Slaughterhouse/Daddy-Daycare

I'm trying to be the father outside of my genetics. Bleeding out, pouring, and exhaling lessons. Passing on the same genes. Some hand-me downs, no matter how much they are needed, should never be accepted. But If I knew everything he didn’t while trying to find himself, and raise, protect, teach, nourish, and learn about the life he created, I wouldn’t have to worry about being different.

The time it takes. A life’s work never realized until the darkness of hate and death enlightens. Wandering, eyes searching, seeking assertion, comfort…satisfaction…jealousy…envy… Of body. Of ego. A boost keeping you young, for a time shorter than old sex, or Hennessy dick.

Daily, weekly, monthly, yearly highlights consist of the amount of numbers you get, bitches you hit, hours you worked, food stamp money you receive, and income tax returns.

Or the N.B.N. Nigga Block News-equivalent to stay at home mothers modern soap operas-reality TV- where men are educated about everyone’s business except their own. Bodies, catching bodies, how many you got? How many you slay? Wreck-less fuckery, wombs becoming graves.

And that’s why we leave willing. Unlike when we are treated unruly, or refuse to be ruled, which becomes our undoing. We do everything fast, hard, aggressive how fathers’ discipline, and women make themselves moist, excited for… Power. Pride. Pussy. A Black man’s dream.

Who am I kidding? A White man’s too. And a woman’s. They have it all anyway. Yes, I’m still talking Black. The magnificence of a body’s anger. Its strength to resist and succumb.

I never know what goes first. The body of a child or the mind of their elder. Impatient to see an end that does not end misery when fathers leave behind unfinished…  

We went from, life nigga talk, and pussy plots, to “young man do what you need to create options.” And “respect your woman and her mind, provide what she needs and wants, then she MIGHT ALLOW YOU to control her body.”

Confusing, lessons given too late, when disbelief is the hardest part a father’s character and body. And failure, the strongest piece of self-knowledge neglected. So, he watches himself lose- everything- everyone. Including himself.

L.B.O. (Loves Body Odor)

What do I miss? The love I never really had. Who left me holding a lie? An attack on my senses, panic filled heart, harder and tighter than a condom.

Fuck'em. He can have her. Just... She better not like...

I miss rest. Camped out front, peeking through windows. Seeing heads, moving bodies, crashing like waves, too wet to be safe. Her power made men feel they have the top-spot. She sure knew the way to it. Mattress chess. Moves layin'em down.

Boredom made her collect pieces. A strategy of crowned men.

I checked himself. Teary eyed. Shakin', cause I was whipped.

I wanna go B.I.G.-kick in the door wavin, bust her down with the hammer. Tell him to suck it so I can really have mad courage to fuck him up. I want a M.O.B.- hit. Leave him so his mother wouldn't be able to identify him.

Pussy.

I wanted to killat kat.

Mis-education of Youth (Continued)

This email is regarding the books assigned to 9th grade English students at River Ridge High School, using racist, offensive language. Specifically books by White authors.

My Son explained that he was assigned to read and listened to Of Mice and Men in class. He explained that when the characters said the word nigger, he felt his world shrink. As his classmates turned around and looked at him, being one of the few Black children in your class.

Do you understand the pressure, anger, and hate of all types that puts on and fills children with?

Do you understand the damage, harm, terror, chaos, and violence…?

As an English teacher you know the history and power behind the word nigger. If you are truly treating 9th grade students as adults (which they are not)-it is your job to stop disrespect, along with false, racist, ignorant, ideology, and descriptions that continue to poison the education system taught to Black students. They need to be shown that white, racist, ignorant hate-breeders views are a morbid, deadly, wrong, way to see and accept themselves.

What was your intention?

If it was to introduce history’s admired White writers; cool-I understand that- being it is an English class. I have read many of Steinbeck and his peers’ books and novels, as insight into White, Black, American, and world history.

As a Black Man, with knowledge of self, understanding and confidence, I am still disturbed at the love and acceptance of history’s great White writer’s racist beliefs. And how their teachings about Blacks are honored as bible scripture. But I understand the system.

The excuse of "that's just how they spoke back in the day" is as valid as the belief that 1) Malcolm X and The Black Panthers were racist because they believed Black people had the right to freedom, full employment, education, housing, and self-protection. 

