levity adrift

after a few blocks 
and several hundred steps
i should have known
there was a test awaiting

obstacle course technology
mountain high
makes it hard to see
decibel filled ears
screen focused eyes 
invisible walls 
make it hard to speak

to stand where i stood 
a roll of the dice
two worlds colliding
arbitrary seating
to sit where i sat 
not even thinking
not looking for meaning
in the doors closing

181

somewhere somebody 
slipped
sending subway signals
adrift
shared experience witnesses
looking for hosts 
who also found the levity

168

the halos must come in the 
seven-o’clock-hour—
rendering me 
completely immobile 

inside
my tongue grows 
like violet chewing gum 
speaking couldn’t be 
any more impossible

157

the stimuli moves 
like a cue ball
struck by the tracks 
sporadically parking 
between us again

a strange scene commences
that tells a funny story 
of loose shorts, a drawstring 
and opposing hands to tie the laces

but peculiar angles 
bring laughter and stares
the levity returns
and your breath becomes air

…

how many stops do i have 
to learn who you are
and make sense out of 
this divine circumstance?
to ask out of necessity?
to ask out of wonder?
so that i don’t have to wonder
forever and ever
hoping that your levity 
could possibly return again

145

my worst fear
the chapter is closing
no time for talking
“have a nice night” 
we say to each other
inside i’m dying
to have a do-over

137…

will levity return?

starry arc

I once dreamed of a single plained terrain 
bicycles with one gear [and baskets for E.T.]
open toed sandals floating on pedals 
hippie hair blowin in the wind 
parasols—intoxicated eyes
barely clothed—living nakedly

I came with a dream to run free from the world
spent 27 years in a rehab course
in front of the board 
I was offered a choice
to keep running laps, year after year
to treadmill sprint, to the end of the line
to run in a circle for the rest of my life
idling hard, till my lungs go dry

to wake up to white walls 
recalling my dreams
piecing together what memories mean
confusing transitions 
questionable steps
people with [out] origins
from no [every] where at all

I wake up every day 
[the what and the why]
no closer 
[excuses and blame]
to my dreams
[where have you gone?]
still seeking 
[the starry mountain and its fading arc]
still grasping
[Andy Dufresne on a Mexican beach]
still analyzing
[take the muzzle off the dog]
still running 
[let him off of his leash]
from them / to them
[…until the finish line]

the value of loneliness

you tell yourself
“it’s the sacrifice”
the light at the end of the tunnel
the reason you keep within
the reason you shut people out

“it will all make sense one day”
the mantra of one single life
the mantra of your single life 
your words to live by till you die—
…and when that day finally comes?

“will it be worth it?”
the mirror asks
the money that you never made
the life you dreamed and never lived
the path you chose that led to—

the pacing in the room that seems to last for years
is it a jail cell?  
does the sun shine in?
a once benign tumor could be a sarcoma
will it ever have the chance to retire?

even your hopes and the fire within
a glimmering wick 
like patience ran thin
a campfire in the heat of the night 
with only a few more stories to tell

you can see your hand dial the numbers
almost hear the tones as you make the call
the creators of your universe 
“the time has come” you say to them
a sigh of relief—whatever it is

vision/purpose/reflection

Dear Josh,

Today is as good of a day as any to step outside of yourself and take control of your life, so why not write something you’ve prolonged doing for a while and just do it now?

In the current state of things you believe you have one life to live and I agree.  And being that you only have one life to live, why not do the many things you’ve always wanted to do instead of waiting for another opportunity that might never come.  

This year you’ve done a good job of reflecting on the days and the weeks and recognizing what have been positives and what can be improved upon.  Yet,—and I don’t think you’d disagree—it hasn’t necessarily “yielded” anything.  That’s OK.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, yada, yada, yada.  

Now it’s time to put that reflection into action.  You realize now that so many of the barriers and obstacles you’ve confronted have been self imposed!  That’s right—a lot of the emotional ups and downs you experience, the can dos and can’t dos, really start and finish with you.  It’s not “your” fault and it’s not “theirs”.  It’s not a battle of “me” and your opponent is not “them”.  

Let me take a deep breath and rein us back in because I sense a tangent coming on.  

What gives you life?  What inspires you?  Where do you fit in?  What do you love?  What is stopping you from deep-diving into the above questions.  I don’t pretend to know that the answer to this is the key to all of those unlocked doors, but I do think it could provide some assistance into helping get them open.  

Let’s take some time to answer.  You love your family.  You love your friends.  You love art.  You love culture. You love sports. You love community. You love to create.  You know when you’re happy.  You know when you aren’t.  You know when you feel free and you know when you feel trapped.  You believe that you at your happiest is an unchained lifestyle in which you can get out your ideas, collaborate with those you love and share and involve those ideas with others.  This is your utopia, your dreamscape.  And you know what the best part of it is?  This is so within reach!  Dude, it’s not like you want to own a city.  It’s not like you want to destroy the world.  It’s not even like you want to own a corporation.  The only thing you want to be a CEO of is yourself.  You don’t have to feel like a servant or a worker bee within your own mind.  Fuck that—it’s time to be your own boss.  

Listen, everyone has to put in that busy work.  We all gotta make sacrifices and make money as means to an end—to survive.  We need to pay that rent and buy those groceries and do that laundry and we need to enjoy as much as we can enjoy.  But, if we’re truly going to be our own boss we need to own up to the habits and actions that aren’t serving us and are slowing us down.  I truly believe that there is a fine line between using your phone and our phones using us.  it’s not this black and white, of course, but not having enough time in the day to do what you want is simply not a valid excuse when some of the time that you do have is spent foundering into your phone.  All phones aside—priorities can be readjusted.  Those days that you are making good use of time, but you look back at the day and you’re like, “Damn, all I did was chip away doing busy work?”  There is a solution to this, too.  I think you’ve trained your mind to believe that the completion of these little things makes you feel accomplished, but I think you know deep down that that’s a mirage.  Bigger fish to fry.  Quality over quantity.  It’s a crafty trap by those little mini tasks to divert you from the greater tasks at hand.  Writing that script.  Building that brand.  Starting that blog.  As opposed to—completing errands.  Finishing tasks.  

If you could do three things that you’ve always wanted that you haven’t done yet (in no particular order), what would they be?

1.  Speak Babel (the languages of the world)

2.  Write a script of every play/movie idea you’ve ever had

3.  Develop and share your projects with the world

The awesome thing about the above list is that they are attainable in their own right and you know what I mean.  No need to explain.

Now, while this might be an abrupt ending, let’s put this in writing.  

