It

It cries for all the times I have tried.

For the rage in my eyes.

Every page of The Prince of Tides.

Every day that I find a way to survive.

It cries.

It sheds tears for every pierce in my pride.

When I'm near how far am I... from being too far away?

This pen sheds tears onto the page.

---EOB.

A Celebration Of Life

1958-Present

"The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning." -- Mitch Albom

War

The only time I've been successful is when I didn't try to be.

It's like choosing letters and winning the Lottery.
The only thing I've ever wanted is for my Dad to be proud of me.
So I work hard.
But I am lazy.
Yes, I am sane.
And I am crazy.
Think like a man.
But talk like a baby.
Want to play the hero.
But they can't save me.
With forgotten thoughts I walk the streets while people talk to me.
Telling me the truth while they lie to me.
I follow the laws of the land, but live as though they've never applied to me.
So by embracing being alone I've grown into a trendsetter.
Want to give it all up but I can't kill the competitor in me.
I am strong
But She makes me weak.
Dream all of the time.
But I can't fall asleep.
I am trapped.
Yet I am free.
I fear failure.
I'm afraid to succeed.
I pray standing up.
No time for living on my knees.
I consider myself selfless.
But I am a slave to greed.
Confident and arrogant.
But I'm still insecure.
Wise, a devine mind.
But I'm still immature.
And I live a good life.
But I'm still impure.
Want to be perfect.
But I'll never be.
Lead the rest of the pack but I run like they're ahead of me.
My crown is strong, but the foundation is weak.
In the middle of the noise I found peace.
This is the war we fight.
The battle within our bodies.
We fight it to the death.
Our war with Hypocrisy.

---EOB.

A Quotestion To Ponder

"Would the new method of murder be arson or fire bombs if the cost of a single bullet were more than a firearm?"-- Pharoahe Monch

Nuestra fe

Tengo competición con mi oposición. Busque y destruya ésos que molestan mi visión… es mi misión.

Una barrera invisible. ¿Una invención de mi imaginación? ¿O es la realización que gravitamos hacia esquemas subconscientes, los jugadores en el mismo equipo no pueden trabajar dentro del mismo esquema?

La erradicación de ser dentro del sueño de un Linchamiento

Pero mi personaje es fresco como un estudiante de primer año. Le mantiene en cheque como lo es mi profesión. Los días largos y maneras duras me tienen aprendiendo lecciones.

Como concesiones yo me vendo un sueño y confieso que yo nunca puedo ver el pico de mi potencial, pero busco mi alma y yo soy inspirado por líderes del pasado. La vida es un camino de dos-manera. Usted es pasado si usted no mueve rápidamente.

He visto el paso sabio hacia lo que ellos desean y lejos de cosas, ellos los necesitan. Ellos saben esas distracciones que ellos no los pueden golpear, así que ellos conceden su libertad. Contracciones. Nosotros los vemos en nuestras espaldas cuando el inseguro está en el ataque. Perdemos futuros líderes y a pensadores diarios para agrietar.

Nuestra subida y la caída son determinadas por niveles de nuestro propio egoísmo y la avaricia. Siguió el ejemplo cerrando la puerta en la cara. Es el Sueño norteamericano.

Los temas arrogantes le instan a enterrar sus sueños.

Vidas verdaderas. No escenas dentro de una pantalla. Sé que hay un niño que lucha y llanto en este mundo. Sé que hay personas que venden identidades porque su integridad que ellos creen no es valor que compra en este mundo. Sé que la sociedad de mis personas es violada por ser-odio y crimen el mundo.

Somos diamantes y perlas. Siempre que vea el cielo, todo puede ser mío en este mundo.

Ninguna confianza y en ninguna prisa para creer. Las cosas son nunca lo que ellos son supuestos ser. Pero hoy giramos la página y desatrancar las cadenas.

Las manos cerraron juntos como usted reúne cercano a mí. Hay un sobreviviente que sé en usted y hay un sobreviviente que usted sabe en mí.

Fe.

---EOB.