And 2-infinity) the belief that "anti-racism somehow means anti-white". Statements and lessons that are actually believed and taught by a sub-culture of WHITE people, to control minds, bodies, and produce...

As an educator, you must be familiar with many other great writers of American classic fiction and literature, comparable and, or, better than Steinbeck. I provided a list below.

(Homegoing) by Yaa Gyasi

(From Man To Superman) by J.A. Rogers

(Nickel Boys) by Colsin Whitehead

(Their Eyes were watching God) by Zora Neale Hurston

(The Bluest Eye) & (Home) by Toni Morrison

(Invisible man) by Ralph Ellison

(Black No More) by George Schuyler

(The Spook Who Sat By The Door) by Sam GreenLee

(Faces at the Bottom of the Well) by Derrick Bell

Also, it would be influential and impressive to add the autobiographies of Malcolm X and Fredrick Douglas. Along with, (Stamped) by Ibram x kendi and Jason Reynolds to your curriculum.

In addition, I have listed three songs below, that should be required listening.

Goodie Mob- song called “The Experience” https://youtu.be/M3iZq-A08ZY

Cee-Lo Green (member of Goodie Mob)- https://youtu.be/t6_ROyyOJdw - listen to and watch the video carefully for the English, Literature, Sociology, and History lesson within this song and video). The images flash faster than the agreements White politicians make with Black voters before burning and ignoring them after they're elected.  

And of course, every White kid’s musical savior/ hero- Eminem- song called “White America” https://youtu.be/RZIzD0ZfTFg

As I am sure you know, Black (African American) history is also White (European American) history, so Black authors depicting positive, negative, critical, true-news, and facts about Blacks, Whites, America and the concerned/affected cultures, should be included and taught throughout the year-because, White racist's history is tied to Black history.

You should never put Black children in a situation where they are forced to hear themselves described as niggers, in any lesson involving White racist culture’s instigating punch, to test its dis-obedient/strong(field) or obedient/meek(house) nigger mentality theory. There are many other true, accurate, critical words that describe Blacks, especially when stated by Black, self-loving, compassionate, honest without discrimination, anti-racist authors.

In the context white people use and teach the word nigger, makes them niggers themselves. (Lying, untrustworthy, ignorant) ... and whatever additional insidious definitions racists have attached to the word.

As an English teacher I'm sure you know the definition of that terrible, moronic, racist, European American term created and taught by your ancestors, which continues to this day.

Your ancestral term should not be confused with the true African term NEGUS (Ethiopian description for King), 

or the American acronym created by TUPAC- NEVER IGNORANT GETTING GOALS ACCOMPLISHED (NIGGA)

If you absolutely need to continue- because you can’t get enough of the word- as evident throughout history's archaic mis-education of the negro (also a great book by Carter G. Woodson)-you should preface all information with racist language, proudly used by Whites with the song by Boris Gardiner called "Every Nigger Is A Star". Because the songs title and statement rings truer than the Declaration of Independence. As Blacks were, and are still the light, shining and guiding, the world.

 If books by White authors with intentional racist, hurtful language are continued to be taught—You must

#1 send a permission slip home with my student for parental permission.

#2 have a discussion with the students about the truth, trauma and racism behind the words according to your ancestors' meaning.

Sunday Mornings

Nino Brown by Blakesart

God?...

Damn...

Please...

Take me as I am. Please...

A man. A glutton.

I like thighs, breasts, sweet cream, pussy, yams, cake. I like to punish. Push, pull, pound, bite, grab, slap. 

YOU KNOW...

The violence attracts. In your name I do these things, so I can reach the freedom, promised.

I Perform in your honor. 

Am I wrong?

Do I misunderstand?

I keep one hand on the bible, and guide with the other.

I swear to do it right under covers. 

Never A Dull Moment

Freaky Friday

Extra virgin olive oil ---you think---“oh I’m using this tonight”

She says,“I’m gonna leave my door open?”---You say, “which one?”

She says, “Can you hand me a banana?” You start getting undressed

She says, “You motherfucker!”--- You say, “You pregnant?”

