibe of what I think about what I might be like to other people in my own mind. Yes 

Just Don't Curse

She asked me if I wanted to move in with her. 

Move in with her

She asked me when I wanted to get married.

Getting married, getting married

She asked me if I wanted to have kids. 

Having kids, having kids, having kids

She wanted me to move in with her by September, get married in January, and have a kid or two on our honeymoon in Madrid. Two weeks after our my "Last of Us 2" party with Dee, Skeeter, and Skeeter's brother in an Applebee's. So I turned and did a whimsical glance to her forehead. And this is what I asked her in an unforgiving tone:

Why is my momma's cookin'  so tasty and delicious and everything yo' momma makes smells and tastes like chitlins and old collard greens,

Why y'all keep making slave biopics but won't feed my mule (ya' momma is the mule),

Why don't you support my dreams even though my dream is to have a dream about a dream,

Why is it weird to be normal but not normal to weird,

Why are people not as obsessed with their own self, there's so many cool things about you, 

Why did I run over 1,000 miles this year, just to always end back up at the same place I started,

Why can't I love myself like how Kanye Love Kanye,

Why is Chris Brown unable to function as decent human being,

Why do people eat grits when you can eat real, edible food for breakfast,

Why do people take out their earphones but still don't listen,

Why are people not allowed to get their fingernails painted and cry if they have a penis,

Why don't you got my back like Heromine had Harry's, Drake had Josh's, or Jim Carrey had Jim Carrey's,

Why use lots word when few words do trick,

Why do flies like the smell of poop,

Why are there always flies when I sit beside you while you watch "Big Bang Theory",

Why do you watch "Big Bang Theory",

Why does no one care about cornbread unless it's gentrified, 

Why do rappers lie in 85% of they rhymes,

And how come whenever you visit my momma, you always cursin'?

Why would I want to have a kid with you when I barely see you as it is, on any plane of existence, and I don't think a kid wants to smell like fish all their entire life.

And I was thinking about how can I have a bachelor part y if I am not getting married to you in January or February. Nor march. Nor the 21st night or day of September. 

And I am not moving in with you because your favorite artist is Jason Derulo. 

No one listens to Jason Derulo.

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.

An Xbox Killed My Dog

An Xbox Killed My Dog

Have you ever experienced something truly magical and enchanting. Mesmerizing, so awe-inspiring that your tummy felt like it was full of peanut butter cups and rainbows and unicorn vomit?

That was my DAWG, I mean my actual, literal DOG, Mac. Short for Macilious. He was a half sharpei, half mountain curr, all dynomutt of a dog. Medium-sized, sleek- -nay, matte black fur, built like a swamp possum who had a planet fitness membership. 

35 pounds that dog weighed after 2 years, would carry him around all-awkwardly like a teen mom off of MTV when he got too hott outside. Mac’s head would just bobble-bobble like a bobble head, as we would walk back to 80 Fairview Drive. That’s my boy; I mean that was my boy.

Mac did this thing where he would need to go outside. Like he would be in my room upstairs. Then I would creep all the way downstairs, just left him there. Until

I opened the door from the mudroom and yelled “skrrrrrrt skrrrrrrrt” and he would bolt all the way downstairs would and start chasing an imaginary deer outside. Oh, I would do these little drills with him for my own quickness and footwork and it helped me get on the basketball team in high school and then I became popular and got to go on a date with Gina Anderson and then I got a new Xbox and multiplayer then I started lifting a lot of weights and then my dad kept asking me “take the dog out son” then I would say” I don’t want him anymore” as I’m tapping away on my Xbox 360 controller playing NBA 2K11 then I went to school next morning after I walked him then I came back and Mac was gone,

“Where did Mac go,” I asked my dad. 

“He’s gone,” my dad said.

“Oh,” I said.

Well that was my boy, that was my boy. I got him 2 months after he was born when I was 13. Momma paid a quarter of stack for him, he was born on Halloween night. I went to 3 different high schools with him, he was my only friend. The dog that looked me dead in my face and told me “I’ll protect you” even though we both knew damn well he couldn’t box to save his life.

He’s dead now. Last time I saw him, looked like he was 55-60 pounds. 10 years-old died from depression. I had until He was 4. Shit. 

“Where did he go,” I asked my dad. 

“He’s gone,” my dad said.

“Shit,” I said.