A Celebration Of Life

1974-Present

"The richest man ain't the one with the first dollar. It's the one who's still got his first friend." ---Beanie Sigel

Four Years Ago This Month...

...I wrote my real first poem. There were a few scribbles and mark ups on the paper. Some of it I wrote down over the course of the day. The others I left in my head, hoping it wouldn't escape me. Some did. Some stayed. I still have those papers, written in red ink. I didn't really know what I wanted to say. So I just wrote. All I know is I wanted to say what I've always been feeling. So I wrote. And after a night of writing at a desk, on my bed, on my couch, in my car, this is what I came up with.

We always remember our first.

----------------------------

I can see the finish line. I want mine. I’m so close, but my ambition has got me missing my freedom. This week I’ve been flying high like kites, because it’s so in my sights. Like telescopes, I can see them. So, like Jesse, I’m keeping hope alive and I strive to scheme for ways to see better days. Scary parts in my heart got me going craze. Flipping the light on my fears and they scurry like roaches, while others hurry to yell their directions in my ear like coaches. I just want to be Def like Mos is. Like them times when we fool ourselves, so washed we can’t tell when it ain’t well, one-way ticket heading straight to hell when we rape the culture. They wanna see the vision dead, put lies in my head, turn around what I said and scavenge my thoughts like vultures.

They say I’ve lost my mind, because they catch me dreaming all the time. I prefer to write these rhymes instead of living boxed in between your lines. And I learned you’re blessed when you flex your mental muscles. Only the foolish fight and tussle in the street struggles. Strong words make loud-mouthed buzzards get muzzled when I’m bursting their bubbles.

And this new feeling is so good that I swear I can’t contain it. I’m breaking free, being me and I ain’t even trying to restrain it. I’ve got a feeling so fresh, so new that they ain’t even named it. They say the closer you are, the harder it gets. So I’m defining myself, locking in and preparing to commit, so I can get all I can get. And the actions that I take to negate the mental strain becomes harder and harder each day to maintain. So I cultivate my creation, display the finished product to the nation. So like The Temptations…I wish it would rain—His blessings through my arteries and veins.

A trip straight to my heart. And today it’s sharp and flies straight like darts. I see clearly now and it’s merely how I’m understanding my rights. I find myself gaining wisdom, so people like to ask me for advice. Breaks my heart when I have to leave some sad, when I ask like newspaper ads, what is the price of your life?

In the game, some chose to ride the pine, while others get off snorting them chalk lines. Their sister’s third eyes are blind. Not aware of their worth when they give away ass while others find short cuts to make that fast cash. But everybody knows how the story goes, like dummies they all crash. You slipped on your trip when you dipped on your vision, love for self and aspirations when the times got hard.

I know there’s nothing too far from the stars that I can’t grasp. I know I’m not too far from where you are. So don’t be afraid to ask, about my dream to be just Me and be blessed with everything I wanted to have. I’m gonna have bright days and good nights. I'll be the man who will treat Her right. I’ll say my wife is my life. I try to stay grounded but she urges my emotions to take flight. With precise words I’ll nurture her, say I breathe and walk this earth for her. I’ve traveled far enough, but I’ll go further for her, because when she cries I hurt for her, when I cry it’s worse for her. Joined, that’s why I’m putting in work for her, I’ll say.
And by the way, I’ve made up my mind to follow my dreams, because I deserve all those wonderful things. I just want Me to be free.

But you see, it’s all up to me. I hold the joystick I just have to play. So today I pray if this life doesn’t lead me astray. I can soon enough stand in front of you all and say…finally, I made it.

---EOB.

Nigga This, Nigga That

"But yet his eyes didn't see. The only reason you're a nigga is because somebody else wants you to be."--- Cee-Lo

---EOB.

A Story From The Sidewalk

One day a man was walking down the sidewalk, headed to his new job.

As he walked, he passed by a house. An old man was sitting on the porch, sipping on a glass of water and watching the cars go by.

The man waved to the old man.

"Hello, sir! Good morning! How are you?"

The old man looked at him and continued sipping his water, without a reply.

For a week, the man passed the old man's house, saying the same thing and waving his same cheerful wave.

