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. 

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.

Cornrbead Colored Lightsabers

I know some humans who can  make you do whatever they want you to do.

I know a young alien who wanted to believe but couldn't.

I know a moon that could destroy a planet in three minutes.

I know a girl who didn't follow in her family's footstep.

I know some droids who had more heart than most humans.

I know a guy who had the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other and let both of them speak equally.

I was 9 when I saw my first space opera. It was filled with some white people and aliens and a whole bunch of crazy lights. I was mesmerized and filled with anguish, hope, betrayal, and an awakening. That trend would continue on for 17 more years, well, at least 17 more years. 

All of the games, movies, shows, plastic lightsabers, comic cons, metal lightsabers, 'Duel of the Fates' on repeat. The space wizards and shoot outs and improbable hyper-speed jumps and that-one-black-guy-per-trilogy-who-has-a-66%-chance-of-being-a-traitor had me by its force grip. I was hooked, or force hooked? I wanted to be a force wielder. I wanted the powers, death, despair, older chicks hitting on me, a long flowing mane, an ability to fly apparently every ship inherently, yellow eyes---a sword-shaped flashlight. It was all I ever wanted. At least I thought for a while.

I grew up, went to middle school then summer school then high school then college then early adulthood. I thought it was over after that boy lost his limbs back in '07. But it was only the beginning. As I got older, adults, adults showed up wearing robes, reenacting prominent battles, pulling open automatic doors without even touching them! How is that even possible?

I wanted to be that, I wanted to be a hero. And a villain. And an antihero. And a senator since it seems so easy. The powers were amazing but at the same time, I just wanted the honor to be apart of something huge. Yeah I want glitter to manifest from out my fingernails, but having all life work in unison and granting specific organisms the ability to manipulate an entire network of particles seemed attainable and believable. Maybe I can't bring down a cheese-shaped ship that's longer than a billion Tostitos but why not trust in the force? It's the basis of all my beliefs. Why can't that ideal mean something more than just what you find in a comic book or a tv show,

It sucks though because people like me haven't been represented well in something that has been so monumental in my childhood. I mean, even the aliens haven't had much representation (why are there SO many white people throughout all of these galaxies?!) but it's how I live my professional, spiritual, intellectual, and physical. Not as a man who is all good or all evil, but in the grey area until I receive 100% synchronization with wherever my opera takes me. 

My First Wife, Phở' jita Jones

I never told anyone about my first wife, Phở' jita Jones. Like the Mexican cuisine. It's okay if you butchered the pronunciation of the word, I mean her mother already did,

Her eyes glowed purely of ember and could increase a mammal's body temperature by 1 degree if you made eye contact for more than 12 seconds. Her arms were longer than Mr. Fantastic and she could pee and wash her hands at the same time if the occasion were to arise. She communicated in Spanglish; part Spanish, part whatever qualifies as speech in Dekalb county. The only black girl from the dirty south with a framed and signed picture of Paz Vega in her room. Right above her nightstand.

Hmm, what else? She brushed her teeth 2.78 times a day, never been on a cruise ship, got a C - minus in 6th grade because a chair got tossed and hit that one nice kid who everyone likes in the back of the head, she learned how to make hog maws when she was 45 even though she passed away when she was 23 but was born in the 80s, and doesn't think OJ did it. She didn't know how to dance and didn't want to unless Tweet was singing.

She was tall, like a ficus. She skipped college and became a full-time entomologist and part-time doula but only on Tuesday at 6:37 pm.

One time I had asked her to marry me eventually but only when I learnt how to swim. She said she rather go to Arby's and replied with a hard maybe. I nodded my head and took her to get mango salsa and an indefinite supply of Tostito's. The only time I only ever saw her eyes turn to emerald was when they only had peach salsa. I thought that would be my last night on Earth. She conjured up Nina Simone to perform while my future ex-wife/potential baby mama set the discount aisle on fire with her pet Blue-Eyes White Dragon. $15,000 for the pet deposit was an absolute mess.

On our first date I had a nice lil' check so I took her to Applebee's like a proper human. Denny's is more of a luncheon sort-of-get-together. She asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up and I said me, but in 10 years. I asked her the same. On our first date in February 31st, 2016 and our last date on January 28th 2014 she said the same thing. Pulled me close by the collar, wrinkling my brother's over-sized Chap's. You know what that ficus lady told me? I don't remember to be honest. I'll let you know when I find that mango salsa.

"Guava Island" the musical by The Glovers was playing while I wrote this, doesn't have much of a connection to this post. But then again it does, 

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

Life Without Cornbread Series #2: I Wanna Be Like Me When I Grow Up

After I begged my ELA teacher to let me leave class early to retrieve my bass clarinet, I hastily started my journey. 