Mac was sitting in a car, with some unfamiliar faces, going 3 states away and he had no idea where he was going or why his best friend wouldn’t ever see him again.

I was sitting in my room, thinking about this dog that was going 3 states away that I would never see again. Honestly, Fuck Gina Anderson. Then I turned on my Xbox,

Between Friends Pt. 37

This is between friends 

Now, my best friends have powers,

No please understand this,: my best friends have powers,y

Seen them with my own two Jonny eyes,

I know a woman from North Carolina that can overwhelm you with love only using a smile 

I know a man that lives near Stone Mountain who can manifest sweet melodies using mahogany some phosphor bronze strings,

I know a lady from McDonough who is protecting and training and parenting a real life superhero by herself 

There’s some folks from GTown with a sleight of hand and so down the earth that you think they were born in ‘02

There’s some people down south that can swirl their fingers in the dirt and feed ya’ for a whole season,

I know a ducking waterbender off the coast and fire bender near Manitoba 

I know a pasty, ghostly, pale white boy that can help clear your immune system and then will paint you a portrait of the  Rockies

I know some colorful women who are in Denver who are so magical that it can make a unicorn look like a donkey with a dildo attached on its temple,

I know a collection of comrades that would walk off a decapitation ,

There’s some friends that have been there for a decade and friends that are only there for a night 

I have some friends turned villains , villains turned friends, and some friendly villains 

I know Blade, Black Panther, Domino , Green Lantern, Storm they’re from Willacoochee, GA

I got friends more agile than a crocodile on a Tuesday just before dawn

I know suburban kids who are forealla, country folks who are forealla, and city kids who are forealla 

Theres folks from FAMU, Howard, Morgan State, Hampton, NSU, and VSU that you could bring home to mom to try her unseasoned water casserole 

I got some auntie-like folks that will make you Sunday brunch but will get the armor and peel your wig back when it comes to their kinfolk 

I have friends that remind me to hydrate, eat my greens, cry, pray, and listen to my shitty poems 

Could you imagine people coming into your life that you don’t know and doing whatever they can so you don’t fail, so you won’t fail, you cannot fail

This is between friends,

A Single White Mom With A New Magic Wand

I ran a 5k with my family last thanksgiving. My parents, Big KAT, JW, and His lady.

I finished first, ran back to finish with my brother, ran back to finish with my father, ran back to finish with Big KAT, ran back to finish with Holli & Momma.

I was so happy to see black people (+1 Mayo) together and being active and healthy. Not a cookout, funeral, family lecture, candlelight vigil, day drinking, school hearing. Just some fucking niggers going for a fucking jog in fucking Bluffton, South Carolina

Why the fuck couldn’t we be doing this the entire fucking time throughout my entire fucking life. I’m over here trying to be fucking be carefree like a white 35 year-old mom stay-at-home/freelance necklace maker who’s off the grid and drinks fucking mimosas while Forest and Chet eat mayonnaise sandwiches 

Well Jon consider the following:

You’re not a 35 year-old mayo woman with two adorable little translucents,

Jon is the half black, half niggerish, half licorice, half don’t get a zit,

A heavily tattooed colored man from the south who runs more 5ks than an Asian from San Fran and teaches more yoga classes than a , uh, 35 year old white women with two kids(?)

I got a unicorn on my leg and niggas think I’m sweet like an episode of Doc McStuffins (oh my Jon that’s a huge compliment!)

But they the ones suckling down Arizona teas like a toddler when they need to be suckling the sweet teat of a Dasani bottle and fondling skittles while they need to be fondling some robust spinach and rutabaga 

I’ll work on those analogies later.

But I fell deep in the waters, 

I was trying to hydrate.

Like sometimes I’m am the shit or I’m just a shit.

Jon be making up excuses like ‘I’m just impulsive or ‘it’s the uncle curses’ 

When I really don’t even know those folk

People wonder how a Single Jo(h)n passed away but Golden Corral has a higher body count then some gangs around LA 

But who gives cares when heart disease didn’t take one of my former students or Tamir or Trayvon ,

Now they weren’t even old enough to earn a free timeshare in Williamsburg or sign off on field trip permission slips to the National Arboretum 

Now I’m reading this 14 year olds obituary the only thing more scary than Terry

And I wonder one day if they ever wanted to just run a 5k with their families in Bluffton, South Carolina