"Hello, sir! Good morning! How are you?"

And for a week, while sitting on his porch, sipping water and watching the cars go by, the old man offered no reply.

On the second week the man passed by the old man's house. Seeing him on his porch again, the man offered another greeting.

With no wave he would smile and say: "Good morning! How are you?"

And for the second week in a row, the old man offered no reply.

On the third week, the man walked by the old man's house and without offering a smile or a wave, he would simply say : "Hello."

And for the third consecutive week, while sitting on the porch, sipping water and watching the cars go by, the old man would offer no reply.

On the fourth week, the man passed the old man's house without even looking in the direction of the porch. He offered no greeting. No wave. No smile. No words.

As he passed the old man's house, someone called out to him.

"Hey! Wait a minute! Come here!" the old man cried.

Annoyed, the man walked up to the old man's porch. He was sipping on his water and watching the cars go by.

The old man focused his eyes on his visitor

"You didn't speak to me today," the old man said.

"You never speak to me! Every time I speak you never say anything!" the man replied.

The old man took another sip of his water, stared out onto the street and said: "Yes, I didn't offer a reply. But that doesn't mean that it didn't mean anything to me. Your saying 'hello' was always a highlight, a bright spot. Nobody ever talks to me. You always made my day."

Sometimes in life when you believe no one is watching, they really are. Your series of small actions can become someone's bigger blessing. Keep doing the little things. Keep being someone's bigger blessing. Because you never know who is watching. You never know who is listening. You never know who is smiling. You never know who is appreciating you. You never know who's day you just made.

---EOB.

A Celebration Of Life

1975-Present

"Even when the condition is critical and the living is miserable, your position is pivotal." ---Talib Kweli

The Lord's Will

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he struggled to compose himself. He held on to his son for support, as he stood in front of his entire family.

He always cried when he told this story.

The year was 1950 and Cecil, a young man, barely grown, walked with little fear. He walked with a comforting feeling that he was being watched over and protected. The air was hot and muggy as he and his group of soldiers in the Army traveled through the terrain in the heart of the Korean War.

"I wasn't afraid," Cecil said, wiping more tears. "Because I know He was with me."

A man of faith, Cecil prayed every day, asking God to forgive him for the men he had killed. The thought of his next murder frightened him and he prayed each night that another man breathing his last breath, at his hands, was something he would never have to see. He prayed that God would deliver him from evil. However, on this day, evil would knock on his door.

As the soldiers traveled through the landscape, they were surprised by enemy fire. Hearts raced. Bullets hissed through the air and screams of fear and pain reduced hardened men to their foundations, creating frighteningly intimate moments that, in any other instant, no one would be allowed to see. Gun shots continued and fire was returned.

Cecil could not think now.

With bullets humming and cutting through everything in its path, Cecil, for the first time in battle, stood frozen. As if he were of another world he watched this moment in history unfold in front of him. And soon his history would be re-written as well, as he was thrown to the ground. A bullet had hit him in his chest. He remembered screaming.

Cecil shook his head, still held by his son.

"It hit me so hard I flew to the ground. I felt like I was hit with a hammer and everything just seemed to stop," he said. "I knew I was dead."

He paused for a moment before continuing, his eyes focused on the floor.

"I thought this was my life, the Lord wanted to take me right there."

Only for Cecil there were no pearly gates, no angels and the only bright light that shined upon him was the one provided by the sun, as he lay on his back, gazing upon the sky. Frantically he clutched his chest and felt no blood. He said he cried moments later.

"That bullet should have killed me, out of all places, it hit me in my chest, straight in my heart, " he said. "But that bullet was stopped. It hit me in my heart, my shirt pocket, and in my shirt pocket was my Bible. It hit my Bible. My Bible saved me. God spared my life."

He once again broke down and cried as he slowly made his way to a chair to sit down.