My vision/purpose statement for the rest of 2019 (and hopefully forever and ever) is this:

Every day I promise to work as hard as I can to do what I love.  I promise to love others and to love myself.  I promise to try as hard as I can to fight the self-imposed barriers and to help others do the same.  I promise to not hide behind excuses and to be honest with myself about what isn’t working and what I can do better.  I promise.  

Josh, I am here for you now.  I know I can be an asshole sometimes, but I’m trying to help us be better and do better.

I love you.

Let’s do this.

Sincerely you,

ME

subjunctive

my mind’s been floating in
fairy dust 
energy that gave me wings
but kept me grounded 
fantasies confused with honesties
imagery with golden frames 
exchanged with
fingerprinted film—grainy edges
doubt

i’m aware now that there are triggers
that do not require an index finger
but words and intonations 
bring me back
faux caffeine boosts
late night crashes
waning oxygen
a mood in ruin to ruin my mood 

it’s just not there yet
not ingrained in my head yet
not memorized or routined 
strategized or second nature 
i still forget—scatterbrained
what to do and when to use it

i doubt that—no…
it’s unlikely that—no…
it’s impossible that—no…
if only i would—no…
i fear that—no…

—

I know that—
I know that—
I know that—
I know that—…ok

Amazing Grace

I was just thinking the other day about how incredible it would have been to see Aretha Franklin live.  Lady Soul herself.  Nowadays it seems to be easier than ever to be consumed by the mass amount of music that is being released every minute of every day of every week.  Sadly, with the current of the modern times ruling the airwaves, the artists from decades past can get lost in the sauce, which is truly tragic considering that they laid out the ingredients and blueprints for a lot of the most popular contemporary sounds that come into contact with out ears.  Aretha.  When I was in middle school I started out with a purchase of a greatest hits catalogue that would have done her justice if 30 songs picked from a transcendent career could possibly encompass the power, and beauty and soul of someone absolutely supernatural.  I got my act together later on and found “Lady Soul” and “I Never Loved a Man the Way That I Loved You”, singular albums that did a much better job of showcasing her at that particular moment in time.  And I was enamored because how in the hell could you not be by someone with a voice like that.  

Yesterday my mother and I went to the Angelika theater in the Village to take in a evening showing of “Amazing Grace,” a musical documentary of Aretha’s two night performance in a Los Angeles church alongside Reverend James Cleveland, the Southern California Choir and conductor Alexander Hamilton.  I didn’t know much about the film until about a week ago when I was sifting through movies that were playing in the theaters.  Then I saw the trailer and I knew; I had to see it.  The weather in New York couldn’t have been more Seattle.  Misty, cloudy, gray, and rainy, to the point where going to see a movie felt like the only option, so that’s exactly what we did.  

The movie began and we both knew right away that it was going to be special.  So simple, so straight to the point.  Aerial views of LA.  Introductory captions.  An outside view of the church with a sign saying that there would be a recorded performance within.  I don’t want to narrate more than I have to. 

Let me just get to the point.  Aretha simply cannot be put into words.  Any of the following might come close to doing her a bit of justice, but ultimately it just won’t.  She’s majestic.  A goddess.  A mystic.  She is all of the best things you could ever imagine and what was recorded in those 90 minutes is something other worldly.  Her presence is palpable and it would be fitting in some ways to say that she takes all the air out of us and traps it right in that emotional, personal, deeply embedded part in the back of our throat and uses it in all its glory and passion so that she may use it out of hers.  The way she walks down the aisle.  The way she holds herself.  Carries herself.  Produces sounds that couldn’t possibly come out of any normal human being.  The emotion.  The spirit.  Anyone could tell that when she sang she was being transported and in so doing was transporting us all to some other place.  The fascinating part of this documentary is how it holds nothing back.  Aretha is exerting so much energy and heart that naturally she sweats and she cries and she is overcome with everything that is going on.  I’m sure there are other people, other women or other artists, that would have expressed a desire to keep this hidden, but she reveals herself in her totality.  The audience response is wonderful.  The choir’s response is epic.  Her rapport and chemistry with the reverend is glorious.  She just does it all and she leaves it all out there.  The way the documentary is shot is exquisite and several images are still etched in my mind.  Obviously every frame she’s in can never be erased, but some of the long angle shots of the choir and the unison of their mouths, the expressions in their faces—it just makes you so appreciative and happy that a moment like this was captured.

I hope everyone has the opportunity to see this film.  If at any point your life you’ve said to yourself, “Damn, I wish I could have seen Aretha do her thing live”, well, here’s your opportunity and a front row seat, at that. 

“Amazing Grace.”  Aretha.  Beauty in all its wonder.         

Glass flowers / Plastic vase

A few weeks ago, I had somewhat of an energy awakening.  A turn.  Or, at the very least, a realization that I needed to do or have somewhat of a 180 in my life and turn my energy from a lingering negative to a consistent positive.  It had been at an odd moment because it had appeared on the surface that this year was going so well and moving in just the right direction and yet, upon closer examination I knew that it wasn’t.  I still wasn’t being honest with myself.  I still was neglecting certain emotional aspects of my life that needed some care.  So, one day, when one of my friends that I met in New York had returned for the week and was planning a get together so that everyone could go out and just feel the love and feel the joy, I thought I would also go along for the ride.  Except that day just felt off.  I was fresh off a Saturday morning work shift, it was 4/20, and I was tired, but I told myself that I had to go.  I had to make an appearance even if I knew I wasn’t going to continue with the rest of the group later on.  When I got there it was great.  It was wonderful to see everyone.  The energy there was as warm and welcoming as anyone would hope from a group of friends.  It didn’t take me long, however, to realize that despite the energy in the room, I wasn’t on the same page.  It was palpable.  And the longer I stayed there the more I knew that the dark cloud that I felt over my head could and probably would spread to the rest of the room if I continued on.  While everyone was getting ready to leave to move onto the next thing, I went my own way.  

That night sucked, but I’m glad it happened.  I spent that night alone with my thoughts, bitter, angry, and sad.  One my closest friends from Seattle, who also lives in New York, basically called me out on it.  He wondered why I decided not to come.  He wondered what was wrong and I continued to deflect and deflect and pretend like there wasn’t a problem, even though I knew there probably was.  In my defense, I didn’t want to my shitty emotional track to have any effect on the others, especially the friend who was visiting, but we all know in those situations, if we really need to bare down, we can fight through it.  I elected to flight instead of fight.  I watched a movie that night on my bed, with my mind upside down, and didn’t even have the hope that the next day would be any different.  