From ELA to my locker to my old football locker to my band locker to funnel cake sale to home. Easy enough, right? Leaving early would ensure I wouldn't have time for whatever the debrauchery happening throughout the halls of Salem High School. My semester their had been filled with many unpleasantries: multiple thefts, bullying towards my Geometry teacher via the students, a couple of concussions from a short-lived football career, drug transactions, roundhouse kicks to student's temples via teachers, underage harassment, Hot Doritos breath, lack of trying, etc.

And then there was me, the gangily 5'11, 140 pound, 15 year-old who just wanted to make the Georgia All-State Band for bass clarinet and play Halo 3 on Xbox live. Heck, I'll take honorable mention. But Salem High School wanted to add some Sriracha to those plans. Expired Sriracha.

So as I said earlier, I had to get to my locker. Most people who knew or know me I kept or keep materials on me incase it hitted or hits the fan. Pencils, pens, paper, extra folders, snacks, water, extra reeds, I'm stocked. Do I remember to bring it to class? Let me finish,

I had arrived to my locker which was close in proximity to my last class. Luckily I typically do my homework expeditiously during lunch reluctantly. And I normally eat lunch as I'm walking from the checkout line to the trashcan. As I said, I like to game after school. And the football team isn't the kindest collection of folks sometimes, even when you leave the team after 1.5 months of getting your stuff pushed in. I'm fairly certain I spent most of the time sprawled out on the field, bleeding and crying internally. Just a couple of concussions.

These thoughts circulated in my head like carbon through the carbon cycle, as I found myself scrummigng around my old football locker, which I kept my other-other bag filled with gym-like clothes. Also where my Zune lived sometimes. Well , my Zune wasn't here, nor there, nor anywhere. How am I gotta walk home without listening to NERD's rock-rap album about being an adolescent by these 30 year olds? Tragic. 

I filed the complaint to a soggy gym teacher then scoot-scooted before the level-5 roasters came down. I can't even handle level-2 roasters. They're a lot more wittier than you would think, and I get embarrassed as easily as you would think. I left my gym-like bag in the locker room and carried on.

Okay, okay only two more stops. I'm moving right now. I wonder if Mac chewed up my fruit roll-ups from underneath my bed. Dang I was looking forward to that foot-long artificially flavored candy. As I ventured up the stairs, a group of students began crowding around someone. One of my favorite traits was minding my own business, especially when it came to fights. But fights love me. The whole crowd aggressively migrated to my walking path which was outside the terribly constructed circle. As I peaked up, I saw a slight glimmer of one the Offensive Coordinator from the varsity team connecting a roundhouse (I think it's called a roundhouse) to what I saw to be a student's greasy head region. I don't like running in the hallways, but this has to be a good reason. You have never seen a teenager swerve past the gym doors so elegantly. Okay, maybe one more peek...

As I said hey to my old band director who would be fired at the end of the semester for lewd comments made toward students which I could totally believe because he's kind of terrible , actually he is terrible but hilarious when he's not being terribleness, let's keep in mind I got to my band locker after 15 or so minutes from leaving ELA. I am a fast walker with the hip movements and striking the ground with the middle of my foot. Tom Bosworth would be proud. 

My bass clarinet was a weird trapezoid complex box thingy versus the traditional style long-a-bus-seat  rectangular prism case. Nonetheless (or nevertheless?) it was an awkward carry. And I had promised my mom a funnel cake by Monday. It was Thursday. I could do this nifty manuever where I stuffed my bass clarinet in one arm and pulled out my wallet and pulled out the money with the other; trust me, they called me Juan Suave. Allegedly. 

And allegedly I put my wallet back in my pocket. Allegedly.

Any-who-zers as I trekked home my inventory included, a bass clarinet in one hand, backpack with inventory in it (two straps because I'm not a psychopath), and a funnel cake in one hand. Moving as quickly as humanly possible to my house. I thought I was the bee-kneez because I walked to school. Who is anyone to say I ain't? "This guy" I said woefully toward the ground, feigning a smile, and humming "Everyone Nose". Something caught my eye up ahead, traveling north on Underwood Road.

There was a car on fire along the sidewalk off Underwood Road.

A cop stood casually beside it.

A bundle of middle schoolers waved me over, walking down Underwood Road.

I crossed Underwood Road.

They crossed Underwood Road.

They caught up with me.

Asked for some funnel cake under the plastic wrap.

They begin pushing me.

I pulled one piece for the most median looking child of the bunch.

The cop told them to scram.

I nonverbally thanked him.

Or her I don't remember.

I got home.

Gave my mom the funnel cake.

She said thanks.

I said you're welcomed.

She asked where was the change.

I checked my wallet.

I didn't have my wallet.

I told her I left my wallet in my locker.

I went to my room.

I sighed heavily.

I got on Xbox live.

I invited Gorillasmash79 and gtownboi to my party.

Told them about my day.

Gtownboi said "dang"

Gorillasmash79 said "I took your Zune"