Of course Cecil survived the war, healthy and with all his limbs. After returning he swore to himself and God that he would live a life which was acceptable in His eyes. Years later, he would meet his wife and they would have a son. He became the rock of the family, always with a smile to share and a hearty laugh even in the most disappointing moments. He became a man who was an example-- strong enough to lead, yet weak enough to submit. When threatening to break apart, he became the string which held the family together. He was a calming grace and a man of great character. He showed them all that sometimes it's all right for a man to cry. He showed them all that sometimes it's all right for a man to live.

However, this was just no ordinary story and this was no ordinary man. Cecil was my grandfather and that bullet, that Bible, changed all of our lives forever.

---EOB.

A Celebration Of Life

1975-Present

"You would rather have a lexus, some justice, a dream or some substance?
A beamer, a necklace or freedom?"--- Dead Prez

Interlude Pt. 2

A Celebration Of Life

1971-Present

"If you catch me dreaming, please don't wake me till I'm done. Just leave me sleeping until the morning comes."---Anthony Hamilton

My Pen. My Train. My Name (Freestyle Poem)

I'll bet Conroy, Pat felt trapped in a taboo world when he fell in love with a Black girl.
Met her on a train.
Didn't know her name.
Disappeared quicker than she came, like an apparition.
Heat-induced visions.
Mirages.
Communists in colleges.
Psychologists.
Misogynists.
Retired Friars, fired, prior to Providence.
Some are shakers.
Some are movers.
Some are sayers.
Some are doers.
Some play when they maneuver.
Cuss words pointed at shapes of J. Edgar Hoover.
Some wear Armani, like they're Toomer.
Approached by Army recruiters.
There's an accuser.
Who's the shooter?
There's a girl in Aruba.
Had to school her, like I knew her.
While the red is getting redder and the blue is getting bluer.
Got gang signs on my mind and liquid in my veins.
I'm an Invisible Man, like Ellison.
Baldwin, James.
Nobody Knows My Name.
My pen is mightier than your sword.
Ignore the score and cherish the day---like July 28th.
They should have left me where they found me.
Hunted me for the bounty.
Break my knees.
Slit my wrists.
And I bleed Wyandotte County.
And they say high IQs and loose screws makes a cute dude crazy.
My review's incomplete.
Suspense has got me waiting.
Discriminating.
My rating's originating in the 80s.
Which makes me an 80s baby.
118 degrees outside.
Hasn't been in the 80s lately.
My pen hates me and it's told me as much.
When I hold it, I clutch with five fingers.
I write through wringers.
Legacies run like DMC and pantyhose.
A snot nose.
With my eyes closed, I wrote my first poem when I was eight, in my head, sitting in detention.
Learned to escape, like space.
A new dimension.
Born to be great and release this state of tension.
Dale and I used to sit on the fence and...
Just.
Dream.
Little did we know, they'd be more real than they seemed at the time.
We finish at the beginning and we start at the end.
Which leads us to the middle.
One boy. One voice. One man. One pen.

----EOB.

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus

A Love Letter to HER

My life changed that day.
And in an instant this seems so fresh and new.
"He's just not the same," they'd say.
Inside jokes about yellow and blue.
But my life changed.
Blame it on that day.
I claimed it.
Slow dancing in the rain.
Romancing the thought of HER whole name.
And my Whole has changed.
A guiding light in the darkness.
A voice of reason in the banter.
This is where it all starts.
If yesterday was the question, then that day is the answer.
My life changed that day.
And I can't stop smiling.
Piling minutes together until they become a full day.
And if seconds build a minute and minutes build a day, then this moment is my Genesis.
A blank page and fresh clay.
And moments like these seem to manipulate time.
Seconds slow until they show a new identity.
Could this get any better?
Could this last forever?
Shield my eyes.
I tell no lies.
For now I know the truth.
My life changed that day.
My life changed the day I met you.

---EOB.

One Question

When you've exhausted all your options and you've fallen off the path, tell me what would you look to do if the pen is all you have?

Would you completely fall to pieces like the shattering of the glass? Or would you create a new way of thinking, as if you've birthed it in the lab? Would you look toward your future and stop thinking of the past? Or would you understand the importance of preparation?

Your first chance may be your last.

Tell me. What would you do if the pen is all you have?