Except the next day was.  It was a sunny day in New York and something felt very off.  The funny thing was that what was off wasn’t off at all.  I felt driven.  I felt focused.  I felt energetic.  And more than anything, I felt positive.  The circumstances of the day were as such: I had a rehearsal for a reading that was going to happen later that week and I had a dinner planned with a friend who was visiting from Seattle.  Those were the bookends.  I had no idea what was set to happen in between.  So there I go to rehearsal and the rehearsal grows great.  I won’t read into the signs, but I must admit I might be at my happiest when there is acting and theater or something arts related involved.  Before I knew it the three or four hour rehearsal was over with and I had about seven or eight hours to spare before the dinner.  When I stepped out of the theater space and into the street the air just felt different.  It was like I had all the time in the world.  There was no pressure, there was just the joy of being.  There was the present tense, without the sadness of the past or the preoccupation of the future.  For the first time in a long long time I was cognizant that my feet were touching the ground.  The next hour or so was a bit of a blur, but at some point I ended up at the Metrograph where another one of my dear Seattle friends-turned-New-York-transplant resides and I met up with him to tell him how I was feeling with the hope of being able to transfer it to him, to anyone, really.  He didn’t have a lot of time, but the connection happened; we talked movies and plays with some of his colleagues as well (which turned into this wonderful rabbit hole of arts appreciation) and then off I went, riding the wave of wherever this new energy would take me.  

Funnily enough, it took me about two blocks.  I stopped by a cafe that I almost passed on my way to the train station and figured why not actually go in for once.  For not being a coffee drinker, I have had more coffee this year than I have in probably my whole life combined and in this particular cafe I decided to order one of the most bougie items imaginable…an oat latte.  Before you judge me and put me into an oat latte box, I want you to know two things.  Oat milk is pretty fekkin good.  And two, an oat latte is REALLY fekkin good.  It’s fekkin expensive, but it changes lives.  Like wine, I haven’t yet mastered the proper way of drinking a coffee, so I downed it pretty quickly.  And as if I didn’t have enough energy before I walked into this establishment, my newfound coffee energy put me into hyperdrive (cue the Star Wars light speed effect).  For those who have also had as little coffee as I have in my lifetime, you can attest.  Coffee is literally crack.  (I’ve never done crack or Adderall or speed, but it’s gotta be the socially accepted equivalent).  At first, I never noticed the effect it has on me, but maybe once you get over your tenth cup (in ones lifetime), something clicks.  It’s as if I had all these desires to write down everything that had been floating in my mind or circling my brain, all those ideas that had been teasing me from far away claiming that I would never ever get to them.  I got one of my journals out and everything just came out.  This continued for a couple of hours.  My movie ideas journal had several new pages, my daily planner became more organized.  I was feeling so so good.

Later that night I had one of the best dinners in recent memory.  It was one of those get togethers where you have a tentative plan for a location (somewhere in New York) and idea for a location (a good sports bar to watch the playoffs) and what ends up happening is two lines intersecting, interweaving, and leaving you at a point B that you couldn’t have possible imagined.  At one point before the meal started my friend wondered if he could stay for the whole game.  By the end of the game, we still had more conversation to spare.  I think we ate food, but I don’t remember the food.  I think the game was competitive, I just know the team formerly known as the Seattle Supersonics lost.  The conversation, that’s what I’ll remember.  What began as just a cool little get together turned into a life check-in and a mutual understanding that there were some good good things ahead of us.       

…

I could go on and on about what it’s been like to wake up grateful every day and thankful to feel like I’m finally in control, but I’m going to take a little turn.  This year, I’ve made it my mission to read a book a week.  I’m happy to say that mission is still going strong.  That week or maybe a full week after I started a book called “Flowers for Algernon.”  I’m sure this synopsis won’t do it justice, but if may be so courageous, it follows a man named Charlie Gordon, a mentally challenged man, who gets selected to undergo a surgery to increase his intelligence/IQ, that until that point had only been used on lab rats.  It is told from the perspective of Charlie through a series of progress reports, journal entries that document the changes that he experiences before and after the operation.  The book is as amazing as it is devastating, a fantastic read, and I felt like I was undergoing the operation with him, although by the end I did feel like an emotional wreck.  I’d rather that anyone who is reading this right now read the book for themselves so we can talk about it and discuss instead of me just relaying the contents of the book, but the part of the book that got to me the most, was Charlie’s realization that his emotional growth never catches up nor aligns with his rapid mental/intellectual growth.  This might be the hardest part of the book to deal with because you’re listening to him struggling to cope with this.  He knows he’s getting smarter.  In fact, he’s becoming smarter than the professors that are conducting the experiment, but what he also knows is that with this newfound intelligence he has less of a grasp of what he’s actually feeling.  Sadly, he also knows that the results of the experiment will come to an inevitable ending and that is where I stop with the explaining.  

As the high of the light that I found some weeks ago has lost some of its original luster, I find myself too wondering what it’ll be like when its over, what it’ll be like when it’s not as golden as it once was.  Now, I did not have an intelligence boost by any stretch of the imagination, but it did feel as if that one Sunday I had received a boost of my own—on the emotional side.  These past couple of days I must admit I’ve been fearful of regressing back to the point where those grays consume me and that dark cloud follows me wherever I go.  You get to a point where you don’t want those good feelings to go away.  You don’t want them to end.  You want to find a way for your newfound and improved emotional level to find its way in and match up with the other parts of your being and your life that are moving in the right direction because we all know that that emotional element can have its way and derail everything else involved.  I’d like to think I’m moving in the right direction.  I still feel like over the course of a day, whether its good or bad, I can still manage to make it positive or to make it good.  I believe that to be true.  I don’t want to see what happens when this personal experiment, this figurative life surgery has run its course.  Or maybe I do.  Maybe what I’m eager to find out the most is if and when I do go back to that time of feeling those negatives and those bitter and sad and angry and lonely feelings, whether I’ll remember that I know from the depths of my heart and from the inner canals of my brain, that I have the power, strength, and control to pull myself out once again.               

Dear Nipsey,

Dear Nipsey,

It’s been almost a month now since you passed on to the next life and I gotta admit, your absence is still very surreal.  I found out through Facebook, through Complex, and then through a string of texts from some of my closest friends.  This feels weird, too.  I don’t know if there is a normal way to find out about something like death, but discovering yours through social media seemed inadequate.  

How you been, man?  You seem like the type of dude that promoted such inspiration that you’re probably somewhere inspiring others as we speak, even if it’s not here.  I can imagine you finding pockets of communities in heaven and bringing them together, healing them like you healed people down here.  Random, I know, but it felt like you could uplift anyone.