She says, “Can you turn on the oven?”--- “You reach for her zipper”

Before it’s too Late

Image from movie Boyz N The Hood

Enjoy life's scenery,

the little things that may seem nagging,

the birds singing-

the annoyance and voices of siblings-

there is love in those melodies.

To receive them,

you must be open and accepting.

Your thoughts,

matched by your actions, will determine the life you will have.

Time is clever.

Unpleasant moments linger, for what seems like forever, while good ones fly like dust in windy weather.

See through the fog

allow your heart to be the alarm, alerting, curing, and stopping harm.

Mental toughness is the most powerful gift and weapon.

Unwrap and use often.

Remain sharp and dangerous because people will test, checking to see if you're a toy to be played with.

Give help, but more importantly, give belief; this creates a cycle of love and generosity.

When you look a certain way, you may notice people have no reason, but find ways to spread hate.

It will make you sick.

It will make you want to avoid things, actions, feelings, and people you need to deal with.

But,

avoidance will never fix it.

(Excerpt from my upcoming book Mom said go talk to Dad)

Graveyard Shift

Art by Kerry James Marshall

I blew my back out. And yes, I definitely dropped my load-in the squat rack. That is a joke. I don’t make many because I consider myself a serious man, in serious trouble with a life I am losing to.

The pain, it started with my knee, some sort of twist or aggravation associated with being a forty-year-old heavy weight. I never aspired to be light in any class except in that area where stomach meets waist. This is my only cause of self-consciousness. Well,,, the only one I am willing to share with strangers who haven’t seen me naked.

At this point in my life, I am still working for the man. A man with a boss, supervised by men and women. All individuals with a mission that doesn’t truly concern my success. I keep telling myself, I am overqualified, too good to be here, there, stuck under watchful eyes and thoughts scrambling to find any reason to keep me in line. In a place where they want to know why I am going to the bathroom, again? Where I was five minutes after? Why I didn’t ask permission the first time? AND! Why I need to treat them as a parent while under the roof owned by our boss who is busy traveling, picking out more bodies he can control- legalized pimping. Normal business- world renowned as marijuana being the new Tylenol or Ibuprofen turned Oxycontin into legalized crack, that government, white wealthy families and college kids love more than Black trauma-their life’s score.

Every day there, I felt I must've smoked something terrible in a prior life. But I admit, I need to improve my competence, which in moments of hypnotic positivity, gives me confidence to get through my shift, rush home, plan to do better, open a book, then my laptop before I scroll through my phone, favorite websites, then close my eyes and play a reality where I am Nas, or Zadie Smith’s fine ass. Black successful writers doing it their own way, helping me mentally as only someone intellectually beautiful could-in a non-sexist way. Although I’m sure some sexist men say that, along with women regarding Nas, whom, it has been said is as handsome as Zadie is fine. I am comfortable enough with myself to say that because I am straight up and down about my sex cravings.

So, I am always plotting, of wasting money I hope to receive and bending time to get myself out of graveyard shifts that force me to think more about finding pussy than working for a wage keeping me screwed. 

While driving myself to the emergency room, I thought about renting one, in the many three-star hotels surrounding my city and checking out.

When I entered the ER, the man checking me in had a monster hand. I almost pulled away until I thought about the gentle humanity of his personality. It flashed in my mind that he was probably a veteran; one of my people- outside of the hood zip code. He typed my information as I stared at his tattooed, burned, shriveled baby limb. I laughed at myself as I thought, I’m in the ER wondering what’s wrong with the happy man giving me great customer service and treating this Black man with a respect that doesn’t come from manipulation or aggravated sympathy. I wanted to give him a hug but the awkwardness of covid stopped me.

I was wearing all black. Sweatpants, sneakers, a raincoat, and the male nurse taking my vitals said, “you are the most color coordinated person I have seen in a long time.”

If he hadn’t smiled when he said it, I would’ve reacted ignorant, as I am always on edge from mention of the only color people pretending not to have any use to describe the highest level on a hierarchy of disgust. But I’m not normally pale hearted so the beat of my anger was smoothed over like the strut of a man prepared for action.

