Tag: truth

To Lose a Friend

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From crayons

To paper

To dreams

To memory.

We tied our wanting into a bow

And placed it on each other’s laps

Where neither trial

Nor thunderstorm

Could wash away our fairy tale.

Did not occur to us that neither plastic bags

Nor happiness

And not even the future was strong enough

To hold us.

We were brave.

We were warriors.

We were safe in each others ears

Promises to each others secrets

No one could tell us any different.

Calendars did not lend us its eyes

Did not carve reality into the sticky notes we placed

On our destiny’s

We merely rode on the backs of memories

We created out of air

That smelled of hope

And lullabies

That felt like oxygen to lung

Breath to life

Truth to wisdom

But that bled deception underneath the surface

Of blue lines

On white paper.

That smelled of jasmine

Now shattering glass

Hopelessly pasted together

Encoding our hearts in one anothers chest

We opened up

Fearlessly vulnerable.

Stored our futures away

With the ease of speech

Letting them hide behind our eyelids

Trapping falling tears into bottles for fear

Of losing sight of the other

Amidst the blurs it birthed

When doubt crept in.

And we held onto these bottles

Like we babysat the others gaze

Too naïve to understand

That there were no guarantees

That we must not put our hopes into fallen stars

And wishing wells

For now we bleed

Both apology and need

For our broken wings

Pierced diamonds

Both myth and martyr alike

Legend to sacrifice

Do you know what it’s like to feel every twist

And turn

Of a dying bow?

To be undone?

Shackled to the worst part of your life story

Prisoners to the memories you created

In each others smiles

Now dangling regret

In the sky.

You Are the One

Malcolm X Shown with a Clenched Fist Speaking at a Rally

“The picture of the dry bones in the Valley, is talking about you. You are Lazarus. You are the dry bones. You are the prodigal son. You are the lost sheep. You are the people about whom the bible is speaking. Who will stand up in the last days when the trumpet is sounded. Black people are waking up. Black people are standing up. Black people are rising up.” – Malcolm X

Memories

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Nostalgia’s a nauseating

sickness

like four little girls

still trying to tear down the brick

painted on the sides

of their heads

Pocketbook scriptures still dangling

from underneath

their tongues

like a scorched covenant

under burned fingernails

still trying to get me to

remember

Truth be queasy

like first trimesters

be painful

like birth pains

I heard

a roll of thunder

and laughter more frightening

than decomposed bodies

at the bottom of bi-racial rivers

whispering

like the voice of Emmet

till when?

It asked me.

Before strings of voices erupted from some place

beyond the banks of the James River

from someplace before William Lynch’s arrival

somewhere marchin

stomping on my roots

somewhere printed on the back

of the forbidden fruit, I still

got between my teeth

a string of voices

sprung up

from the oppression

marching down the streets of Birmingham,

Chicago, Georgia, Mississippi, Harlem.

Willie Edwards,

James Chaney,

Michael Donald,

Michael Griffith,

Michael Brown,

Yusef Hawkins,

James Byrd Jr, and Trayvon Martin’s voices

sang hymns of “I told you so’s”

for my memories

like women giving birth

to still born children

Till when?

said Mr. Till.

Will you people continue to give birth

to death

still lying on the bed

of Martin’s dreams?

They sang with an authority

like rolling thunder

and butterflies in my stomach

like truth on top Moses mountain they sang

like earthquakes

cracking my memories into lynched question marks

they sang

like blood-thirsty whales behind slave ships

like ripping flesh

torn open

with Hebrew scriptures

in their veins

they sang

like diseases written into the sky

and prison chains

their voices roared

like a million I told you so’s they sang

like voices do

and they asked me a question

but their words

were few

Till when?

Screamed the segregated

Set-apart

and unequal lungs

of Emmett

Till when?

He sang.

Like the lyrics of Deuteronomy

carried up

Till when will Malcolm,

Booker T.

and Martin King

still dream

before

they wake up?

Beyond Imagination

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We live in a world where some aspects of truth are not allowed to exist. They live instead behind the pages of books and underneath the skin of imagination. Writing fiction is fun to me because we have the opportunity to play with these elements, mixing and matching reality and daydreams until anything becomes possible within reach of imagination.

Monsters pop in from outer space, people fly, and houses speak to us. But the truth is stranger than fiction and stretches beyond imagination. Nothing we can make up compares to the unusual reality of the kinds of things that actually take place in the real world. You think you’re watching a movie written by a writer who stuttered embellishments in the darkness of his bedroom, fingers tapping against the keyboard while memory plays hide and seek with his thoughts.

But what if his characters really do exist? What if armies of giants live underground with thousand eye locusts like horses ready for battle?

You think Shrek was the genius of a profound imagination until you realize there were talking Donkeys in the history of man. You think The Matrix is just a movie until you begin to understand a parallel universe.

“Truth is Stranger Than Fiction” isn’t just a fancy tagline put together by a writer of fiction. Not something I dug up between the inspirations of Mark Twain. What it seeks to communicate is the notion that nothing we can create can be as unusual as what we are bound to find in real life and speaks metaphorically of the unsettling realness of truth. The “strangeness” of reality. You think something is weird until you find out just how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Perhaps maybe your characters are not just stick men, but what if they actually do exist?

These Good People

I will tell you of these good people

A scroll of courtesy on their tongues

Neatly wrapped in rainbows

And angel’s wings

The finest hello

And thank you

And good morning, please

We are telecommunicators

In front of computer screens

With scripts

And sayings

And clichés

That ring sunshine

Like a glass of sweet summer breeze

Trapped in cold winter bottles

Set free

But hurricanes do happen

And thunderstorms will sometimes fall into your lap

You may one day trip over someone’s mistake

Find typos in their smile

Cracks in their armor

Leaks in their wine-skins

And I promise you that these people

Will backspace their lines

Tighten up their scripts

2nd draft their good mornings

Because the sun didn’t shine on you today

One mistake

One mishap

One earthquake

And I promise you

That they will pick out their courtesy from your face

Peel back the savior

Their “how are you?” left in your smile

Pull back the Hero once carved into their chest

That moment they cared more about you

Than they cared about self

But one mistake

And they’ll drop their cape

At the foot of your tragedy

I promise you

That the levees of trust

Will break

And Crack

And leak with suspicion

From the pores of their skins

You’ll smell the stench

Of give up

On their breaths

The sour taste of newborn behind their ears

The fabricated persona

Tattooed on top their tongues

I warn you

Whilst bathing in the wake of your passion

Whilst being kissed by white paper

Do not forget

That these people are not your friends

And will turn their backs

When you need them most

Because in the age of technology

Most people’s thoughts are not theirs

And their courtesies are pre-written

Hearts plagiarized

A routine kindness

From so called good people

Who forgot to mention that angels

Are not always good

So paper wings will just have to do

A standard hello

Like the signature on an email

And they have convinced themselves

That this

Is

Love