I WISH A MUTHA WOULD
Art by Jordan Casteel
I started by wishing him well but ended wishing I killed him.
All of them actually. They called me all sorts of names. Imagine that. These well-wishers. happily tossing money but cursing those they see take it.
One guy in particular, looked as if he was full of war. Maybe one day I will eat that good. That was one of my wishes.
The deep grooves in his head looked like a freshly plotted cemetery. He knew where the bodies were hidden. He pointed at me with both hands as if I was the target.
‘This is a wishing well you…’ He allowed the on-lookers to finish his sentence, whipping fists full of coin, candy, and shoes.
I knew people paid to end lives, and clasped my hands in prayer, then rubbed my face, neck, and arms with water so they wouldn’t have a clear patch of skin to tattoo their curses.
But this guy… He was dressed smart, in what I imagine an ivy league professor to wear. Leather man purse. I think the pants are called tweed. A white bow tie, and dark shirt.
He looked younger than I imagined a professor to be, in spite of his manicured beard speckled with grey. I think it was the Viking strip mounted on his head that made me question his age. Maybe he was too old to still really fight for something other than harassing… Well… Nobody ever seems too age out of that.
Standing knee deep, picking up coins, soaked. Splashing intruders.
I thought:
‘I’m getting paid for cleaning, so why is everyone so mad?’
I knew I could mop him up. The stringy fingers of his supporters slid him to safety before I drowned him in blood.
I wasn’t so lucky. I laid stiff and cold as the coins in the well from their pushes and lashes.
‘You are disrespecting peoples wishes.’ He yelled.
I was glad he didn’t say prayers. cause, then, I might’of really tried to kill him. Everybody knows prayers are free. That’s really what wishes are anyway.
Right now, all I want is to see tomorrow.
Angels With Handsome Faces
Art by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye
Lonnie hated his name. It wasn’t tough enough, didn’t match… Him.
His mother had always wanted a girl, and when she saw his sweet face…
His father wasn’t around…
She told him:
“When I named you” …
She coughed a heavy haze. Stared at it. Slapped it away, distorting reminders of regret. The way her and Lonnie’s smoke would tango. But they never danced around passion. Her thoughts and speech, trailed like screams of a fall.
“He”…
“Your father was after a girl too. Somewhere” … “He still hasn’t found…”
When Lonnie had his own son, he vowed to be different. His son would have a good name. Nothing weak, trendy, or tragic. A strong one, to keep everyone in place. A name to be remembered.
When Lonnie’s son was born-the boy cried so much, Lonnie was sure he would shrivel and dry out. He Wondered if he actually had a girl.
“Boys ain’t supposed to cry like that!”
The boy’s mother would say:
“He just needs a little love.” As she reached for him. “
Lonnie pinched before handing the boy over. Shock brings the man out. If he was gonna cry, it better be for a reason. Lonnie fed him, hot bottles that bit his throat and tore out screams.
Lonnie yelled:
“pick yourself up”, when he fell.
If Lonnie did have to help, he squeezed hard, until knuckles and bones popped, until asking for help associated with torture and weakness.
Funny thing about children of a certain age-they have a forgiving spirit. Angels in flesh turned into devils. Trying their entire life to ignore the grave sculpted and furnished by their parents.
When Lonnie’s son tried to hug him, Lonnie pushed him.
“Be ready for anything.”
Next, was a slap then a punch.
“I am not your mother.” A firm handshake is the only greeting a man needs.”
What the son needed, he realized by the age anger and pleasure makes penises hard as fists, was to be out, away from the den where his father prowled.
This taught him the value of time. He wasted so much, avoiding his father, who spread his like fantasies from scented wind. He didn’t notice his mother wilting from pollution. Strong roots can only survive so long, being pulled, struck, stripped from every direction, in the place they are supposed to be protected.
When Lonnie returned to bury his wife, he was greeted with the warmth of a wildfire.
Old age brings remorse. And it’s often one sided- like that grave Lonnie’s son forced him into.
Who YOU Calling Toxic
Listen. Man, if you call me toxic one more time. Imma tell you to stop being a bitch. All my problems don’t involve my dick. But I do wanna fuck everybody up that’s minding my business.