The male nurse wrapped and secured the blood pressure band around my hefty bicep. As it squeezed my arm like I was in the starved, dementia stages of existence, cutting my circulation. To prove I was conscious, I started chatting about the hospital’s low occupancy at that time of day because we live in an area heavily populated with homeless-now called houseless because entryways, alleyways, and any place they find shelter is considered home.

The male nurse explained, later, as it got colder, the ER would be swarming.

After my vitals showed blips of life, I was escorted to my room. The corridors reminded me of project hallways. I saw men looking like they had been dropped off, neglected, and forgot how to live. Staring out of sunken holes that grew deeper and empty with each struggling wheeze, hoping everyone they saw approach was their savior. I saw women whose faces looked like they were made up with death, bodies twig thin, prepared to stoke the fire, and have their last breath exhaled through warmth they hadn’t received during life.

I was bunked with a woman with stage 4 colon cancer. We were separated by a curtain. As I slowly lowered into my chair, twisting and squirming from deep dis-comfort, I overheard her private confessions. Whispered like she was trying to seduce the Doctor in public sight. Low, heavy murmurs about bodily functions and movements made my ears blush, like a time I was staying in a hotel with my family, and we overheard the woman in the adjoining room moaning louder than a casting couch audition.

Then, it was my turn. I told the Doc about my knee and back, pausing between words to reflect enough pain from the hospital scale to receive a note to miss work without a direct ask. But my actual pain was multiplying from the thought and promise of its continuation if I didn’t change. This nightmare, explained by the immortal words of the Notorious B.I.G. when he said, “being broke at 30 gives a nigga the chills”, was the real injury plaguing me.

I wondered if priests were ever killed after confession. Sometimes the blessing is the keeping of a secret. When it’s out you have to face it, and that always kills something in someone.

After the Doctor departed, my roommate took on the role of OZ, recommending stretches, exercises, correct sitting and sleeping postures. Telling, at one point that she was given 2 months at most to live, but her faith in her lord and savior pulled her through and stretched her life more than her exploding bowels. I made sure to keep my face straight when I said my “wow’s and sheeshes”, so she wouldn’t feel put off from behind the curtain.

I don’t have ties to any god or savior, especially White ones. They seem, although obviously impossible, always eager and trying to erase Blacks. My roommate was white, and the way her carefree voice tone switched when describing the ethnic line walking name Andre-the boyfriend of her wild daughter, whose hair reminded her of Jimi Hendrix I assumed her man in control above had the same blue steely eyed way of thinking.

I politely asked, how her family was handling the news of her personal revelation and if she ever gets worried?

This was more conversation than I usually had with a stranger- not Black, or, in a financial or occupationally superior position. But I was stuck there, and I am fascinated with religion as long as I can explore on my terms, and my questions provided that opportunity. 

The woman said, "Not at all. I am a believer." “I don’t know how people who don’t believe or have faith in the lord live.” “It must be terrifying.”  

I responded, in my most pleasing God voice, “it must be the same as your faith for those that don’t believe, because they don’t know of a reason to be scared, and if someone simply believes in themselves it’s probably just as rewarding and satisfying.”

A Positive Lie

Live, love, learn, earn and enjoy.

Sometimes I want to say thank you for positive, occasionally worthless advice.

Sometimes It feels better to allow negativity to lead my life. Because at-least, it's honest for a moment.

Dead- beat Dad

positive Positive POSITIVE

BANG! BANG! BANG! Sonia and Toni yelled in child’s play. Imitating their favorite videogame.

“I’m positive I can kill all the negative.” “It’s where we live, so It’s all relative.”

A salaried protector ran up, aimed, shot.

BANG!

Nothing goes quicker than a black behind the trigger.

Sonia was an artist who never imagined creating her own chalk outlined feature.

Her mother ran up. Clothed to hide in plain sight. Embarrassed that her daughter would ruin her life.

The girls gave each other a look, secretive as a whisper. Recognizing the mother’s unhappiness since the first nine months of a lifetime commitment. One that minutes of pleasure did not prepare them to live with- drinking themselves still- eyes as anchors. The upside of life drowned them as they tried to hang onto fleeing men.

These daughters needed more than sympathy and flashes of love, glimpsed through pain. They needed to see more than beauties revealing worn, battered flesh as a treat- enticing, begging their beast to stay, even when he fights to find another, vulnerable beauty to ravish and maul, -pleasing himself from women’s pain.

