To the good folks of Tumblr

Whoa I’ve been gone for a minute! I’m sure you forgot about me, but I haven’t forgotten about you. Life’s been getting in the way, but I’m back now. Hopefully in the near future I should have some words for you to sink your teeth into. Till then I’m going to catch up on some of the really high quality stuff on here that I’ve missed for so long.


Daydreaming in the Dark

The steady thumping of party music reverberates around the dimly lit room. Clusters of jam-packed strangers intermittently bellowing lyrics in unison. Sardines in a can. I’m juiced out of my mind, but then so is everyone else here. This is our escape from the drudgery, and we escape into each other.

I saw her in the corner, with her girlfriends that she had known since forever. Dance with me. I’m pretty sure I slurred the word dance. Probably slurred the whole damn sentence, too smitten to notice.
She could have said no.

The music is slower and softer now, the universal sign that the party is almost done, but we don’t care. We are lost in each other, oblivious to the world. Bodies intertwined, undulating to the soft rhythms. Whispering, smiling, neck kissing. Finally the lights come on, threatening to thrust us back into reality, but we aren’t done daydreaming in the dark. Come home with me.
She could have said no.

Kisses nestled in-between smiles. We were trying to take off each others clothes and failing miserably, the alcohol clearly winning its battle with our motor skills. Defeated, we cuddle up, slurred, incoherent conversation punctured by chuckles of understanding. My room is small but my bed is large, and it envelopes us nicely. An enraged Vesuvius could have been hurling hot black tar at my window and we wouldn’t have noticed. Earthquakes couldn’t have moved us.

The sun was making it’s way into my room, clearly objecting to the fact that we were still holding on desperately to the last strands of consciousness we could muster. Even sleep couldn’t come between us. Stay with me forever.
She could have said no.

Child Molester

What is this that I carry from head to toe,
The burden of which I must carry wherever I go.
When people see me they cross the street,
The dogs that they’re walking stare and bare their teeth.
The shops are closed to me,
They will not sell me bread
The jobs are closed to me,
They’d rather see me dead.
I must carry it with me,
The shame of my black sin
Now I know how it feels
To be North American -
and have black skin.

(African) Immigrant

I hate the snow

We try to run in front of it,
forgetting that

life started behind our backs
and happens despite our protestations
 - a meld of events, emotions and skin cracks.
We want to see the world, but only through closed eyelids.
Are our lives for rent or do we own our souls?
Let he who is to be god make his claim known.

The cold is where the dead things grow
and I tire of it; I want to go back home.

Thanks For Listening

There’s a quiet rumble in my stomach there, at the exact spot the last of the canned beans used to be… The one from two nights ago. Foraging is an art I like to think that I have mastered, but sometimes I hit a dry spell and that can be dangerous when hunger is the consequence for failure. Might be time to bring out the old violin again. Sometimes, when the bark of hunger is at its loudest, I think back to how I got here, a suppressed memory coming up for air but always pushed back into the deep.

I take up my usual spot nestled on the corner of King and James, with my hat on my head and my violin in my hand. I’m padded up as much as I can be, but everyone knows homeless people are helpless against the cold, so we surrender to it, warmly accepting winters chilling embrace. Tonight, Christmas Eve, was especially chilly. You would think that Mother Nature would let up for the festive season, but the harsh, cold sting in my nostrils when I inhale says otherwise. No matter. Cold nights are violin nights anyway. I go through my usual ritual: all my other stuff is already packed in a trash bag, and I hide it in its usual place, behind the trash bin on the corner alleyway. One of these days someone is going to mistake its contents for trash, and they would not be too far off. I put down my raggedy hat… After all I have to keep my earnings from this someplace; take off one of my gloves (which had so many holes you would think it was fashionable) and wipe down my baby, taking special care between the strings. Then I rest the butt of my violin between the peak of my left shoulder and my left cheek; do a little tuning (of course), close my eyes, and start strumming.

No one pays attention in the beginning… they usually don’t at first. They listen with their eyes, as most humans are wont to do, and all they hear is poor, dirty, drugged out hobo. So they turn the volume up on their mp3 players and keep moving, probably to go play out the rest of their risibly perfect lives. I keep playing though, ignoring the masses, and soon enough when sound starts to override sight, one or two stop to actually listen. Then three or four. Then a score. Still I ignore them all. Even when the clink of coin clapping together on the inside of my hat grows louder, I just play on, bobbing my head and swaying drunkenly to the intoxication of my own strums.

When I finally stop and take a breath, the air is punctured by pockets of appreciative murmurs and ovation. I take a bow – just like I used to on Carnegie Hall – another life. As the crowd begins to disperse I pick up my hat, which by now is overflowing with loose change. Can’t forget the rest of my belongings, which are still right where I left them, behind the bin on the corner. I sling my trash bag over my shoulder and I trudge along, to live out the rest of the year. If I was lucky the cold would take me, but knowing my luck I would probably be back on that corner again same time next year.

Happy Holidays.