Beethoven wrote the greatest symphony. Edgar Allan Poe went mad. Mozart became a martyr, though his climax was so sad. Some paint pictures of pain, with wounds that never heal, as if they're picking at their scabs. You walk the road few have traveled, when the pen is all you have.

The pen summons all emotions with articulations on the pad. It puts money in your pocket, so it keeps you from living on the Ave. It shows you visions of things both clean and obscene. The pen navigates you to places within that few have ever seen. And it guides people you've never seen through your visions and dreams. Like LeBron and Harrison on your screen, you're a Witness. You're not afraid to let people into your business. You're different. Call it literary fitness. Your pen is like weights as you build mental muscles. Exercise every day and watch them swell. Only time can tell whether your pen becomes your heaven or hell.

Can you depend on your pen?

Don't pretend that your pen is all you're interested in. However, it is your longtime friend. It's something to believe in. Would you leave your pen if everything seemed to work? Would you never let it leave your side when your disappointment never subsides and your pride is hurt?

When all you have is your pen, at the end of the tunnel, you finally see the gleam. Like Malcolm and King, you dare to dream by any means, of inner-revolution, letting freedom ring---within you. Your pen will reveal truths and it will unveil lies. It will create a mirror in front of you. And the reflection leaves you surprised.

Is it a curse? Or is it a blessing? Either way, all you have is your pen.

Search for your purpose, as it hides. Count to 10. Open your eyes and let the journey begin.

Would you desert your pen only to drive a Mercedes? Or do you write solely so this life wouldn't be driving you crazy? Does your pen grow stronger when you're mad? When you're happy, your writing is silently lazy. I depend on my pen because it'll never betray me.

Would you make a mistake if the pen is all you've got?

Remember, the pen got Biggie shot because he was beefing with Pac. The questions never stop. A savior? A tormentor? What's your definition? Your pen makes it all your decision. It's speaking to you. All you have to do is listen. Like your soul, your pen is eternal. Long after you're gone, your words will forever live on. It's your devil like Taz or an inspiration like jazz. But the answer lies within you.

So once again I'll ask.

What would you look to do if the pen is all you have?

---EOB.

Three Names

I'm numb. It's the sum of all fears. Nothing's clear and the Grim Reaper's whispering in my ear. He said he's near.

My city's engulfed by the sea. People around the country watch helplessly as they wonder how many Katrina will seize before she destroys and leaves. It's my birthday. I'm turning 23. At 5:08, I'm awake just in time to escape from the back door of my home. Flashing waters. Floating bodies. Now I'm residing in the Super Dome.

They said we'll be sheltered but they're not obligated to feed us. The roof is falling. What's the difference? Inside or outside? Hunger or thunder? In some way, the storm's bound to defeat us. No money to get out so I guess they didn't need us.

I wish once more I could play my guitar. On my cell phone, I have one bar and I used it to call family back home. I heard through the grapevine that Celine Dion made an appearance on CNN. With sincere tears, she spoke for me when she said we need immediate help and prayers more than her ends. I feel like we're observed with blind eyes, sort of like Apartheid and the Rwandan Genocide. It's ironic. Not many nights ago, I dreamt I drowned in the most unlikely of places. Does that mean the washing away of phases? Or a revelation? My soon-to-be expiration.

I'm weak. And to look past this is like trying to sell cocaine. There's no gain. Like Spokane, slow rains wash hopes down drains. Rumors of murder. Blood stains grow like Rogaine. Intense pain goes untamed with no shame. Who's to blame? I can't give in. I'll continue to fight.

Who am I? My name is Mike.

I have to keep believing. Something has to give. I can't stop breathing. I want to live.

I'm packing my bags, ready to step into life all alone. I'm not worried about lonely nights. I just want to take flight and disappear into the night before he comes home. Heavy fists drop on my body cavity like gravity. If I tell them about Daddy, I'm scared they'll be mad at me. But I have a strategy. Because last night I woke up from my rest, holding my chest and trying to catch my breath. Because in my dream a man left a bloody mess on my doorstep. And it was me. Watch your step. You won't believe what you'll see in the corridors of my mind. I swear he'll kill me. I'm running out of time.