Not always, not every day. I’m peaceful enough not to involve or blame anyone for my problems. I don’t care how bad I had it, I’m moving past that. But if that’s all you wanna discuss and harass me when I show love I will bust, so you have to stitch and bandage your mouth menstration.
BITCH!
HEARTBREAKER
The destruction I seen people halfway survive- when I was young and strong enough to get up and move away from caused me to look at them as weak. The way children look at fat parents and spouses look at their bed-guests who used to chase and be their dreams.
As age and weight hold down bad decisions, and you represent everything you swore to never become. Making friends with and becoming the worst- because you can depend on going down together. That becomes a different kind of happiness. A different type of heartbreak. Allowing and encouraging betrayal.
Then, people move on. They change, die, or both, and leave you hanging. Until you think about hanging and live surrounded by misery. This is when people think they can’t solve their own problems.
But you are always the answer. People don’t always believe that and that’s the real heartbreak.
FRIENDSHIP
Sometimes you have to let that ship sail.
If I’m not being friendly, it’s because I’m treating myself better than you do.
TABERNACLE
Vibrating upon the ears of listeners was the scratching sound of decisive hands, messaging delicate pages expressing life that ends miserably for those who don’t pay attention.
MAN;
I’m from a place where youth didn’t experience the joy of presence. You had to be two steps ahead or get flipped backwards. The only thing that turned old was their soul. But to change-you have to believe it’s worth the price of allowing something bigger to take control.
BOY:
God was a damned man. I have no use for prayer. Anything allowing defeat can’t be a savior. He abandoned his son and his mother. So he can’t be my idol-leading me to a place to sing and dance. Wash my senses with praise by giving up my finances. Hope never put food in my belly. Wishing won’t take my troubles away. Building worship without jobs, taught me how to rob. If this is what a man does, I’ll stay a boy until my dying day.
We all tune out people who beat us down with lessons if they haven’t achieved the success they are expressing.
HOME-BODY
Where I'm at.
My home is where my mind is. I try to open up to see things different, air out differences. But I like the same things. My way. You will like it too or go find another. I will change at any moment, so be ready to go.
You don’t have to smile, but don't frown at my honesty. I let it go soon as its said. I like to move on-not dance around and trip over it.
I just wanna sit. Enjoy my heaven for a minute. Between your eyes. Between your lips. Between your hips. Which-ever you choose to let me in. But pleasure makes me want to escape when it becomes painful to maintain.
Going through hell can bring peace. The fire of impatience makes it hard to see. I try to give, but the depth is suffocating. That may not be hard to hear but constant struggle makes difficult to speak.
SPAGHETTI DAY
Do you remember when you were told.---”You keep eatin that shit, that’s what you gonna become.”
Well.---Now that I am done ranting.
This is for my spaghetti lovers.
Those wiggly, long, slimey’s, flavored to your own belief. Slipping and sliding down.
Smooth and stringy like...
And the sauce.
Red and wet or White and sticky.
Don’t think.---Just dive in.
You will love the various seasonings.
Enjoy dinner tonight.
ON THE COUCH (GRIZZLY THERAPY)
Art by Kharbine Tapabor
If you’re thinking-He’s watching your curves as you sit. If you can move like the ocean of bodies searching for an escape. Wet from make-up sex and the pain of never recovering from mistakes.
Ahhh-you are half right.
This is why I don’t need therapy.
FUCK YOUR THERAPY!
LISTEN! I believe in it for people who can’t find another way to help themselves. At one point in my life, I thought I wanted to be a psychologist. But I’m always too busy working out my own problems-helping everyone I love-love me more. And the ones that don’t, well they just don’t know me intimately. Because everybody loves other people’s pain.
Listen. I talk to myself enough. I tell myself the truth-honest-brutal-sympathetic, enough to lay in my own bed and not shrink my issues into hourly rates cries and tissues.
If I want to kill myself or you, I know why. Everybody ain’t always happy.
Ahhh-I just thought of this-Listen! I don’t like being lectured or preached to because fathers and preachers let pussy make them foolish enough to fuck up families.
Now that was therapeutic.