I still get sad thinking that you’re not here anymore and I didn’t even know you.  I knew of you.  I went to your concerts.  I watched your interviews.  You know, all the fan type of stuff, the standard support issue.  That’s crazy to me.  That even though I didn’t know you I felt like I did because your message just resonated.  How could it not when it was so constructive?  This makes me think of the people who were in constant contact with you.  Your family.  Your kids.  Your descendants.  Your inner circle.  Your neighborhood.  The people that knew you best.  That’s got to be a different level of suffering and I’m sure that you wish for nothing more than to see all of them again.  To spend time with them even if just for a moment.  

When you passed, the outpouring of love was immediate.  I guess that’s the way social media works nowadays.  Immediacy exists now like crack.  Your murder was viral in the literal sense but also in the figurative sense.  You shutdown instagram.  You shutdown twitter.  Facebook.  The way people communicate now.  You dominated all lines of communication.  That first night.  That first week.  You have dominated our thoughts.  I can’t even put it into words, but you shook the world when you left.  It’s weird that on the surface it seems like you made more of an impact in your absence then in your presence, but I guess that’s how life works sometimes.  Like you can’t be fully appreciated when you’re here.  What a shitty concept.  Bro, your funeral, or better worded—your celebration of life sold out the fucking Staples Center.  The motorcade that held your body went through all of Los Angeles.  People flooded the streets.  To pay their respects.  To catch a glimpse of a legend before he officially passed on in our eyes.  And let me go back a little bit.  Listening to the testimonies of your dearest friends and family.  That shit was tough man.  You could hear the pain and the emotion.  Your death has not been easy and it will never be easy.  It’s like this gaping hole that seems incapable of ever closing.  When your brother spoke you could just hear the love, man.  Those memories he spoke of.  Those are unforgettable.  Everyone that spoke man.  That was from the depths of their hearts.  

Nowadays, several weeks later, it’s like we can only listen to you.  Your music was 100 percent motivational.  That’s gym music, bro.  Like get your shit together music.  Take care of your business and be responsible music.  Be accountable music.  We always knew it but man, if people didn’t know then, they certainly know now.  I’m trying to run a marathon this year.  It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but now I have no choice.  It feels like this purely spiritual thing now.  Like you will be completely guiding the way.  “The Marathon Continues”, that’s what you always used to say.  Yours could never stop.  

It feels like you’ve been a part of my DNA.  I first heard your music in my friend Jackson’s car back in 2009 or something.  “Kush and Haze.”  A banger if I’ve ever heard one.  I remember when the Marathon dropped the next year.  You could tell from the beginning that was going to be a classic.  And then it just kept going.  Mixtape after mixtape.  Fire after fire.  New concept after new concept.  These weren’t normal mixtapes, we could tell.  There was messaging behind it.  It was bigger than the music.  What you did with Crenshaw and Proud to Pay.  Mailbox Money.  I’m going to come clean man.  I was getting so impatient with Victory Lap, ha!  I’m sorry, but you had been releasing so much good shit and promising that album for so long, I was like, “We need this shit, Nip!”  And then it came out and it was beautiful.  Everything.  From top to the bottom.  The release, the promotion.  It seemed like everything was coming full circle.  The recognition was finally taking place.  More attention on different platforms.  I’m telling you, there were few interviews I looked forward to more because I knew some real shit would be spoken into existence.  It went beyond the music.  You were a businessman.  A mogul.  Ahead of your time.  Ahead of the curve.  

I went to your Smokers Club Tour in Seattle when you were with Smoke DZA and Curren$y and Dom Kennedy.  Dude, I was so high, but I remember your set.  I don’t think the weed had fully kicked in yet.  I remember the concert being so loud.  You had your Marathon logo as a backdrop.  You were younger then.  Lanky.  Hat on.  You always used to wear a Seattle hat (for other reasons I found out later) and I was like this dude is already cool as fuck.  I saw you later on, a couple years later at Nectar.  I was so pumped, but it was still like the city hadn’t been fully exposed to your music or something, despite you always having so much love there.  Maybe it slipped through the cracks, but anyway it wasn’t super crowded but you still rocked the stage and the faithful fans were rapping along with you and maybe you left early, but the fact that you were there and did it no matter how big the crowd size was just love through and through.  Then later later I saw you rock the stage alongside your brother, YG.  I tried to get everyone to come to that concert I swear.  It was one of those rare moments where you get two people you love to listen to on the rise and you just knew that y’all were gonna get bigger and bigger and it showed.  Club Sur in Sodo.  Packed house.  I think you went first.  YG followed.  Then ya’ll did some songs together.  Oh my god that energy was crazy!  When ya’ll did “You Broke” the shit might as well have shut down, but sadly that’s what happened a little later.  A fight broke out and shit literally went down and that was that.  I don’t think we could fully grasp nor handle the amount of awesomeness that was happening on stage.  That was our loss.  I still think about that.  

Man, I could have seen you out here in New York on your Victory Lap tour, your first stop, too!  And then you did a second show that night.  That was a mistake not to go because the footage looked awesome and it was just you at such a high point in your life getting everything that you had worked for.  Everything was coming together.  

Forgive me, but I gotta go back and forth a little bit.  Your Marathon mixtape is so crazy, man.  Like crazy on a different level.  The last two runs I’ve done have been two of the best runs in my life.  I’ve run through your mixtape both times and I almost passed out both times cause I was rapping your lyrics out loud.  Like screaming them so the whole world could see.  People thought I was just a crazy white man running through their neighborhoods, but I choose to believe that some people heard me and some of them listened to your music and they knew what the deal was.  From “Love” to “U Don’t Got A Clue” to “I Don’t Give a Fucc”…you were speaking like a prophet.  Everyone literally everyone needs to listen—and to all your music—but that is required listening.  It hits you to the core. 

I think of all these people, man, in relationship to you.  The people who I knew in high school and college you were fucking with your music so tough!  Like that’s all they listened to.  My guy, Isaiah Thomas, who was one of your disciples.  He put so many people on to your music, man.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  Like he was spreading your gospel to the world.  At UW, when I was a manager for his last year there, he used to play your shit in the locker room all the time!  He knew what the music was doing.  The effect it had.  And his journey and his own marathon seems to have your music as his soundtrack.  It’s just crazy.  