Human animals-trained to be...

“I’d rather be alone and happy.” Sonia said.

“A future is always in disbelief of what the past allows you to be.” Said Toni.

BANG! BANG!

The breeze of death tickled, and the girls let out a battle cry. Ending a maternal cycle of life.

“I’m gonna be hood famous and finally free of this trap.” Toni said, raising her gun for Sonia to clap.

“I have to go to my neck of the woods to take care of my dad.”

They departed, walking backwards, giving a bleak stoic look of hope the dying give their surviving beloved.

Tracks separated city from woods. Places where, depending on pigment-one is believed to always be up to no good. The first lesson American children and immigrants are taught. Twins born equal, separated by a look of perceived evil.

In a brick fortress surrounded by stairs and doors, Sonia climbed to her escape. In a place, where people normally run the other way, unable to rise from the punches that steal breath.

As she walked the hall, she heard yelling, cries, beatings, drumming clapping and moans. A familiar sound of broken homes. Her sperm donor gave her a key in case she ever needed anything. A slick gesture to overwhelm and pass over neglect. The light metal doors were the lid of a cheap casket, the closure given to ghetto bastards.

She rubbed her belly to soothe the kicks and punches, then entered. Speakers blared, echoing sounds of aggression and enjoyment of pain. She followed the sounds to a back room and saw bodies gyrating to the beat, stroking out moans. Mans desired tone.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Lifeless slabs, gone mid stroke.

Now here, was her dead-beat dad. Finally resting in one place.

His stunt of the week, month-whatever she was would never find another daddy’s love.

On the other side…

Deep, in the thick. Cans, bottles, rope, bikes, motors, tools to make life hollow, decorated an entryway. In his favorite resting place, a lounge chair under the dark sky and mirror moon, where reflections can hide truth. Toni sprinkled gasoline on a blanket. The cologne of the rugged, lubricating a hard life, men like her father accepted being stuck with.

She watched his nostrils flare and lips curve into a smile of comfort as he pulled the blanket tight. She lit the last spark that changed his life. It flashed like a direct look at the sun, but she would not avert her eyes. Surfaced pain cannot be hidden. It heals hard, like vomit, leaving a lingering smell and look of a person who cannot go further.

Toni emerged blush red. A trait from her father’s neck of the woods-where bond fire fights led to sweaty pillow talk. She rode her father’s lawnmower home-his escape from a world that would not allow driving while intoxicated. She splashed her face with heated pool water, entered the back door, then stood dazed, caressing the heated floor with her cold toes.

The maid cleaned the life out of their home. Leaving only her stoned mother, matching the marble statues idolized by her now identical father.

Toni's birth invaded her parents’ happy place. Where pills brought you to heights to beat a life others claim you’re wasting. Alcohol bottles used to clean futures are displayed like family pictures, framing a prescribed diet to numb and hide abuse. Where gifts replace the love ones missing- a rich way of thriving and prospering. Hiding ignorance and filth during daylight. Playing the perfect life, in a suburban ghetto- the code word to describe off brand versions of living niggroish-making tears rain from keg-stands and overdoses.

The girls were in sync. Using a rhythm that haunted thoughts.

As night fell. Each made terror rise. Two moons on the same night. One bright the other shrouded behind dark clouds, familiar faces matching their colored towns.

Till this day, people wonder, what happened to them- but only the young folk. The adults know. When they look in the mirror and see face of their homes.

Holy Trench

I Danced though hell to feel the warmth of heaven, a look, a kiss, sex. Calm as a boxer. Fierce as a ballerina. I am love. If you hate me, get to steppin.

Love Rape Suicide

I don't know when it happens. Thoughts of sex and suicide. A sermon on appeal delivered to wet ears and raw eyes. Open to gentle nudges, finger poking and wet massages. A betrayal that starts with household friendly words; ugly, stupid, fat, hoe, nigger, fag, no, yes-tucking you in with a kiss goodnight. Long after we are supposed to be asleep. Giving advice that sticks to bones starved for a comforting, demanding love.