DAD PSYCHOLOGY
Damn.
Stop chasing, the rapist of your life. Pleasure that has you sitting up late nights, rocking on the edge. Reaching to shut off your lights.
Refusing to look at the life's you shattered. All the beauty you made ugly. Because fuck faces are satisfying as rubbing a horrible wound while its healing.
What am I saying?
More money and more bitches. Everybody’s addiction. The only truth you can't deny. Like a man’s love adjusting and aging with his children. Growing strong as a tantrum, as they weaken from their first crush. Trying to break the bond before they get fucked.
He thinks?
What if I lose my daughter to my idea of perfection? Men reject their sons for less. Because our dreams were excused after we decided to let go. Then we pass as the ass. Shitting on everyone.
For no good reason. Just old, useless beliefs. But I get to use them to use somebody. I'm guilty but not responsible. Damn, I'm where they get it from.
URBANIA
Image created on Canva by Borcelle
People used to say “urban” as a slick way to let Blacks know we were too ghetto and hood. Only good as the fast food, speeding up our bad decisions.
As if they invented a new way of living, they advertise new beginnings. Keeping us collared, bundled, dirty as a dollar. While we pay to keep theirs white, our forced smiles entertain, as they watch us grimace to survive cold nights.
This city! Grey dreary, foggy most of the year. Mindful of the way it medicates depression. On every corner, through every mirror, patriot healers stand, leading another business succession.
Blossoming like virgins and cherries. The smell of the most vibrant narcotic. Potent as mind copulation that tingles the spine.
Powerful, calm and inviting. The reason the hood needs a mental plan. Common place for homes with the highest income to provide room on every corner to house a make-shift slum.
Here, it makes sense to be discourteous, where people like me chase revenge and can barely pay rent. Trying to clean by airing dirt, but nobody gets close enough to care for the ones hurting.
A place where we contract equality. And salaried caregivers become useless officials, teaching kids to get ahead by making drug deals. Concealing pollution, bodily discharge, needles from paraphernalia and shrubs-poking my pockets for bread.
The city attempts relief when I swell up with anger. Punishing small businesses and taxing the GAY and BIPOC community for trying to make equity more than a profitable statement.
A place covered with towering greenery. Landscape breathtaking as a redhead running through a field. Where I get fired on and shamed for defending my family.
To say they accomplished something, people try to befriend a N.I.G.G.A.—I mean a MAN like me.
THE HOLY SPIRIT
Art from Outkast album Stankonia
I stumbled up the stairs of the church’s basement. Exhausted and void of the giving spirit. I just watched angels stripping at the UNDERGROUND CLUB.
It was the only place I prayed for my devilish thoughts to come true. And was horrified when they did, but only for a moment because it felt like an escape I never wanted to return from.
It’s where I learned everything’s born from and rooted in some type of selfishness and sin. So, I never feel guilty about pleasure because I pay for everything I do.
The memory still burns like a sermon mysteriously describing all my current problems-making me think “one of these fuckers is telling all the business”.
The shivers and spirit of filling your partner’s holes and body during your godliest and their most vulnerable moment
THE BLUEPRINT
The school to prison pipeline is also mental.
Blacks are taught misery is where they belong. White authors with racist dialogue are more damaging than any rap song.
Image created on Canva by Yulia Frost Studios
Follow the scheme.
25 to life-go to school for 12 years and conform. Roll the dice hoping the next seven rewards. Debt sinks you to depths you can’t emerge from.
You don’t see any middle-aged Blacks raising anything but high blood pressure. Or a White flag, thinking it will shield and allow government assistance.
The school to prison pipeline is also mental. Blacks are taught misery is where they belong. White authors with racist dialogue are more damaging than any rap song.
Schools ban books that describe the entire horrible truth but require ones describing White supremacy. Encouraging students to imitate White leaders who destroyed civilizations and claimed self-defense in order to build their own. But teach Black leaders who mainly operated through peace, and proudly defended their families and homes were a threat to humanity.
Follow the scheme.
What type of business remains when the world knows they covered up lies? I’m not just talking about the cities where I live and frequent-Lacey and Olympia Washington.
