An ethereal inversion;
the television’s moonbeams
combining with darkness
masking our mockery;
our shared laughter at
your expense for once
instead of your typical
plucking at our insecurities
with orchestral precision; you,
still the chillest cat in the room,
but your arsenic-tipped wit
replaced by Bible psalms,
and sincerely, instead of
your standard
“The Lord is your shepherd, you shall not want”
atheist parodies.
You didn’t seem to mind,
but in the upside-down,
for once,
the egg was on your face.
I awoke still laughing
at your absurdity.
Dad, you were such a
magnificent bastard back then;
just a gloriously
belittling jackass.
I feared drawing your attention
almost as much as I craved it.
We all hated verbally sparring with you
because you’d gut us like catfish
while taking far more care
not to drop cigarette ash on
your freshly cleaned carpet.
We hated being victims
almost as much as we loved
being living witnesses
to your eviscerations.
But this time, we got your ass.
We ganged-up and nailed you
and that pompous Jehri-Curled afro
to the fucking wall.
You took it surprisingly well
given your massive ego,
but there was no mistaking it;
Boom! Roasted!
On a night we all saw
our man Jordan
get dunked on
and his Bulls lose
by thirty points.
I awoke still laughing
at your comeuppance.
I reached for my cell
to give you a call to remind you
and rub it in your face again;
that you’d finally been dunked-on
by those you’d repeatedly roasted
countless times; after all,
they say you only roast
the ones you love, right?
But as I grabbed my phone to dial you
the punchline came; I remembered it all;
that it was only a dream;
that not once did we ever
get the better of you;
that you probably never would’ve
been cool with that anyway;
that we never watched MJ
lose by thirty with you;
that I’d long forgotten
your phone number;
that in my contacts list
there was a blank spot
where your name should be;
that I hadn’t spoken to you
for nearly a decade,
months before you died.
Sure, whenever I complete a form
that’s nosey enough to ask,
I check the corresponding square,
but I’m just some random guy
born into a reddish-brown shell, and
there’s no option for human doing his best,
given the tattered incomplete playbook
passed down for generations.
Everything I learned about being black
I learned from others, from momma’s
early-warning games that life’s not fair,
the playing field isn’t level,
and the rules are different for folks
who look and sound like us; that the
difficulty settings are disproportionately
skewed; that there are folks who hate me
at first sight, before I could even begin
to hope to win them over
with a smile and a silly joke.
Being black can be tricky, but
what can I definitively
tell you about being black?
You’re better off asking one of my
blood relatives who are black and proud;
I don’t know if I’m not black enough
or not proud enough, but by all accounts,
and my admission, it’s probably both.
I’m amused by the idea of claiming pride
in something I had no control over;
it’s not like I achieved anything; it’s not
like I’m one of the best blacks like Barack
or Beyoncé or K-Dot; I’m just some dude
who popped out of his momma with
reddish-brown skin, a fear of
creepy-crawlies, and a love of words.
Being black can be bemusing, but what
can I honestly tell you about being black?
To be honest, I don’t think about it
very much these days, not unless
circumstances compel me to.
I’m certainly not doing it right,
just ask anybody with the
privilege of voicing opinion;
I don’t speak the language well enough
for anyone; if I’m confident, I’m too uppity;
if I’m insecure, I need to be saved
from my own ignorance; if I’m silent,
I’m one of the sneaky ones; if I’m loud,
I’m one of the angry ones; if I’m
actually angry, I’m a threat
that needs to be stopped by any means
that will most likely withstand
judicial scrutiny.
Being black can be maddening, but
what can I unequivocally
tell you about being black?
It would seem that I’m unqualified
to say for absolute certain.
My chest rises and falls to its own cadence.
I smile big smiles, laugh belly-laughs, and
dream dreams like any other common human.
Tears well in my eyes, and I weep
openly during sappy love stories,
or when a vigilante is acquitted
by his peers for murdering one of my peers.
(Granted, we’re all peers, but my neglecting
to use first-person singular possessive here
could be perceived as not black enough.
Refer to “being black can be tricky” above.)
I have irrational fears of spiders and zombies,
and a hyper-rational fear of meeting
the wrong policeman in a dark alley
after fitting the description.
You know the description;
it’s always the same description.
Being black can be terrifying.
But what can I fearlessly
tell you about being black?
It can be tricky, bemusing,
maddening, terrifying,
all these things at once,
and sometimes, when I’m alone,
staring at the stars above
on the blackest night,
as starlight takes eons to reach
where blackness has already been,
waiting indifferently for it,
it is an absence of all these things,
for when the cosmos
overpowers my brown eyes
with overwhelming proof
of my own individual insignificance,
that is when the truth speaks to me,
that being black is human,
and is but one of many facets
of our collective humanity.
***
Trigger warning: The video below contains satirical graphic gun violence.
