Graffiti Nommo: Spoken Word and

Short Stories from the Sunsum

Nikala Asante

For Martina, Aaliyah, and Bria

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Contents
Spoken Word:
Water 7 Enslaved 9 Never Again 13 The Revolution 18 Freedom 21 Thankful 24 For Colored Girls who Feel like Bitches after Watching Black TV (mature language) 29 The Future 32

Short Stories:
The Reality of Wishes (mature language) 36 Liberation 55 Finding God 64

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Spoken Word

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water
I am powerful. I nourish babies into men, Men into warriors, Quench the angry thirst of war With nothing more Than a gentle kiss, I am mist. I am uncompromising, yet adaptive, Unchanging change, I am rain. Erode a mountain range, Wither entire plains by denying my love; I am above, below, and everywhere. Stones that may destroy others flow through me, Shaped by my gentle touch until they cease to exist; Dams set to block me, I rise over in mist. Nothing is inaccessible to me, I am eternal. Drink of me until you are full,
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Bathe in me until you are pure; In your cleansing, I remain clean. You cannot drain me. You cannot taint me. I am self-replenishing, Not diminishable, I am life, I am water.

Enslaved
I freed a thousand slaves I could have freed a thousand more if only they knew they were slaves. Harriet Tubman I am not a slave to life Life is a slave to me I only serve one master My God And gratefully I serve not the past Digging up graves to walk as the living dead I serve not man Setting aside self-purpose To open legs I am not pleasure I am not pain I am not capitalism Nor self-gain I am not sacrificing integrity for a name Or a little bit of change That I could save myself
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I am not a slave to life Life is a slave to me And Im sure as hell not a slave to death Not even spiritually And I want to thank every force of darkness that came against me You only made me stronger Isnt funny how we all get used for Gods purpose eventually? Were free - we are slaves no longer Unless we enslave ourselves And I, know better than anybody About lying on a bed of rusty nails that I made myself I Have been enslaved To lack of self-esteem Choking on my own bile as I rode the mile Lacking faith on the back of broken dreams And I, know better than anybody How hope demeans despair Feeling discontent and comfortable at the same time Is about as self-destructive As tearing your own soul to pieces
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For I, have been enslaved To taking no action While giving faith as a whole to Jesus Through only supplication While I remained stagnant with my burdens on my back In the same messed up situation I Have been enslaved to silence And pen and paper To sensitivity, and subjectivity to labels To naivet, and a vengeance to turn the tables On those who hurt me because I let them do it Ate my insides because of my damned pride While they allowed God to help them through it And I Was angry by my self I Have been enslaved To lying to others to hide myself Afraid
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That those who could see me, could hurt me Unaware that in order to love me they had to know me And still I am only as free as I allow myself to be Anytime I can lose my sight To any wants or needs that I dont fully believe in receiving Through the higher power Who gave me life, But I have never been a slave to life.

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Never Again
Never Again Never Again Youll never lay a hand on me again Loving you should be the eighth deadly sin Forceful it reigns over me and keeps pulling me back in And pushing me back out Into tears that tear across my cheeks Raging streaks that eat at me and memories that leave me bleeding Repeatedly. I look in the mirror everyday avoiding the scars Focusing my heart on the positive, I had almost all but forgot, Not the issue that has been over thought out and shared by other women Who had been through the same bouts; And comforted by friends and lovers who said
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That you were less than a man, but the fury that lied behind your eyes Every time you raised your hand. The quick, heated, quick-tempered grabs at me That had me panting frantically On the floor, Screaming, scratching, for sanity Still shaking, aching as you revert back to Romancing me Baby Baby And you cried with me Held my sore frame and lied with me Kissed my wounds and plied at me Please don't leave This is not the man I desire to be Stop lying, Stop lying, Stop lying to me!
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And who else could I tell, confide in but you, The reason I kept residing with you, My daily death and my life lied in you, Head down as I just kept siding with you, I just love him I loved you, and you knew it, You used it, as you kept doing the same shit, Made me feel like I would be less if I left, And if I came back, I would have to prove it Prove my love all over Like I was the one that was ever in the wrong, Broken record Wait Turn off this damn song Never Again! I don't care if you have trust issues or insecurities lying from childhood abuse or if you were in a foster home because of drugs your mother used,

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I couldn't give a damn about your past relationships where they just didn't understand; Never Again Never Again You will never lay a hand on me again! Fear lies in my heart of Having another gash across my face And my body trembles to remember the Pain that shot through my small frame I forgave you enough to let you see your child And have faith to be protected through only Him But if you ever I will gather every power in me to end your breathing from within. Never Again Never Again You will never lay a hand on me again.

