I can’t believe I cried

I can’t believe I cried, water running down my face.

I can’t believe I cried, leaking all over the place.

___

The day started like any other, washed my face and got dressed.

Maybe it was my meditation or was I not feeling my best?

­­___

I watched the news, mergers, hold ups, lost babies and you know all the regular drama.

It was implied that all the criminals and I shared the same mama.

___

I left my house to hang with my people.

I walked pass some kids on my bloc, they looked at me lethal. Little kids how can they be lethal?

___

I caught up with my Mans and ‘nem. They were all full of stress.

They had baby Papa and Mama Drama. Their lives were filled with too many tests.

___

I left them to go and find a good book.

On the way I saw an accident and their bumpers were hooked.

___

They were fighting and screaming and fist were engaged, from where I stood they all in a rage.

I did what I could to break up the fight. I don’t want to have to punch out someone’s lights. Just for helping out I would land myself on the front page.

___

I stopped at the store to play my numbers and get a Snapple, made from the best stuff on Earth.

As I bugged off the slogan on the bottle, I stood by the freezer. Some guy came in and stole this lady’s purse.

___

I thought about chasing him but some other brothers were too fast.

Looking at this lady, her hair in four braids, she brought back a vision direct from my past.

___

I said to the frightened older lady, “Just in case they don’t catch him I’ll give you some cash.”

It’s always terrible when your life feels like a sudden car crash.

___

I paid for her groceries and asked her to wait. I would walk her home because I could see it shook her.

As we neared her door, she started to thank me, like old ladies do all sweet and unsure.

___

As I turned to leave I saw a cop car. He had the purse snatcher or in another life a track star.

I said thank you officer for lending a hand; he said do you have ID for this purse? Please put your hands on the car.

___

He checked me and cuffed me and had me down on my knees. I asked, what’s the problem? He was taking my keys.

He called for back up to take me to the station. He smiled a sick smile as I saw blood on my knee.

___

I was lock up for a night because I fit the description. I was locked down, violated and deterred from my mission.

My cell mate was big and wore only some holly shorts. He smelled like an ass but I knew better than to start dissin’.

___

He looked at me like I was the next competitor.

When looked back at him he looked like a predator.

___

All I wanted some fresh air and to find a good book to buy.

When that old lady bailed me out, I can’t believe I cried.

I CAN’T LOVE BLONDE MEN

I have to make a confession, well more like a statement.

I can’t love a blonde man.

I can’t really; I’ve tried a couple of times.

It feels like treason.

It feels like our pillow talk will reveal secrets that he is not supposed to hear.

It feels like looking into history and saying what the hell.

If you are Black, Asian, Latino or a person with dark hair and you want to be invisible, just hang with the blondest person you know. Poof! You’re gone. Stay close to the Blondie and enjoy your invisible time.

I can’t love a blonde man.

I’m telling you, Lord knows I tried.

When they speak to me, I look for three things unconsciously, no really unconsciously.

1) A sly accusation, something so under the wire of most humans senses wouldn’t pick it up but when I sense it and my blood starts to race a bit. He thinks I’m less human than him.

2) A back handed feeling of sorrowfulness. He feels sorry for me. He wishes I knew the things he knows.

3) A feeling like he needs to repay and/or suffer for the things he feels owed by his ancestors.

All of this is not said, it’s felt stronger than the amber waves of this man’s power. I get that Massa’s in the field house again, feeling. Don’t get me wrong, I like a little transgression, maybe more that the next guy, but only for a night or two not for a lifetime.

Hey did you know that sexy Blonde guy over there is looking at you? Your new friend is hella good looking. Look I know the Blonde guy talking to me is fine, because all my friends tell me. I also know he’s considered good looking because he looks sort of like some of the men on the TV, Magazines and billboards. People act like I should feel grateful that he has noticed me. Wow he is going to grace me with his presence. People he’s just a man like any other, maybe.

Does he secretly wish I was different? I secretly wish he was different. Maybe if he could be a Brunette, a Redhead or from some other country that would down play our nations not-so secret blonde ambition. How about the Far East? If he were foreign enough, I could disconnect him from the American ‘I bet Blondes have more fun’ fantasy. If he says anything, we all must listen. Thank God we’re American, bombs bursting in air and all that. So full of promise that people put bleach on their hair to look more like them.

I can’t love a blonde man. I’ve given up the chore. I wish I was bigger, stronger, defer than all the things my people taught me. My own great Gram said that white boys smelled like wet puppies when they sweat. What the hell does that mean? Almost every black person I’ve ever known has added to this idea in one way or another. Some of my brothers and sisters have bought the lie so much that they can’t see anyone else.

Hey Sista’ I have a friend who wants to talk to you can I give him your number?

What does he look like? Is he one of your Black friends?

No he’s a white guy but he’s cool.

Oh really, what does he look like, tell me?

He is about 5’10”, 200lbs, blues eyes and clean shaven.

And what color hair?

Light brown or blonde I think.

Blonde! You should have said that in beginning. Give him both my emails and my cell.

Damn!

Scholars have spent many a years working on this problem only to be faced with their children using L’Oreal #105 or Lemon juice and Sky blue contacts.