I don’t know, dude.  I’m probably talking in circles at this point, but you had an effect on me.  On all of us.  I was depressed and still am that you won’t be releasing new music anymore, but that’s the most selfish shit I could say.  You know what’s even sadder, the community you grew up in, a community you were revitalizing and raising up…I feel for them.  If there is a saving grace it’s that people will pick up where you left off.  That’s a certainty.  Your impact was so huge.  Seems like everyone is going to pick up where you left off.  All over.  All over the world.  In every city and every hood you showed up in.  That’s not normal, man.  Not everybody leaves that type of footprint.  That type of energy that people want to feed off it and build off it even when it’s not physically here.  

You weren’t my family, but I have felt your loss in every way.  A homie told me, “Why are you getting so depressed?  Why are you upset and distraught?  Why?  He’s not your family.  Why do you care so much?”  It made me reflect because I suppose he had a point, but like I said Nip…you were in my DNA.  From 17-27 you were in my ears.  Those are formidable years man.  Important years.  I can’t even explain it.  But you being you, I feel like you understand.  You were a sage then and you’re a sage now.  

I hope you’re good man.  I hope you’re pain free and still teaching the world like you’re teaching us down here with what you gave us.  I can’t compare you to other legends in other eras.  You were unique in every way.  

I was watching a D.L. Hughley interview the other day.  I like his perspective and he was being asked about your death.  Something he said resonated so deeply with me.  He said, “…he represented us…and us is all of us…his art wasn’t his thing, his humanity was…you can be a human being and be so connected with a place—there’s no lyric, no joke, or no catch that can touch the part of our hearts that Nipsey did…I’ve never seen black men, a young black man like that, in my life, celebrated for his service to people [like Nipsey was].

You were larger than life, man.  An entrepreneur.  A motivator.  A father.  A brother.  A son.  An influencer.  Just ask anyone and they’ll give you something else that you were.  Something positive.  And that’s non-negotiable.  It’s never-ending.  

I’m here to thank you, man.  For your life.  For how you helped us and led us and graced us and how you will continue to do so until the end of time. 

I just want to express my gratitude.  To pay my respects.

Let me leave you with your own words from the song “I Don’t Give a Fucc”:

Rest in Peace, Nip!  NEIGHBORHOOD!

i am

I’m a nerd
I’m a geek
I’m an asshole
I’m a freak
I’m a dork
I’m a spaz
I am good
and I am bad

I am smart 
I am dumb 
I have lost 
and I have won
I have shamed
I have blamed 
hurt too many
tried to change

Give me life
give me death
take my air
give me breath
lead the way
I will follow
seize the day
fuck tomorrow

Blood is red
feeling blue
feeling grey
different hues
blame my genes
blame the weather 
blame to blame
which to choose?

I wake up
I fall down
I have dreams
and scream out loud
I just want 
to be at  peace
just for now
for now, at least

7:15 AM…maybe a little earlier, maybe a little later...or a love letter to my father

I went to high school at the school where my dad taught.  Everyone used to ask me during those years and even after, “Are you gonna take your dad’s class?” or “Did you take him when you were there?”  No and no were the answers that always followed.  It didn’t make much sense to me to make that happen.  I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded, but I probably would’ve.  From time to time I’d come back with a smart ass remark to the questions; “I have his class every day, 24/7, before school and after school.  When I’m going from class to class, he’s there.  His presence is felt no matter what.  Whether I have him or not.”  And I believe it was the right decision.  Ultimately, I took his class vicariously through my friends that did have him and that was an experience in and of itself.

I used to wake up at 6:30 those days.  I’d rise a little after my mom would to the sound of shower fans or plate clanking or coffee grinds.  I would sit in relative silence after an initial acknowledgment and if I was lucky, I’d be able to eat and finish my breakfast to completion in the company of my mother.  Coffee yogurt and heritage flakes and all.  She’d leave shortly and make the daily journey to the bus stop, on her way to work, and I’d wait on the couch, sometimes only just, in preparation for my dad’s arrival.  Trying to keep my eyes open.  Trying to make it a little longer to make the transfer from one half of my name to the other.  

From what I remember, and the disclaimer here would be that some experiences have a habit of changing and molding to the storyteller’s preferred narrative, my dad would arrive either a little early or a little late.  Early...late…yeah, that’s what it was.  And no matter how many lights that were illuminated in the living room or how open the shades were or how obvious it was that I was already there waiting and ready to go, my dad used to issue his light peep of the horn to signal the new occupation in the driveway.  When I had the energy it used to drive me up a wall, but later on when rest and a prolonged sleep was more important I used to let the peep peep, open the shades and give a little wave to let him know I knew he was there and that I was on my way.  

I’d shut the door with my backpack attached and take the few steps from mom’s to the passenger of the Subaru and slide in, finally.  One word.  One word.  Two words.  Two.  Normally the exchanges would be most talkative at the beginning of the ride, if at all.  How’s it goings.  What did you do last nights.  Etc.  But, at some point my still half asleep consciousness would surge to the front of my tongue and my head would begin its soft sway back and forth and sometimes to the side, to fade out and rest on the window.  

The aurora bridge was our landscape and for the next 20 minutes or so (it seemed that despite the pick-up time, our arrival time never wavered), my dad would speak to me.  Talk to me.  Let NPR-94.9FM or KJR-950AM provide brief intermissions or sometimes background noise while he proceeded to fill my mind with various knowledge, turning pages of a limitless encyclopedia that I had become insolently oblivious to.  I had no desire to talk for the most part though, for I knew I was going to have to do that by 7:45, so I assumed the role of a back-of-the-classroom student except I failed in that aspect completely and wasn’t even being a good listener.  My vocabulary of responses now feels like an embarrassment.  It was like a verbal display of uninterested texting before the entire world knew what it was, and yet, the driver’s side remained on go, remained the same.  Words and more words.  Gems and more gems.  Game being dropped from the sky that was my dad’s brain.  Stream of consciousness sentences that deserved to be listened to.  And heard.  And digested.  Seeds that should have lead to trees that, at the time, led to nowhere.  Gifts that were gifts that were not absorbed as gifts.  Discarded casually, disrespectfully, not knowing the value they held.  I was tired, you see.  I wasn’t in the mood, you know.  That was my excuse.

The early morning or late night that I left to New York, three years ago this April 13th, I was driven to the airport by my dad.  I don’t remember all of the things that I was thinking about.  I probably had no idea what I was doing.  I was just doing it.  And I remember being quiet and despite my older age, the lack of dialogue was something I had clearly adopted and continued to exhibit.  At some point my dad said, “You used to ask me more questions.”  The words hit me like bricks.  Squashed me.  Diminished me.  And I had no idea how to respond.  I think I answered defensively, confusedly, like what was that supposed to mean or what do you want me to say to that.  That question still hurts and not because it was asked, but because of what I thought it meant.  At some point my muteness had become a mutation and one way of the two way street had been closed off.  And that was on me.  Completely.  