It's my birthday. I'm 16 years old. I've been raped since 10. I can't escape and people wonder why I don't feel comfortable around men. Sometimes I think it's my fault. Other times I just wonder why. This stings like cuts and salt. I pray but I don't know if God hears my cries.

He beats me in the chest so he can hide the evidence.

My name is Evelyn.

I have to keep believing. Something has to give. I can't stop breathing. I want to live.

So, I'm into big business. Of a company, I'm the owner. For a better life, I moved my family to California. Now it's stressing out my wife because our son is selling white on the corner. The mood's somber. My kid's a loner. I only thought this happened in the world of the poor. My son got a hold of the boy next door. He got him strung out. Now he's shooting up with the whores and stealing from his parents. It's that crack. He's wanting more. He had a bright future but it's wasted because his mind's gone. His parents just can't take it and they wish he'd simply come home. Now the only time they see him out is on the streets. Glossy eyes. Rotten teeth. Sporting coats in 103-degree heat.

And I'm blaming myself because quality time was not invested. Now my son is frustrated, feeling so rejected. Thinking he's neglected, he ran into that Vest kid who introduced him to the streets. And now his mind's infested. I didn't think this would happen. So how could I expect it? This game is a shame and I wish I could reset it.

Now I'm crying on my birthday. I'm turning 42. I'm thinking of my son. What's a father going to do? I thought this was fantasy but now I know it's true. If it's happening to me, pay heed, I can see you standing in my shoes. I saw the evidence but I didn't have a clue. I'm wondering how I'll make it through.

So, with no immunity I'm reaching out in my community. I stand next to other soldiers in the battlefield. I never want another to feel what I feel. I'm just another parent of a teen who got killed.

My name's Neil.

I have to keep believing. Something has to give. I can't stop breathing. I want to live.

---EOB.

Her Name Should Have Been Poison

I was 18 when I first met her. I ran into her while visiting my sister's job and we hit it off on the spot. She told me her name was Crystal. We exchanged numbers, and soon enough, we began hanging out.

At that point in my young life, Crystal was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She stood about 5-foot-7 inches tall with gorgeous eyes to match a bright smile. She had long hair and spoke with an accent that drove me wild. To her, I was a novelty. I was quiet and shy. On occassion, during our conversations, I had that knack of saying something that would blow her away. We were two totally different people. She was outgoing. I was an introvert. She was from the country. I was from the city. She lived life fast. I liked to travel slow. However, those differences somehow brought us together.

"You're different than other guys," she'd say. "I kinda like that. I'm curious about you."

I'd make her laugh, but at the same time, I could make her think, too. She saw me as a challenge, an unknown territory she wanted to explore. We talked a lot and things moved swiftly. Eventually we got closer and began doing things that people usually do in a relationship.

But we weren't in a relationship. Her life was too wild for my tastes. So in that regard, I kept my distance. I was too young to deal with that kind of stress, I thought. So we had our cake and we ate it,too---with no strings attached.

We shared secrets and revealed things about our pasts. One day the conversation steered toward old relationships.

"So do you know Jamaica James?" she asked.

Sounded like some movie character to me.

"No," I replied. "Who is that?"

She seemed surprised.

"You don't know Jamaica James?"

"Who is it?"

"He's my ex-boyfriend. I had just broke up with him when I met you. He's a drug dealer. He still tries to come around, but I keep telling him I don't want anything to do with him. He's crazy."

I took her for her word. The news was kind of disturbing, but I shook it off. On Valentine's Day, I surprised her on her job with some flowers. She appreciated them. However, Jamaica didn't like the jester at all. I got a phone call from her the day after.

"Um, I saw Jamaica today," Crystal said."He came over."

"What's he talking about?"

"Same thing, trying to get me back," she answered. "I told him to go home, but he wouldn't. He saw the flowers you gave me. You should have seen him, he got mad. He was like 'Where you get them flowers?' I lied to him and told him my aunt gave them to me."

Once agan, I didn't sweat it. Jamaica believed her---or so I thought. A few days later, Crystal met me for lunch. She had some news for me.

