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.