new beginnings

A Message From Me To You While On The Road

“Somehow the way the sensations of the world just possesses you when you’re barreling down the open road, it seems as if Life just isn’t really your choice anymore, more like it’s a narrative unfolding and you’re following the script. I could feel the floor of the car vibrating some wild rhythm in tune with the engine, its almost like the universe was kind of focused on me. My preoccupation was upon the mounting tension I could feel upon making it back to Chicago. I was only a couple hours out, but I could already feel that icy blast of cold air as soon as I opened the door to 417 Reynolds Place. I was gonna hear it, the pure acerbic cries of Jody, and the distaste of her mother’s mother. The point wouldn’t be that I was back, but rather the time it took to get back, and the prior destination as if she didn’t already know, and how I was spending my time when I neglected to answer her daughter’s calls.   But I already know how its gonna go, Jody’s mother wont let it happen that way, not for too long. God knows I hate her mother, not Jody’s, her mother’s mother. I’m still not even sure if Jody’s mine. Kira…if anybody could make space for me it would be her, Jody’s mother, Kira. If she’d spent half as much time paying attention to her own life as she did worrying about me she might’ve had her own place by now. She surely would’ve been finished with school; I know Jody will though, when it’s her time, of that I’m sure. You know driving down this country road like this kinda reminds me of the sort of stuff you usually hear as a kid like ‘the fresh air will do you good’ or ‘stay inside for too long and you ain’t gonna turn out too right,’ I always had trouble with that sorta thing what with growing up in the inner city and all. Most kids spent their times outside, I was inside listening to my grandfather tell me stories about the old country. How the family used to be much richer back on the island, all the weird shit people got up to after learning the secrets of obeah, and all the faint distant lies of what African royalty used to be like. I used to think that sorta stuff was cool if not a little bit scary, now I think its all pretty funny. Such a shame how the old era ended, now we’re stuck in the land of the Yankees paying taxes to colonizers while our county is being called a shithole. The same people who sign off on the paid leave of the men who shot my cousin down in the street like a dog three days ago, walk around my neighborhood eager to buy our property and purchase my aunt’s ‘ethnic cooking’. This is the last thing I want to think about as I’m riding across state lines with my dead cousin in the trunk, it’s the sort of thing that makes me remember just what I really can do when I put my mind to it. Don’t worry; the cops will never see me though…not if I don’t want em to.”



It’s funny how no matter how deeply we understand a word, phrase, person, or innately stored concept, our attempts to convey said understanding always falls short.  The way we define things is only ever an approximation. The way we use the words we do and why we choose them are mere facsimile when juxtaposed to our innate understanding of concepts.  Even the most eloquent members of our species are doomed ever to build the shoddiest bridges of communion from one seat of consciousness to another.  Despite this apparent gross mishandling of language, we are always compelled to pin our “best attempt” at communication to the surface of another’s perception.  We are like islands of being.  “Good writing gets down to the essence of things,” a good mentor once told me. There is a divinity ceded within brevity.


(Somewhere along you linger, in warm sheets against my facsimile, haunting my dreams like a shade…)

{I know The Sun rests on your shoulders, by the way your skin glows like gilded mahogany.  I know somewhere in your cells lies a wicked light that doth sunder a man to ashes. I know you over again like the Morning Star, it’s lost titles, and the songs of The Heavenly Host.

And you were a promise I chose to keep.  Over and above hollow vows, precious stones, and sweet things which in their apathy, refuse to persist.  You rescued The Day from my night, with The Sun resting on your shoulders. Your name is a word worth keeping.

What does grace look like?

It swims in the eyes of a Black Woman.

What are riches worth?

That which she chooses.

And a Black woman is…?}

[And she took the form of elegant persuasion…

Her hair coiled around the air like cocoa butter and castor oil, starving it of lifelessness.

Lips filling the sky like sun and moon, she had her own gravity.

Something unearthly, Godlike burned in her eyes…

Her skin slid across The Elements like Energy, contouring to the imagination, ebbing and flowing to the desires of the mind.

Flowers blossomed as she sighed.

Her laughter stirred inertia in The Cosmos…

What wit? What force of Fortune would endear me to you?

How horrifying a mistake I’ve made to live so long without you…

Please excuse my tardiness.]