So I’m sorry Blondie No offense, well maybe a little but I can’t, I won’t, I will not love you again. Not even late at night, in dark bars when no one is looking. Well never say never. It’s all research…….. yeah research.

Creatively Maladjusted

Human Salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted. – Martin Luther King Jr.

I feel like this is a good thing. “Creatively Maladjusted” I want to wear it on a T-shirt, tattoo it on my chest. If creative people were the same as everyone else, who would not be afraid to speak the truth? Who would poke at our leaders and rally the people?

=>Creative: adj. org. 1670-80

1. Having the ability or power to create: Human beings are creative animals.

2. Resulting from originality of thought or expression.

3. Facetious. Using or creating exaggerated or skewed ideas.

=>Maladjusted: adj. org. 1880-85

1. Poorly adjusted: badly or unsatisfactorily adjusted, esp. in relationship to one’s social circumstances or environment.

2. Inadequately adjusted to the demands or stresses of daily living.

I remember the first time I saw a button that said, “Why Be Normal?” I immediately wanted one. What a question?! Why be normal? I don’t know. I’ve since learned that it makes others feel more comfortable. But it usually makes me feel less comfortable. If acting normal is a way that fits in with many people’s expectations of how you should behave? Who made up the rules of what’s normal? I think it came on slowly when more and more people began to feel uneasy with others not fitting their own prescribed actions. Of course there is always a church of some kind involved. That kind of restriction is choking our society. If using my mind in ways others don’t is ABNORMAL then that’s cool with me. I see myself as an Artist and have as long as I can remember. Art is the minds grease. The world needs it.

There have not been many weeks in my life where someone didn’t elude or just flat out say that I was different or not normal. I embraced it first, then I fought it and then I embraced it again. Look its hard enough being here on this planet without freaking out most of the humans I meet. I save it for the like minded “Creatively Maladjusted” souls I meet long the way. Hey if you’re feeling odd and abnormal. Check in with me. I found a few places where the Maladjusted come together.

Oh and please remember

Why Be Normal?

10/23/05

05/27/09

ANGER FEELS ALIVE

Sometimes I feel like I must be at least two people, because one person could never contain this much anger.

One person burns slow and simmers like a pan on the back burner. It’s distracting and it pulls at my attention from almost every task. My anger is only satisfied when I am exercising, being physical. Pumping iron for some reason puts my anger on hold. Maybe it’s my IPod music? Maybe it’s my hands on the cold steel? Maybe it’s the strain on my muscles. I don’t know whatever it is, it quiets the beast. The beast is also quieted by dancing or sex. Come on almost everyone’s mind is changed by sex.

When I get like this my anger can last all day, all week, a month before it bubbles over. I’ve had times when small things like being out of butter for my toast or missing the step at the curb crossing the street I could kill for about 30 seconds before it dissipates. I feel bizurk, out of control. It’s like a very short rollercoaster, up and down. After about 35 seconds it’s gone, like a memory from my youth.

Sometimes my anger is like a flash fire consuming all the human nature I’ve stored up. Crackling, feasting, charring, eating and growing. I’ve heard people say it feels like their face is burning when their mad. I have never felt that. I feel the burn all over and starts low in my gut. I have been so mad before that my eyes were on fire, but that’s rare. I have been so mad before that I didn’t feel like myself anymore, not human. I felt like an evil alien superhero made of a fire that consumes to live. Everything slows down like a slow motion movie but the sound is loud. Everything blast in my ears, people’s voices, music and light. Yes light has sound when I’m that flavor of mad. I really never understood why that happens, but does loud and painful. Anger feels me up and grows beyond my boundaries, slashing out like a foul caldron with too many ingredients.

The two phases of anger that I feel are mostly separate. It often not something I enjoy because I’m a bit of a control freak and there is very little control in these short lived times. When I notice the simmering anger I’ve usually had it for a while. Like I said something small, then something else and so on until there is this low hum in my ears like an engine that is a little off. It took me years of repaying my days to catch on to what the hum. It’s like the “butterfly effect” but inside my head. I stubbed my toe in the morning on the way to the toilet, some guy bumps me on the train without so much as an excuse me. That’s all it takes to start the ball going down the hill. The ball that might take a day, a week or a month to reach the valley where the screaming, burning villagers live.

The other flash fire type is a little more scary to me because I don’t always see it coming or know what happens in the 30 to 40 seconds it lasts. What if I really hurt someone while I’m stuck in the rage. I can’t say it’s never happened. When I was young I fought often when I was swept up in the flash fire. Someone I didn’t like would say something that they probably thought was OK or just teasing and the next thing I knew I would be looking into the face of a very scared or angry person.

People who knew me when I was younger would say, ‘That guy he’s too sensitive’ or ‘He has a short fuse’. Now I know I had anger management issues. Today I meditate and do things that help me manage the dragon that doesn’t want to sleep in me.

Uh what the, some guy just unplugged my f’n laptop at the café. Who the hell does he think…..OK breathe 10, 9, 8…..

I feel hot, well I feel hot on the inside in my core like a volcano threatening to explode. All I can say is Look out below!!! Yes I believe anger is alive.

Written on 1-31-06

Revised on 06-01-09