I’m also talking about the North Thurston Public School District.
The adults in charge are insane. The youth have always had the greatest influence on culture and society, but adults refuse to listen.
So, let’s talk man to man or parent to parent. Since you claim your kids are here too. That’s obviously why the problem is worse.
Don’t roll your eyes or tense up, like when your real spouse pops up and sees you showing more affection to your work partner than your family.
But seriously what the fuck do you think you’re teaching students when you screw them over for trying to improve a broken system.
I know you see the anger, depression, and violence brewing because of your calculated ignorance.
Follow the scheme.
How much time do you expect to be given? You must think we are dumb because we’re not paid high salaries to teach low expectations. If you knock me down, then say "we will help you, but, only when you show patience. You know there has to be retaliation.
You think we're ignorant and don’t notice you giving more respect to livestock than our livelihood. But we have never been obedient or gone quiet to slaughter.
You swap us for grades and funds.
Operating as a Crime family. copping anything tying us to growth. You have meetings about our minds and say it’s none of our business when you fail us.
When I read the mis-education of the negro and the letters of Willie Lynch, all I could think was, we still going through this.
The district calls it business. But that's all cracking the Black mind ever was.
With brute force you couldn't penetrate. We hold the creators blood so we never hated. But how could we not take it personal.
The cities cracking down Blacks in business but reward White smoker’s dreams, pushing weight on every corner.
But I'm the ass-hole, when I expose the shit you say and do.
A new law was passed, to supposedly cut Black in, but let’s see who gets the raw deal when profits are divided.
Also, to the journalists, who refuse to listen. BSU’s issue with the district didn’t happen because of the basketball game. If you won’t print the truth, You are part of the problem.
KEEPING IT REAL
The cemetery where I’m from is a hotel for gangsters. The prisons standing guard in the background is home to everyone dying to get in.
Don’t get trapped in the system. We need the real ones teaching the youngen’s how the real world works.
O’l Boy
His two alters. Guiders and influencers of the life he desired and should’ve avoided. Perfect as a wedding day mirror swirling with images of single nights.
Ol’boy avoided glancing too long because his brain screamed danger, envy, and whispers that seduced women and men.
Ol’ boy sat in silence, trying to hide his heart. It was Shattering as he read, head down, avoiding his judges. His lips moved fast, slowing at words he wished he could erase by skipping. But the more he read, he repeated. The same disgusting sickening sickness. Cringe worthy, regretful words. Words that felt perfect when spit. When they nurtured selfishness.
Ol’ boy read the same words so many times his mind stuttered. He blinked hard to realign his sight and regain the cadence used to talk his way through life. Words of heartbreak. Yeah… bitch this, pussy that, N!!!er, cracker, blah, blah, blah. Along with other heartfelt, home bred, descriptions. Nothing too disrespectful or racist, only what the world now regards as offensive. You know- Man shit. Tough guy shit. The excusable excuses.
He thought, I didn’t, I couldn’t. He wanted to look up and say those words but kept his head down. Staring, as if the words would morph into a mother’s forgiveness.
Reaching the end, Ol’ boy read the words, Invitation to your final resting place. Now he looked up at the two… Things? Figures?
“Wait a minute, don’t I have time to change?” He hunched, struggling to inhale life.
His two alters. Guiders and influencers of the life he desired and should’ve avoided. Perfect as a wedding day mirror swirling with images of single nights. Ol’boy avoided glancing too long because his brain screamed danger, envy, and whispers that seduced women and men.
Starboy spoke ‘I want to give you a chance, but your habit is to waste it’
Pussy Bandit laughed, ‘You wanta play a game? You know you do.’ Then coldly, ‘If I were dying to survive, I would’
Ol’ boy sucked in a breath, tilting his head to allow more. He nodded and exhaled, craving the drugs shredding his lungs and body.
His alters presented the game pieces; a lighter, notebook and pen. Starboy struck the lighter, and watched calmly as the flame leaned, lunged towards, and grabbed at, its current soul mate.
Pussy Bandit gripped and extinguished the flame. ‘You have to write a love letter to your children before the fire burns the entire notebook.