Inspired by dVerse dVerse Poetics: On Shades of Black, hosted by anmol(alias HA). Other writers contributed to the prompt here. I know this one’s in dire need of editing, but I may leave it as is, as it came from an honest thread of thought.
“Though your eyes are kind, I’m afraid,” she confessed, lying nude before me.
“Me too,” I said through angelic gaze, “but I see something in you that I can’t explain.” I gorged myself upon her kiss. “Deep within you; I must have it,” I continued urgently in the fading light, embracing her shoulders gently, sliding towards her neck, enclosing her throat with the yip of her last gasp, her fingernails, sunk into my clenching forearms before dropping lifelessly, dangling from her naked corpse.
My ecstasy was interrupted by her now-disembodied laughter. “Foolish mortal,” she hissed, “now you are mine forever,” as my body slowly dissolved. “Of all my new candidates, you surrendered yourself completely. Now you will never know pleasure without death; never the sensual without senescence. This is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence reserved for only my favorite Incubi.”
Grasp that lightning if you must;
harvest it, gorge yourself upon it,
repurpose it to power your safe haven,
getaway vehicle, or doomsday device,
whichever you choose;
I’m not qualified to judge.
Ask my mother.
She knows. She knew
way back when I was 16 years old
that I wasn’t shit
and my grudge-fueled quest
to prove her wrong succeeded
at proving her both absolutely wrong
and unequivocally right like an
accidental Schrodinger’s cat experiment.
Inability to forgive
converted my potential into kinetic,
driving my momentum
into achievements I never imagined for myself,
and it also left me lifeless,
dead-eyed,
inside an unremarkable box,
waiting to be discovered by wiser forces.
Forgiveness is for old folks
who no longer have the energy for grudges;
many of whom are gathering
their remaining momentum
in a last-ditch effort of
getting into heaven.
Suddenly
the meaning of The Lord’s Prayer
crystallizes before them,
and they’re angling for a slice of salvation pie.
I don’t know much about forgiveness,
but I do know how it feels to run out of steam,
finding myself alone with regret. Nowadays,
I find both grudges and forgiveness
equally inert.
All that matters now lie within
taking accurate readings
and observing what is.
***
Floating behind me,
a sea of blue, an immense sphere
comprising all that I know,
adore and despise,
breathe and asphyxiate,
drink and drown.
Ahead, you glisten, in quiet peril
reflecting light, juxtaposed in endless black,
after reporting a problem, drifting away,
brave smile in your voice
unintelligible
at this growing distance.
“You’re too late,” you said,
while still in range,
the warmth in your voice
transcending the void,
inexplicably soothing
my chilly fingers
and frosty extremities.
“Oh shit,” I said,
profanely breaking protocol
as the aspect of you
slowly shrank to a point of light.
“I’m sorry,” I offered to the magnets
within the transmitter mic,
a vain effort to overrule
our physical plane.
“It’s ok,” you said tenderly,
reassuring neither of us,
us both ignoring the
depleting oxygen alarms.
“I’m on to my next waypoint.
We’ll have to rendezvous
at the next target window,”
you declare as if our time were not
fleeting, finite,
our fates fixed.
You disappeared beyond the thin blue line,
leaving me to contend with the enormity
of the pale blue light and
an hour of radio silence,
floating above our northern hemisphere,
tilting away, towards winter.
“You free?” your voice vibrated
into my anxious receiver
after a maddeningly long silence
as your glimmer emerged
from the far-side,
rising to rival Venus-glow
and moondust.
“Yes,” I replied quickly,
maneuvering towards a
rendezvous altitude.
“I’m listening. I’m here.”
Then everything went null,
no heat, no cold,
not even light or shadow or grey,
leaving us clasping onto nothing.
***
The Real Truth (Or Why Nobody Asks Me to Deliver Toasts at Weddings or Family Feasts)
And what
do any of you
know of Truth?
None of you would know it
not even if it rose in the east,
set in the west,
and pelted you with harmful UV rays
as you lean into his warmth,
grinning like a slow-cooked idiot.
Slowly he rises,
bringing light, warmth,
and terminal cancer,
the indifferent promise
of life and death.
We’ll sing in praise of the former
screening the latter
with sweetly scented chemicals
that lead to a sweeter-scented
terminal cancer.
Life, like the sun
which nourishes and imperils us,
is a massively limited,
egregiously finite
string of things that don’t matter,
and the only constant is
its inevitable return to the lifeless void;
this inevitability is not to be
praised nor condemned, for
to try is to embrace the lie,
not that it matters how infinity is received,
for it will be visited upon you inevitably
and nothing you leave behind,
not even progeny, not even monuments,
not even this truthful tribute will matter,
for none of it will outlast the inevitability.
Life is a lie, death is the Truth,
and I know of no one, good or evil,
who has faced this Truth
with grace and equanimity
who has ever lived to tell the tale.
Now stop wasting everyone’s time
and let us enjoy this bountiful harvest
grown in the light of Truth.
***
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 