Skip to main content

Young Men

The sound of an ice-cream truck,
Down the hill at St. Nicholas and 135th, Harlem.
I sit way up at the top, 
Don't worry, Roomie,
Far from anyone. 
You're the only one I don't talk to, 
Nowadays.
Little dogs,
Cloth masks,
Like this is permanent or something.
Someone asked me if I'd been writing,
I said, I've thought about it.
Even that felt like a lie.
It's so beautiful and calm in the park, today.
It feels untouchable.
Sacred.
References to the color green.
Like that painting.
A young man lays on a rock with his shirt off,
Several feet away.
He looks so peaceful. Quiet. Small.
Is it important to mention his race?
It's the way we tell stories in America.
He looks so peaceful.
Like the middle of Spring.
Ahmaud was running. 
Exercising two days just before his birthday.
Just before Mother's Day.
I can imagine running down a residential road in Georgia,
It just sounds peaceful,
Open.
Feeling good about getting out,
Moving my body,
Was he thinking of affirmations for his year ahead?
Putting positivity out into the universe.
Breathing, deeply in and out,
His chakras open,
His heart open,
His mind quiet?
Was he listening to music?
Was he scared?
This young man lays on the rock asleep. 
Just asleep.
So peaceful.
Breathing in and out.
Sun on his face. 
I walked over here past multiple gatherings of empty bottles,
Deflated balloons, 
Color printed pictures,
Dates,
Beginnings and endlings,
Urban shrines,
To people fallen in the war that is America. 
The largest gathering of offerings was for Geo.
Who weeks ago,
Late at night before I was to hop onto another blocking of squares on the screen, with friends back home in Los Angeles. 
I hear 4, thick, "Bap!" "Bap!" "Bap!" "Bap!" sound just outside, down the block of my apartment on 143rd and Lenox.
I freeze,
I hear running,
They stop right in front of my bedroom window.
"Geo" has been shot. 
I know that's his name, because his friends are yelling it over and over.,
"Geo!" "He's bleeding." "He's chocking." "Stay with us." "Geo, NOO!"
I duck behind my bed.
Stray bullets,
Drive bys,
These are words I grew up with,
On the local news.
I dial 9-1-1. 
Sirens, more sirens.
Called sirens. 
They're here quickly,
They don't drive away.
They're trying to revive Geo right there. 
I wondered in the weeks past if he had lived.
Someone told me to pray for him,
I did.
Today I saw his name.
On a color printer piece of paper.
As I walked to the park at 135th and St. Nich.
Just for some fresh air,
Some exercise.
Some sun. 
The young man is awake now,
He sits up on the rock.
A distance so near,
Here,
In the park,
Up the hill.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Old Earth

For the longest time, we called you the moon Because from where we could see You looked abandoned And blue Like nighttime We thought we understood how you felt Another room In a home That was a notch on our belt So we burned up the oceans And drowned out our skies Until even the islands began to Become dry And suddenly soon We'll stand crying over valleys abandoned and blue With a far, new born, planet Calling us moon. 
Post a Comment
Read more

A Shake In The Matter.

Have you ever had the thought, ‘If I were white, how different my experience would be. How much more opportunity I would’ve had. How much less stress and anxiety I might experience. How much more attention and validation I might’ve received. How much more money I might have made. How much more acceptance I might’ve felt. How much more ease with which I might’ve moved through the world without fear?’ Imagine that, an existence not governed by fear. And how not once would I have had to think about any of it. Because it would’ve just been there. Been a part of the truth. The air. There would be no space to move through because of the intrinsic ownership granted in the space in which I was, simply because I am. No guessing. No adjusting. Just fully taking up whole space wherever I went. So maybe this idea of white fragility, white questioning, white discomfort, white supremacy is actually good for all of us to experience and see. To have the switch flipped. For everyone to get even just a...
Post a Comment
Read more

Happiness

April 08, 2011 Happiness Page 102 " We come to know happiness, joy and freedom. " Basic Text, p. 91 If someone stopped you on the street today and asked if you were happy, what would you say? "Well, gee, let's see... I have a place to live, food in the refrigerator, a job, my car is running... Well, yes, I guess I'm happy," you might respond. These are outward examples of things that many of us have traditionally associated with happiness. We often forget, however, that happiness is a choice; no one can make us happy. Happiness is what we find in our involvement with Narcotics Anonymous. The happiness we derive from a life focused on service to the addict who still suffers is great indeed. When we place service to others ahead of our own desires, we find that we take the focus off ourselves. As a result, we live a more contented, harmonious life. In being of service to others, we find our own needs more than fulfilled. Happiness. What is it, re...
Post a Comment
Read more