That means that at some point, I used to talk a lot with my father and that at some point, I didn’t.  During those car rides and maybe during those first couple of years of high school when the thing I could always count on was 7:15AM, give or take, I used to be so interested in things and I used to ask so many more questions.  I believe my Dad when he says that.  And now I wish I had and I wish that I used to listen and build on those conversations he was constructing.  I wish I was as open to what he was saying then as I am now.  Open to the pre-period of class that was being bestowed upon me and that I was disregarding.  

Sometimes I ask my dad about things now.  About random things and I get uber specific and tangential and I think he gets overwhelmed.  Maybe it sounds foreign.  Maybe because it’s so out of the blue and he got used to me acting a certain way or not bothering to ask at all.  Sometimes I think it flusters him, so that when he responds with “let me get back to you on that” (and he does) I almost am like, “Dad, isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for?!”  It’s such a crazy thing.  You live and you learn and how amazing it would have been if I could have lived and learned in real time.  Like if I had only known what I was being given or known the jewels that were continuously being spoon-fed to me day after day after day…  Man, wouldn’t that be different?  

When I was 16 or so I think I got my license and by the time late junior year and senior year rolled around, I took the liberty of driving myself to school.  Wasting my mom’s gas and money in the process when I had a perfectly beautiful offer to be driven and educated and taught just a few blocks down.  I stopped being driven to school by my dad and I stopped listening completely.  I was more awake now, but in a new, solitary tired daze, listening mostly to my rap CDs with words whose meanings never altered, despite a nearby Subaru somewhere and its magic carpet ride of infinite possibilities probably driving somewhere parallel without me knowing.

There is no excuse for not listening.  For not learning.  For denying.  For being closed off.  For shutting down.  

But.  

There is hope.  

There is hope for restarting.  For opening up.  For accepting.  For learning.  For listening.  And finally, for asking all of the questions that I know to ask now that I should have asked then.                 

Forgive me.

I have been a negative person for a long, long time.  That’s not to say I was never positive, it’s just a fact that I often would resort back to negativity if I had the chance.  You know what else?  I’ve been depressed for a long time, too.  I’ve been very unhappy.  And now that I’m on this subject of trying to be completely honest and coming clean with myself and you all, I’ve been very lonely, too.  Not just physically, but mentally.  In one way or another I have been utterly and completely lonely in the mind and this has led to very rough patches of being completely resentful and entirely untrusting of anybody and everybody that has come into my life.

I don’t want to be like this anymore.  I don’t want to feel like this anymore.  Being hateful and resentful, and untrusting of so many things in my daily life has been nothing but a burden on me and everyone around me and, beyond having a heart to heart with myself, I’m sorry to all of you.  I want to apologize to each and every one of you that I have wronged, or disrespected, whether it has been verbal or non-verbal, whether it has been in your company or by myself.  

I’m coming to realize that choosing to be happy, or maybe better said—choosing to be positive, is not only a choice, but a state of mind that one has full and complete control over.  I have been perfectly content these past several years to adopt an utterly pathetic mind state of “woe is me” and “I’m the one being wronged”, when, in reality, I have been doing the wrong.  I have been the one at error.  It has developed and festered for too long and ultimately morphed into a sickness that I never thought I could escape, but recently I have become more aware of, and for the first time in a long time, I have realized I have to change and get rid of.  I know that right now, if I continued on the same path, I would carry out this one life I have to live as a very unhappy and negative person and that is literally the last thing I want to do.  In the same way that positive energy is both 1000 percent more pleasant to be around and incredibly contagious, so is the reverse, a negative attitude.  I’m sorry that I’ve adopted and spread this wave of negativity because it has been nothing but a dark cloud hovering over me and seeping into my day to day. 

So I want to say something to all of you…

I will work on only spreading positivity.  

I will work on being as supportive as I possibly can be whenever I’m around all of you.

I promise to try and not hold grudges and to not be resentful and if I have a problem that’s nagging me or getting on my nerves, I promise to tell you about it in order to set me and you free of any bad energy or ill will that stands between us.   

I promise to try and be as inclusive as possible.  To try to spur conversation and get everyone involved.

There are so many more promises I wish to make.  There are so many things I wish to change and, truthfully…for the better.  

I have had a lot of anger in my heart.  I have had a lot of hate in my heart.  A lot of frustration, too.  I don’t wish to be bogged down by this forever.  

Please, please, help to keep me in check.  Please don’t take this as some fake sort of determination that I wish to advertise to you all and put up as a veil to disguise how I really feel.  I just want to be finally be free.  To be genuine and authentic.  

Please help me stay on the right path.  I know that it takes a village and my sincere hope is to keep all of the positivity out there alive and well.

I’ve made so many mistakes and made some of these same mistakes twice.  I have spent too long not having learned from them.  Forgive me, I will try to improve on what I have done wrong.  I was a shitty kid for a long, long time.  An irritable, annoying, selfish, self-centered, bratty, spoiled kid.  I will try with all of the power I have to make sure I am not the same as an adult and from here on out.  

I love you all so much.  

Now let’s do this…

when we get back to zero

I’ve been doing the work 
to get back to this moment
where the repairing is over
and the mending is finished
where it might seem to you 
that broken records spin
different tunes—apologies
the only words I have for using
in my current vocabulary 

if you think of a mountain
and look at its peak
you might forget
that concealed below the surface 
is a mountain heading down
blood rushing in the form of various roots
disseminating deeper and deeper
canals as decisions, pathways
trails to an infinite abyss at the bottom of a well 

so this has been my journey
down here in the dark
with only your light to guide me
that endless tunnel of never changing shape
no matter how many miles I walk 
or how high I climb
the good memories are fond, the bad behind me
heartbeats and bifocals
toothy grins and curly cues
hugs that should last forever—
I don’t want to be approximate anymore
…when we get back to zero

recently
despite episodes of crumble
and falling debris I thought I shook
that still revisit and block my path 
recently
I have found your light again
watched the shape get wider
watched myself be hopeful
for nothing in particular
just the good old days
where I found your presence
spiritual
where I found your sound
to be a cure