"Jamaica called me today," she said.

"He won't go away."

"No."

"What'd he say?"

"He said that he was thinking and he knows my aunt didn't give me those flowers," Crystal said. "He told me that if he ever sees me with anybody, he'll kill him."

She took another bite of her food and smiled.

"But don't worry," she added. "He's not serious. He's just talking crazy."

She seemed so calm, but I was choking on my food.

Don't worry? Don't worry? This man just threatened my life and you're telling me not to worry? Don't worry?

When I got home that afternoon, I made up my mind I was going to leave Crystal alone.

But I didn't. We continued to hang out. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe he wasn't serious. In fact, eventually, I did believe her. The threats kept coming and Jamaica never went away. However, the two of us never crossed paths. So eventually I began to ignore them--until I visited my friend one night.

I had dropped by my friend Tyrone's apartment to catch up with him. Coop was already there. Shortly thereafter, Tyrone's cousin came by. I think he was between 28-30 years old. He liked to school us in the game of life. Over the course of the night, he began talking about his past experiences.

"I knew this dude, back in the day, this dude named Jamaica James," the cousin said. "That man was crazy--not funny crazy, but crazy, crazy."

For about 30 minutes straight, he told us stories about Jamaica James. Each one of them was just as terrifying as the last.

"There was this time Jamaica was at the house with his boys," he said. "And he got mad at his girl, they started arguing. She's pregnant with his kid. Jamaica gets up and he's hot."

The cousin began to demonstrate Jamaica's every move.

"Jamaica tensed up and smacked her, like this," he said. "She went flying on the couch. She tried to get up, but Jamaica went at her again and punched her. Boom! She went flying on the couch again."

"What happened to his boys?" Tyrone asked."They didn't break it up?"

His cousin looked at him as if he were stupid.

"No!" he said. "They were afraid of what he'd do to them!"

He continued his story

"Next thing you know, Jamaica is going to the kitchen and he grabs a butcher knife. He jumps on top of her, raises his knife in the air and yells 'If you don't do what I say, I'll cut my baby out!'"

The three of us sat still with horrified looks on our faces. We knew crazy men, but not Jamaica crazy.

"There was another time Jamaica got into it with this group of dudes," the cousin continued. "All of a sudden the dudes pull out guns and they start shooting at him. Jamaica pulls two pistols out of his belt and starts busting too. All of a sudden, they're in a gun fight. They hit Jamaica in the leg but that man didn't stop shooting. He fell on the ground, bleeding, but he kept shooting and yelling. His boys tried to drag him away, but he kept wanting to shoot, eventually they got him out of there."

In the early 90s, there was a shooting at Schlagle High School. That incident became the school's reputation for a few years, all the way until I got there.

"One day Jamaica was at Schlagle and he saw some dudes he had beef with," the cousin recalled. "Next thing you know, Jamaica pulls out a rifle and opens fire into the crowd. He didn't care who died. He was just wanted to shoot dude."

"That was Jamaica?" I asked with a stunned look on my face.

"Yeah, man. That was Jamaica," the cousin replied. "That man is crazy."

To my two friends, Tyrone and Coop, they were just entertaining stories from an older guy's past. But to me, it made me realize this man wasn't playing. I could die at any moment. My heart started beating fast. He really is crazy.

"Man, I'm kind of talking to this girl that says she used to date Jamaica James," I told the cousin.

He looked at me shocked.

"What's her name?"

"Crystal."

The cousin shook his head and looked at me as if he was seriously concerned for my welfare. He parted his lips slowly.

"If I were you," he said. "I'd leave her alone."

His face became serious before he spoke again.

"That dude's crazy."

When I left Tyrone's apartment I knew what I had to do. That was almost nine years ago. I never found out what happened to Jamaica James. Some say he got attacked by a group of guys and they cut his legs off, now he's bound to a wheelchair. Others say he killed a man and now he's in prison for the rest of his life. Another story said he was killed in a violent shootout. I really don't know what happened to him.

The only thing I know is I never called Crystal again.

---EOB.