Butterfly in The Night

Stranger things have happened…

Somewhere in the vastness of a churning ocean once, as waves berate rocks into sand.

Under a twilight sky of mystery and intimation, as stars alight dreams and daring of impetuous mortality.

Maybe if I…

Could steal some late hours from you.

Duality is selfless, its hold on individuality selfish.

Soft smile aloft fragile shying wings.

Can I twist the vapors that shapeth aero-space, for you?

Lay your pinions betwixt the aether, scrape aloft stellar parades for you?

March at celestial pace for you, lie in wait attuning Heaven’s gate for you?

Selfishness, that begets selflessness.

These things I feel. And are true.

Eyes that hum like levitation, in the silence of the cosmos, as I lay bare my truths to the peering, beckoning Sun.

Body built like obliteration, humility, worship…My last to be offered beyond my sake.

In you I am lost…

My center redeemed.


The Numinous Waters of Aquarius

Within still waters.
Let my skin breathe.
Against vaulted walls painted like skies.
Stretch my mind to tether infinite.
Bellow old ruined thrones and scattered crevices.
Tread my veins.
Pour overflowing.
Word over word.
Ringing, extolling, parables.
Etch yourself within, beyond.
I as anchor, you as beacon.
Call forth tides.
Heave in silence.
Whisper from the deepest cracks.

Precursor to a Dream (I)

The sun shone bright in the sky, partially obscured by a thin veil of clouds as a gentle mist rolled across the empty plains of grain. The sensation was at once familiar and alien, as the rolling plain stretched off into distant mountains. In the heart of the field, a figure stirred, exciting the wind across the plain. Clumsily the figure clambered to its feet and strode across the plain quickly, almost floating.

“Where?” thought the strange entity, searching the horizon for a sense of orientation. Almost as if to answer the question, the entity noticed a worn, bronze mirror staring out at the vast plain about twenty yards away. Again, the presence wove its way deftly through the world soaking in the exquisite feeling of the grain’s cradling and bending.

As it approached the entity noticed the unreasonable size of the mirror, almost towering above it, much like the grain. Closer and closer, the reflection twisted and churned, until suddenly the reflection hit the creature’s eyes with force. A small girl stared back into the eyes of the presence.   She had small frail limbs and bright, round, almond colored eyes. Her pouty lips rested just bellow a cute button nose. Deep chestnut brown skin with hair neatly pulled back into a pair of small Afro puffs towards the back of her head.

Abigail stared at her own reflection in stupefied amazement, it was her, but not at all the present her. She stared at a distant version of herself from roughly twelve years ago. She had only ever seen herself like this in her grandmother’s old photo albums and distant snatches of memories. She even sported the same lilac church dress and sandals her grandmother always forced her to wear on every special occasion.

Looking down at her hands for confirmation, she counted her fingers, one, two, three, four, five, six? Her elongated fingers warped and stretched into an additional pair of hands as she studied them carefully while them turning over? Then the words of her old teacher clicked in her mind “Don’t forget to perform reality checks frequently.” With effort Abigail managed to push her fingers through her forehead and could feel the buzzing frenetic energy of her brain before carefully removing them.

“I am dreaming.” She said, resolutely convinced. And indeed she was, this was the first lucid dream she had for almost half a year. She had grown so complacent with not having them she had allowed herself the luxury of not performing reality checks. Abigail’s nine-year-old eyes studied the landscape, searching for a settlement to discover.   All she could make out in the distance was a lone oak tree she hadn’t noticed before stretching into the sky in a distant part of the field.

“May be worth a look” Abigail muttered, “But first these hands.” She stared down at her deformed dual hands sprouting from the ends of her wrist and with great concentration willed them to reform into the shape of ordinary human hands. Before her eyes the hands illusory hands merged with her true flesh and vanished, leaving behind nothing but two perfectly proportioned five fingered hands, each at the end of two spindly limbs.

Abigail returned her gaze to the mirror and decided the body of a nine-year-old girl was not befitting and willed herself to grow, but to no avail. “Hmm, strange,” She thought. “I can’t grow…” As far as she could remember from her old sessions with her teacher, she should have majestic powers, here in her dreams she should be able to wield terrible and awesome powers and yet, nothing. She couldn’t even fly. But she was unreasonably fast here, especially for a nine year old. She turned elegantly on her heel and strode towards the great oak tree.