It seems strange until you think about another person’s pleasure, like the new body you want to impress. So, you pregame with Hennessy, a pull of the weed, and masturbate in the shower to beat the champion of excitement and leave with the title of- GOOD FUCK.

Later, when your children overhear you being called a "mother fucker",

you say, " yup that's how I got kids, I just wish they weren’t from you."

Now the kids have a live diary they don't have to sneak read. Playing scenes of revenge, hoping their end will teach loves lesson. 

Soul Food

From The Table to The Toilet

From the rip.

Cutting out of church, to get a few more blessings on this day of thanks, when I'm told it's better to give, but the child in me would rather receive. I'm just copying what I see as the pastor smiles, shining his gold tooth with his thick lion like tongue. Surveying who did not contribute and will get snatched and ripped during Sunday's service.

I change out of my best, into my freshest, to show I still got enough to keep up with what everybody is chasing. I got about three houses to hit, timing it so I don't get caught passing through. Chompin' swallowin' piling on glutton. getting my bowels moving like the oldies my Nana and Grandaddy used to play.

Too much, because it's too good to stop and I'm gone, over my three-drink minimum. Dozing, stumbling, down restricted smooth ways, with a power forcing retreat. I Hunt, want, need it, to continue in an hour, after a nap, and leftovers tomorrow.

Men and Marriage

Art by Kerry James Marshall “Lost Boys”

Is love enough. Can it be held to vows of a younger mind and body that will definitely change like weight to bring something different to want.

Is this subtle suffering? Chasing away something old in pursuit of a flash to capture the moment you found new temptation.

Staring at it. Shaking it into focus for later use and play, when the skin your used to betrays the vow, you never said but thought was and should be universally known and expected. To keep our looks, to mind our bodies, and make each other’s satisfaction our business.

But unfortunately, or fortunately, - (I could never decide), -we don't own each other and can't require payment, despite the agreement made under God, that can be severed by a paper claiming denial, and enforced by a stranger, paid to bring us satisfaction outside of the movie star popping up on our screen, with a figure you never knew you liked until boredom struck.

But nah its cool, it ain't easy, but its good tho, if you're ready.

Unruly

They call us "UNRULY"

That's their discipline. We have our own. I am obligated to protect

Lord if your listening,

Devil... Now I'm whispering

I prepare by Sipping water and gin. Fresh breath and hydrated. You can't smell my sin. And I don't wine, but...

One of you... Help.

I ain't tryna hurt nobody, but I need a release. The pain is unhealthy, but necessary. I'm charged, admitted as a keeper of peace, shaking hands, we squeeze violent. Tugging war, who will submit, I'm not allowed as a black man, going home to a family, or alone, surviving to create is paramount.

So please approach with good energy. Making Heaven on earth, when you're thinking hellish, depends on what you’re selling. That's what I was taught, but your body language doesn't translate.

Blacktops become blackboards

My screams during flight, give adrenaline as I move and dodge, slide and maneuver. Claps, pound me to A knee, then both. I finally understand, hate and love are sealed in hugs and fists.

Art by Mary Ellen Mark

By Any Means

Ayy, bros and ho’s if you got any excuse for racism go jerk on something big and black until it fires.

Payback is equality.

Positive aint where I Live

Use love as your make up-you'll never have to take it off.

This is a lesson I'm trying to adopt, but I keep rejecting it because it's all we've ever shown, but it turns the sons of night-shaded men into bastards.

Banned Thoughts

When D bag chauvin got sentenced I didn't celebrate, I wasn't even happy. Niggas was looking at me sideways, whities were thinking a Nigger will never be satisfied.

But I saw it for what it was, the govt said we gave you Nggers a win, now you can stop talking bout equality, equity, and the rest of the comfort words America adopted, to collect their checks for showing black people respect.

While raping us for the weed connect, they kept putting red flames to our bodies, and rising to new heights after plugging our lives.

Now y'all see, this trial, corrected the error of allowing blacks to believe and think we have a say.

They about to make that white boy the American Hitler. 