I used to try, try so hard
to make perfection
unaware 
that that was you
my legs are tired
my throat is dry—
still the same, broken record
just trying less to spin spin spin
…
now I see the sky again

the once every three years angel

every three years
i am visited by an angel 
who touches no ground
—floats effortlessly 
uplifts my soul and gives it water
and it is not until her departure 
that i realize i was above ground too
for a moment

she talks in wonderful tangents
run-on sentences that run like rivers
connective tissue to seas and oceans
—i could listen all night
 to the lullaby in her tenor
the ups and downs of a dulcet melody
hushes and whispers
screen doors wavering—whistling winds
the whole of my heart floating like a butterfly

within her aura I’m a lost little boy
no fears and no doubts
no worries, no sadness
just jaunts on the clouds
—i’m drowsy from her eyes
hypnotic and alive 
and the way her mouth moves 
and dances and slides
i could fall asleep forever

if there’s one thing I wince
it’s the leaving
the saying goodbye 
the knowing that the “see you later” 
will last too long
will push me too hard
to a place far far away
where i’m lost all over again
looking, hoping
now at an older age
finding the next time 
when we can both be young again

self-serve

i wonder sometimes
if i’m content to follow
a narrative i’ve accepted
instead of one I could create—
having melted into laziness
satisfied with lethargy
throwing a bonfire for 
a new found lack of ambition
being that 
it 
is the thing
that crackles away amongst the wood
once thought to be a great gift
now just a fond smell 
departed into air like the smoke above

i watched a woman fumble around words
showing us our mothers and our grandmothers
showing us our sons and our daughters
struggling to cope with new realities 
yelling at power dynamics
broken dominoes 
anguished expressions
lost memories
a vacant face and a lost smiley stare
a walk around the table to sit right back down
[“what am I looking for,” she asks]
mind playing tricks
to see our past float beyond our reach
to try and grasp life as we know it
only to see it disappear into the walls 

i watch X’s and Y’s
flirt with each other 
play dancing games while
cutting their arms open
to place more powder 
now no-neck monsters 
with dreams of making mirrors happy
swimming in a bathtub full of tears 
a dead man’s float to keep them alive
locked in a room with glass panes removed
searching in fear for validation
the weight of the world 
[once on their shoulders]
now on their ankles
drowning

cars pull in 
one by one 
running on empty and wreaking of fumes
eyes droopy, skin sagging 
[exhale]
hair pulled out, paces dragging
the youth and elderly: thirsty
take turns paying—remove the nozzle
[inhale]
and fill themselves with gasoline
corroding an ugly inside worse 
blue veins filled with red
a murky brown
on their last legs
on their last breaths
forgive us mother 
for we know not what we—

cold sounds

The wind is a tormented mosquito
blowing frustrated gusts
and sustained whistles
through the window panes
like the sleet of yesterday
prickled the heating vents 
in leaf-crackling steps
that break the peace
of a wished-upon silence
into a broken mirror
shattered and split
a million pieces that 
pierce the jungle floor while
a white-faced eskimo
with layers to keep it warm
is a broken flush 
a royal red river
of split teeth 
jagged from the subzero chill
icicles for extremities 
held close to the torso 
like a freshly frozen mummy
laid down to rest
in the comforts of a coffin
an antique tundra
frostbitten feet make stumps
not to a limp but a royal penguin waddle
the long journey ahead
a shrinking ideal
the polar dunes in its eyes
filling up space
blocking out the hope to thaw
deep deep stuttering breaths
falling from the nose
out-of-commission pipes
on their last legs of freedom
a much delayed harmony
sputtering in the open 
knees on the surface
heartbeat waning to a hush
almost to a stop
but the last line of scent 
picks up a rise of temperature
the used-to-be ice 
that now is not
that now is steam 
from utopian hell  
that promises to heal
and return the toes
return the limbs to flexible form
a hot-spring offering
to soften the worries
repair the smiles
restore the blood
a dive into burning 
to end the mosquito 
turned away—defeated for now

suitcase

you woke up before the wildlife
rolled out of bed 
into the bathroom wall
and somehow managed 
to stand and keep balance
while the shower head cried
and cried and cried and cried
for fifteen whole minutes
crying long enough 
so that you could find purpose
so that you could find joy
so that you could find
your confidence

through breakfast you heard
the cars driving by
sounds of time passing
in hymns of soft winds
and then time got quiet
your thoughts on a highway
of plains and fields
a verdant terrain
the tempos and notes
a metronome swinging
a suitcase done zipping
[door closing behind]

at the gates of puppeteers
a revolving door veils
rotational faces
young men and women 
with names but no faces
require your face
your certification
identification 
the contents within 
your suitcase of 
pages and closets
and makeup and
hopes and your dreams
your skin type—genetics
reactions to strings
[you may go up]

this floor leads to the other floor
leading to the other floor
leading to—
full of kids upon children upon
adults upon girls upon boys
upon women upon men 
lining up for the bathroom
to change: into trebles and clefs
into resonance and ranges 
into liquid
rolling their suitcases single file 
for their trip to the top floor
for their chance to meet 
the puppet master

holes freshly opened
in the back of the neck
[head gone limp]

the top of the hands
[control me]

left and right kneecap
[at your command]

out of reach

i used to have a grasp
of a future with bright lights
that shined and shined 
forever and ever
[somewhere,
the electricity bill
reached epic proportions]

there was a roadmap I had made up
with only green lights 
no detours or difficulties 
just a smooth sailing wind
eternal clear skies
and a sun beyond the horizon
[somewhere, 
a rainforest became a desert
and the tropics dried up]

books had filled my mind
with fresh ideas and concepts
degrees of understanding
point of view cultivation
eager to speak and ready to share but—
[somewhere,
a dictionary went blank
expressionism became
discouraged looks]

when i was younger 
i was advanced for my age
in third grade math
i answered faster
and solved numeric riddles
[somewhere, 
a man calls the proof quits
turns his back on the chalkboard]

i will be a worm  
in a sea full of fish
bait on a line
if i don’t find my core
i thought i knew
and now i don’t know
[somewhere…

bully

before the door opened
the man’s three wrinkles stuck
and stayed there;
the jingle bells rang—
[alerting the first secretary}
while the mezuzah stayed in place
and kept watch

he noticed it
before walking up 
the steps
recognizing no one 
a fire in his mouth
a secular dragon
eager to flame payot
and bitchslap shtreimel
deride the sheitel
and ridicule “modesty”—
the fabric of his forehead
moving from three 
to 
one 
slowly 
moving 
vein

