shoes above south road

each pair
hang like pendants of pain on a devil's neck
swaying in this rain
a couple did dope
one did two tours and died on a third
two were dinner for flames
and one flew off pavement like a bird
these wires carry everything
even their ghosts
that's why most folks
walk carefully down this street or not at all.

morning lament in a minute

i ask
in wisps of cold truth and early afternoon light
'why do we hold on
to those who run?'
and the sun said slowly
as shadows danced before the approach of night.
'because we know
that our love and our hope
is their only rest
after they run to devasatation.'

reclaiming what's lost on Hanover.

there was about 40 minutes before my bus to New York
city was set to shove off. i opted to make the walk
to the parking lot where the buses were. i kept my
music off. not out of fear mind you; i wanted to take
the time to fully ingest everything along the way. this
part of DC was what some would call 'reclaimed'. the
term always bring to mind old Westerns where the cowboys
killed off Natives replete with buttered popcorn. this
stretch of North Capitol Street that i walked down has
seen better days. it contains one of the more notorious
blocks in the city and possibly in all of the country's
failed 'war on drugs', Hanover Place. it was here that
Cornell Jones, aka 'The Ghost' was serving fiends and
serving notice, making the street a veritable open-air
drug market.

you wouldn't be able to tell on first glance today. the
rowhouses are all neat, with a couple bearing the tell-tale
signs of renovation; new windows with the stickers and of
course, fresh cement pointing. all around this section
you can see a good deal of construction. cranes dot the
distance like lighthouses on the shores of an uncertain
future. tucked away off on First Avenue, three new condo
developments have been built along with a Harris Teeter.
reclamation, 21st century style.

but it only goes but so far. i see that walking these
blocks. older brothers dot this section. they hug the
corners like children do to their parents' legs. a few
hang around by the liquor stores. liquor stores that seem
to be better fortresses of solitude than Schuster could
have given Superman, what with their rusted window bars
and fading fluorescent lights. Big Bear at the corner of
N Street seems to be an exception only because most float
between there and the tiny deli two doors down. i look at
the faces of these men and a few women from Florida Avenue
on down. the struggle has worn them like a pair of blue
denims far past holding itself together. their faces are
the tough rawhide one incurs on the streets. i don't know
their stories but i know how they got them. at one point,
10% of DC's population were former prison inmates. and
then they got released onto the street. these folks speak
in tones seasoned with doo-wop, soul one can only get with
a crushed heart and a few cartons of cigarettes. they may
move slow but they're still on the hustle. any hustle that
keeps them alive.

there's tears tugging at the corner of my eye. maybe they're
there in response to them, those who've given even that luxury
up. i wonder what they see in me as i walk past. i wonder how
they feel seeing new buildings that will fill with people who
won't have any idea about their part of the District. such
moments i don't take for granted. they stick with me for days.
their lives are what i've been warned against. but in these times,
one check or misstep can put me right there. so i know i am
no different. i walk on and tell myself again i need to be that
life that reclaims their lives.

haiku 10.4.11

believe that justice
can die before you; will you
throw roses or fists?

sailors of sadness.

i've seen the cold, roiling seas of depression. more times than
i can count.

i used to think it wouldn't happen to me. couldn't happen to me.
i used to believe that i could get by it, get around it, get through
whatever it was bothering me in a heartbeat. me, depressed? that was
for Lifetime network movie marathons and for those who had the luxuries
of time and race. i, as a Black man in America, couldn't admit or allow
myself to acknowledge that depression would invite itself into my
space. it just doesn't happen to us. it can't happen. it's better to
fight it off, drink away the pain, smoke it out with Dutch Masters
and a carefree approach, or fuck aimlessly. anything outside of
being caught up in those cold seas.

i've seen what it can do. it shrinks your world. it makes you feel
as if you're worth absolutely nothing, that you're a speck of celestial
sand that won't mean much in the grand order of things. it shrinks
you in the eyes of others, or so you think. it makes you feel as if
you're a loser to some, a deadbeat to others. women place you in a
category sight unseen and unsaid. 'nice guy, but he can't give me
the tomorrows i want.' George Jackson was right on that one. worst
of all, you feel as if you're shaming your parents and all those who
walked before you with your name. you feel the cold seas overlap some
days so much that you can't believe the time that was lost. and yet,
you don't understand how your tears, when they do arrive, can be so
HOT. and filled with so much searing pain.

and then you break through the surface, and take in all of that fresh
air, you realize and reaffirm, again, that you ARE valuable. you are
precious. you are worth it. i've only now realized that i have had
these spells on and off since 2009. and i've only now been in a space
where i can freely admit the effects these spells have had. it isn't
anything to sneeze at. it isn't anything that can be immediately seen
as 'being overly sensitive'. nah man. depression is serious. and now
having experienced it, even in a tiny dosage, i can really see how
much it can alter lives.

so the question is, why am i talking about it?

i'm speaking on it only because i've had people close to me and others
share their experiences with depression openly. i want people to just
truly understand how it can leave you drowning. my will, my heart and
my dreams have helped me enough to make it a temporary thing. there's
millions who can't say the same. all i can ask you if you're reading
this is to understand. be aware. be honest, without being cutting. with
others and mainly yourself. learn to see the signs. understand the triggers.
i wish i did earlier, if only to save a couple of people back in the day.
if i did, one cat would be around to see his three kids on the verge of
college. depression is a cold, cold sea that can swallow you whole if
you're not careful. we're all each others ships. make sure the ones you
love can get to calmer waters.

seduction's isles

*for brownin'*

part of me
still slumbers
of those pieces of honey and nutmeg sands
that lie on the ochre seas
you call your cheeks
and i only look forward to the time
when the rest of me
can be stranded in such seduction.

hell of the upside-down sinners

i'm debating anarchy
with someone who will never
know hunger, past due bills or
how the hateful slap of a nightstick feels
quote me all the Marx and Nietzsche you want
that doesn't make the lead in tenement walls
turn into bouquets of bullets for the oppressors
until you have been on the front lines
until you've stared down wolves with whips
and serge blue uniforms
and let your voice be a dragon
you cannot speak
about fighting
in the hell of the upside down sinners
we call corporate society
and it would be best if you learned to fight
as if you didn't have a heaven to go back to.