Young Niggas

The saying, “only the good die young”, always filled me a euphoric depression. I felt crazy, with passion believing It was the only way to be remembered, even for a period, short as a young taken life. I just wanted to experience the type of love that hurt and broke you, made you pray it was over, then to survive for revenge. But sometimes, in a lust filled trans; I felt obligated to be receiving a gut-wrenching pain because it meant someone cared enough to make me feel something. Then, when I got over being pussy whipped, I knew I had to go screw any life I could sink my eyes, teeth, tongue, mind, fingers and dick into. That’s what a young man’s dreams are made of.

Then I face my mirror, walking through my neighborhood seeing the poison of my thoughts. Wanting to take, take, take, repeating, plagiarizing the fable of blacks helping through pain. My smile brighter than the spark that started the run. A meteor, hailing, putting crater holes in bodies cradled.

Why?

Because I thought I saw a reflection of a version who could take my love from me. The fault lines written in blood, thin as the chalk outline and tape holding onlookers and instigators behind my decision. I can still blame the life I took, because mine is gone.

Long Live The Queen

Art by Harmonia Rosales

I have no more tears to shed. I haven’t prayed for death this much since getting beat as a kid.

There is only one solution when violence equals our subtraction.

And it does not involve hope.

Waiting just for a little while longer-makes us the project- where completion means destruction.

If self -respect is wealth-who is really broke? The ones who pretend God could live as, and in the color of a ghost. 

What Men Make

Art by Elliot Robbins

Agony warms tears as they rise. It’s the heartburn of the soul...

Dads, fathers, live on a different type of time. They tell and read it depending on how flexible legs are when they spread for air. Arlo, tried to play straight, unlike his pops who switched on women like a sexy walk.

 “I’ll get there when I arrive, and stay, until I get tired, which is soon as I finish, long after I you're ready”, is what Arlo's dad used to tell his partners in heartbreak. Rare as it was for Arlo to see his father, and the excitement of gifts bribing affection and loyalty, to dismiss the women and noises Arlo heard echoing from back rooms where his father made a “quick stop”, which always made him feel his father was growing tired of him. The kids are rarely wrong.

 As Arlo grew, he was motivated from what made people monsters.

“Love makes you lazy. I gotta get up and get it. Don’t have time to be laying and listening to a woman’s plans to make a man less than what conquered her.”

Memorizing and repeating his father’s blueprint, Arlo found a way of life that suited him; in and out- of women, banks, jewelry stores and prison. Until he settled down behind ten years of service.

“How have my longest relationships always involved damaged, dangerous men?" Is what he constantly asked himself

“Do not poison your thoughts-anger and hate is not an antidote.”

Arlo’s celly told him that, after Arlo found out he had a son, by a good girl he liked, but on the inside, good girls and bad minds aint compatible. Until then, Arlo only dreamed of ways to become a legitimate criminal and prison was his final class before graduating and wearing the collar of prestige. Taking courage made him feared by society and civilians.

But the news of his son, made him want to be the man, and the father his never was, a war, hard fought for a black child idolizing their neighbor's hood. For that goal, he needed to do what he had never done, have a positive plan, that didn’t involve manifesting violence.

When Arlo got out, he was twenty-six and his son was thirteen. That good girl was dealing with a good man, he had willed into her life, which made him believe she wasn’t a real one from the beginning.

Arlo’s parole officer gave him a watch and told him-“Take care of your business and I’ll mind my own.”

 Arlo examined the watch, turned his wrist like a child discovering. Every inch, he felt was a step in a new direction- freedom. Arlo made the moves towards improving; secured employment, resisted con - activities except easy women. He reached out to his ex to meet his son. Arlo found a job, hustled up enough money for a whole apartment, away from the halfway house the state committed him to.

On a night when the seasons gave feelings of change, Arlo left work, and cut through a private road. He saw a young man with a familiar face. His stare was strange and held a moment too long- a sign of trouble where he was from. Arlo frowned; a tell, meaning it was time to move on. But instead, the kid stepped towards. Arlo reacted, slowing the youngins clock to a stop.

Arlo stripped him and ran home. His door was next to receive wrath, another issue he needed to fix. This and sex were his release after years of steeling himself and watching men get ironed out simply for showing a smile. He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. After the repairs, his parole officer popped up for a visit.

 "Your son, the one you wished for a relationship with?"

  Arlo nodded impatiently.  “His body was found on the road."

 -When you see people and judge, you can miss love-