[he was never good enough 
for them
too modern and contemporary
too lacking 
in discipline, in honor
too cheeky and disruptive
too disrespectful
too ignorant] but

finally 
before him 
there were faces with names
veils removed 
informal charges
to be doled and screamed
acerbic language 
vitriol with purpose

when the fire subsided 
he was met with confusion 
screwed up expressions
blank canvases in vacant cadavers—
but the smoke lingered 
like a stench of heavy sulfur 
resting on their desks 
seeping through their keyboards
corroding their high-and-mighty water
shriveling up their cocky arrogance
into a flaccid-droopy-penis of an office--
a staff of shrinking pathetic balls
a bully bullied

the jingle bells rang—
and the mezuzah shifted its place

TALK

I sometimes wonder about Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollack.  I wonder what drove them to paint the way they painted.  I think about who was the first person to call them a genius.  If I’m lucky enough to be at the MOMA or the MET or another art museum, I will sometimes take a little longer when I’m faced with one of their works.  Pollack is pure chaos, right?  Layer upon layer of streams and dots and drips that, at times, can be hard to follow.  Rothko seems to be on the opposite side of the spectrum.  Whole colors.  Blocks.  Red and red and more red.  Sooner or later I stop analyzing and try to just let my mind sink into the painting and see where it takes me because ultimately, no matter what any scholar of Rothko or Pollack expert tells you, your interpretation and opinion will be purely subjective.  Somehow this reminds me of one of my favorite actors, Juliette Binoche, in her movie “Chocolat.”  She runs a patisserie and has a knack for guessing people’s favorite chocolates by having her customers spin this ancient artifact and asking what they see.  The darker the image, the darker the chocolate.  The cheerier the impression, the lighter the chocolate.  When I see Pollack, I’m not entirely sure what I see, but my mind tries to go layer by layer to see where he started.  Which color?  Which thought?  How did the painting become what it was?  Sometimes, I’m not in the mood and chalk it up to being arbitrary bullshit, although I know that’s not a fair thing to do.  Ultimately, it’s too bad he isn’t here to explain it himself.  Then again, maybe he was one of those artists who led by his work and hated talking about it.  With Rothko, I have lots of trouble.  At least with Pollack there is a lot of something.  With Rothko, I’m not sure what there is.  Could John Logan or Alfred Molina or Eddie Redmayne give us a kind answer?  I’m sure they could…but then again, would I believe them?  

I was at the MET the other day, by the recommendation of my father to check out the Eugene Delacroix exhibit.  It was a rainy day and crowded out the ying-yang.  A lot of the people could have been there to see what I was looking for, but most of them seemed to just be there.  Language upon language, look upon look.  Only in a few places in the world, I tell you.  Whenever I’m at a museum, I think of my parents, mainly because my museum-going experience is dramatically different depending on which one I’m with.  If I’m with my Dad, it could be a multiple hour affair.  If I’m with my Mom, it’s a power-walking-observe-a-thon.  If I go by myself, I usually split the difference, but at a place like the MET it’s hard to only be there for a short amount of time.  The MET is the closest thing to the Louvre I’v ever seen and I’m telling you, you can get absolutely lost at the Louvre.  It’s gigantic!  The MET is no different.  I’d say I spent an adequate amount of time at the exhibit; it was one of those things where my Dad would have been happy I went and my Mom would have been pleased with how long I spent there.  The thing is, I couldn’t leave without paying my respects, and sadly, I didn’t pay enough of them.  I can’t tell you the long and incredible list of artists whose work can call the MET home, but it’s absurd.  As I was heading out I saw a Matisse.  As I was leaving Matisse I saw Cezanne.  Then Soutine.  Gauguin.  Seurat.  Picasso.  Van Gogh.  It was one of those movie moments where you start to move in a circle and the pace picks up until you’re spinning so fast that you don’t know where you are!  Let’s not forget, those are the artists that are equivalent to what we might consider “name-brand luxury wear”.  I always come out of a museum thinking, “what if I spent more time with the artists who aren’t the most famous or whose work doesn’t gather the most attention?”  Which great works of art have I been unintentionally ignoring?  So, again, the MET is a labyrinth that, in all honesty, someone could spend weeks moving through.  It’s got that much.  And yet, the mischief in me thinks of the movie “Band of Outsiders,” in which the three main characters famously run through the Louvre, not even bothering to look at the glory they are racing by.  What do you think, Mom?  Maybe we can make that happen someday.

…

I’ve been watching a lot of Seinfeld lately.  It’s been a nice constant while I try to re-acclimate myself back into the pace of the city, try to find a new apartment, and some work that’ll keep me busy and paid.  Seinfeld is one of those shows that feels more special and timely when you live out here in the big city just because so many of the situations they encounter are New York situations.  It’s a very New York show, you know?  Anyway, no matter what is happening in Jerry’s life (and I think this is true of the man outside of the sitcom, as well) he never seems to stress about anything.  There aren’t any legitimate concerns or worries that hunch his shoulders.  The only thing you can count on is for his voice to crack now and then.  Even in his real career the story goes that Jerry has never bombed and when asked about any rough patches comedy-wise he always remarks that he can’t seem to remember any specific time.  I stress naturally.  It’s one of the things I do the best.  I wish I could get paid to stress.  I’d be a multi-millionaire right now.  And the situations are typical, in all honesty.  On the opposite side of the country I got a brother who is going through a transition and after talking to him about it I noticed that he has the “Jerry” trait.  Pure positivity and no stress to be seen, despite ample opportunities to be digging his hair out and having his voice crack, too.  Nope.  He just smiles and laughs and the undercurrent remains that everything is going to be just fine.  Everything will work itself out.  I wish he knew that he was funnier than Jerry.  Maybe he already does.  Imagine that, knowing you’re funnier than one of the funniest people on the planet, and being content enough to just be OK with it.  

1/3

I’d be lying if I told you 
that I didn’t think of him
or her
and you, every day I think of you
and think of ways I could have
done you better
been more smarter
acted more wiser
but I didn’t 
and I wasn’t
and that was one acting lesson
I never really learned

sometimes I look at the wall 
and briefly
see a vision
an outline, a profile
a grainy dreamlike image
of a scrambled face
adolescent steps
words in sounds of foreign tongues
of which I won’t ever understand
because
I won’t ever know them

there is one thing that is not dreamlike
because 
it was not a dream
it was real
and not even the raindrops 
could wash away the air of your tears
or rearrange my sight
[of you leaving the room]
broken and torn
your soul reaching out 
to my soulless body
I’m a soulless body

would you believe me if I told you
I was [am]
as helpless as you
I could find no tongue
I could find no speech
no ability to sound
any word, nor phrase, no nothing
I only knew how to drive
drive you back home
while the earth cried for you
and the sky [over]cast its veil—
maybe I mustered a word 
only at the end
and when you left
I went driving 
off the deep end
[aphasia]

I am ugly
I did ugly 
I will always be ugly 
I am a scar
I scar
I have scarred [you]
I [you] will have this ugly scar 
[permanent]
I am sorry

forever be I will sorry always be forever