A sting of regret shot through Ol’ boy like he was pissing out an infucktion. “What do I write?”
‘THEY’RE YOUR CHILDREN!’ Pussy Bandit snapped. He held up the notebook and continued. ‘That, similar to your life, is up to you’
“But. How does it change my life?”
Starboy looked at his twin ‘he still cannot make a good decision during great opportunities.’ Then slid his gaze towards Ol’ boy. ‘And THAT, is why you’re in this position.’
‘We should just let him suffer the end he chose?’.
Ol’ boy, waved his hand. He reached to retrieve the notebook, which Pussy Bandit reluctantly gave, after an explanation of rules.
‘The game is called branching. You are the root of your family tree. Growth depends on nurturing. Reaching people, and heights worthy of dreams.’
‘The twist is.’ He held up the lighter,
‘You have to finish before your fire burns you out.’
Starboy interrupted. ‘The fire never stops; and crying, yelling, or any movement other than writing makes it worse.’
Like a one-man band, Ol’ boy inhaled a wheeze, pointed with a conducting finger, and exhaled a nasally tune of words “I. Am. Ready.”
They handed O’l boy the pieces, and in unison stated. ‘Once you begin, don’t stop.’
O’l boy wrote fast and furiously. Hoping it would make sense.
Dear friends, family, children, selfishness is necessary selfish is necessary but making family pay for it your bad habits carelessness pulling the old baggage from childhood repacking refurbishing instead of throwing away the heavy burdening bruising waste, keeps you broke and poor but like all vices and destruction we find a way to pay and it normally breaks us make the gamble worth it.
He began to cry. The fire pinched the pinky of the hand he held the notebook with. He winced. He shook his hand. The fire bit hard. Ol’ boy slapped at the fire, which jumped to the notebook. Ol’ boy waved the notebook like a fan, but the fire held on and smiled, amused at the ride.
Pussy Bandit threw his hands up. Starboy held his hand out. Pussy Bandit handed over family pictures and birth certificates, as if losing a bet.
Ol’ boy slapped the notebook and pleaded.
‘I’m sorry. I want to live, why couldn’t it have been?” He Coughed.
The Fire: jumped to Ol ’boy’s head, leaving babies on the paper. Burning and gliding effortlessly with fearless beautiful chaos. Revealing the identical seduction of love, death and violence.
Ol’ boy scribbled fast, almost in a blur now. Trying not to think only made him think more. He glanced at the fire and swore he saw his own face and heard calm whistling between laughs.
Ashes branched up and out into life, air, the world. Whispering tears of old souls. Leaving behind the world they allowed.
ARE YOU A BELIEVER?
Yup-In myself.
I believe in my family. I believe in my friends. I believe most people age good. I believe in helping when I can.
Today that’s all that matters.
PAUL BEARER
He was there to put Peter in the ground. A solid man and friend. The rock was more than a nickname. He built and destroyed, depending on how you moved. You felt him before you saw him.
He always wondered; “Why was Black the color of mourning? Because Angels had to be Black if ghosts were White.”
It was cold out. Fellas pranced, rubbed their hands together, imagining a warm drink and soft body between them. Ladies were doing the I have to pee dance.
Paul smirked. His fists, bullets, and dick made people dance too.
My Favorite God (WOMAN)
Art by Mahsa Khazeni (Uterus no. 1)
Woman!
Wo-man!!
Whoa-man !!!
Your duality is unique.
Mistakenly looked upon as timid, but, you, make the toughest man weak.
Regardless of the ring, a king kneels to his queen.
Without the lioness, man’s pride does not eat.
Religion has lied and misled, stating you are the cause of sin and dread.
The truth is,
without WOMAN,
life would not exist.
…….Ahhhhh, GODDAMN
That body. That beauty. That booty. Those insides. Soft, wet, warm, kind and wild. Your Mind-see, man is not shallow or vain all the time.
Yes, I Know
Sometimes, what I do is wrong, but sometimes it’s necessary.
I can stomach my truth, so I don’t ignore the potency of my stench.
I let my scars hide what I haven’t recovered. I come from selfish love. Sweat and tears is how I make up.
If you want more, you have to help, or else do it yourself.