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The Revolution
(a tribute to Gil Scott Heron) The Revolution Will not be televised, but it will be YouTubed. Satire masked in parody politically With an intermission by Rihanna Now that it's reigning more than ever A thirteen year old will teach you to belly roll Followed by Dick Cheney, plainly Supermanning that hoe. Yes, the Revolution will not be televised But it will be YouTubed. Available in Chinese and Japanese on Youku Clipped into pictures on Flickr Emailed on Yahoo, with over a million MySpace hits And if you missed the last season, Please just Google this Sponsored by Neutrogena, Smirnoff Ice, And Marlboro Smooth
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Yes, the Revolution will not be televised But it will be YouTubed Next to Janet Jackson's leather whatever Come loose There will be Jesus in dreads With Crunk Juice And ice I commented twice And made a video reply It's on my playlist, favorites, and top five You can watch it live on iPod Listen through your Bluetooth The revolution will not be televised But it will be YouTubed. It will only contain soft porn You will have to click PayPal for more For the hardcore It will feature Hannah Montana With comedic relief by Kumar and Harold And Britney Spears... Played by Will Ferrell.

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It will have a theme song, a blog A fan page, and a Facebook group too, The revolution will not be televised, But it will be YouTubed.

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Freedom
Freedom? A popular pastime at best, Pass me a Newport and a Stimulus Check. Freedom is: Shunning Rap Music Locking your hair Bangles, Bracelets, and Head wraps Flea Market Dashikis Trading red meat for seaweed and tofu Reciting mantras in open mic spots And I fly... And I fly... And I flyyyyyy... In a slowww motion voice. Trading your Jergens for Shea Butter Trading your cigarettes for marijuana Freedom? A pointless personality stretch Pass me a Newport and a stimulus check.

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Define free Your visions of new niches Fail to define me I find free In the bottom of a bottle of White Zinfandel With a Blues and Alternative Rock Mix CD On repeat Because Neo-soul Does not Make you free, Wearing my hair however I damn well please Since thinking independently starts with me A follower is still a follower No matter the label of the sheep Freedom? Is never found on the tail end of someone else Freedom is personal growth without sacrificing self Freedom is adaptation under duress Constant life achieved by constant deaths Freedom is: Loving what you do
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No matter what that is Long as its genuinely you. Freedom is not: Earthy tones and Congo beats Is not a costume You can disregard with the times Is not deep, throaty, repetitive lines "And I fly... And I fly... And I flyyyyy..." Freedom is not pass/fail Freedom is simple Freedom is self.

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Thankful
It does not make me a racist That I limit miscegenation to my coffee Everyone makes their own choices, Feel free to make yours. Of course, we are all blended down In the melting pot of America's Rapes, prostitutions, and that four-letter love, Love that knows no boundaries or color lines But, there is always culture, and oh how I love mine. Religiously overfed, Misled, and Euro-centrified I tell you: he told me he wanted to live like a celebrity His idols were old time pimps and drug dealers His raps came out as poor imitations of radio songs And his jump shot? Well, smokers don't really play ball. It seems what would have been left was nothing at all But he has the blood of Kings and decision makers His mama cradled a Bible and a belt just praying He would do a little better than his daddy

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His grandmother baked sweet potato pie swatting flies Singing spirituals on the porch swing, Just Like Mine. His uncles made crude jokes Wearing polyester suits, into the eighties With hair curled over and gelled down Shining like that one gold cap in the front Or those rims on that Cadillac that barely runs Because he missed the point of that song Just be thankfulll, for what you got But we both know the words So I know, even if he's not alright, He's going to be alright Even if he continues this cycle Of what a hundred elders told us About dead or in jail We have another chance with our children, Because gold runs through our blood Our history is proud Our culture is one of a kind
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And I laugh inside Because my father knew nothing About stock markets or IRA'S He rolled cigarettes and marijuana sticks Looking for get rich quick schemes while Sweating through twelve hour workdays With a financial windfall, he tried investing into coca Without the cola Staring at thousands of dollars Worth of baking soda on the counter So frustrated, he inhaled all the drugs himself Birthing five children on bread and water paychecks With all the audacity of Marcus Garvey believing Starting a nation was the answer. It will get better if we stick together I look to my Caucasian brother We grew up on the same land, Went to the same schools And ask him if he understands the pride Behind pig feet, moonshine, and Gheri curls If he ever ate black-eyed peas and greens
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On New Year's Eve And danced like heathens Knowing even if this year did not bring resolution It will always get better if we stick together. I ask him, If he knows my grandmother Clutching a green switch in one hand With laughter as full as sunshine And a soul as deeply worn as our winter blankets. I ask him If he knows the joy of funeral receptions When the tears have all been cried, And how family reunions Can be the most eventful parties of them all. He tells me no, He doesn't understand the smiles behind Flat-tops and Afros Or how you can get arrested for resisting arrest While changing a flat tire. And I tell him, sweetie
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I love you just like I love myself, But this is why I limit miscegenation my coffee. Love Hides in loneliness And dollar amounts On street corners And in the used up pain Of an innocent child's eyes; I can't be everywhere love is, But I can embrace my culture With all the audacity of my father bending down To my mother with a pawn shop ring, Believing, it really is better if we stick together.

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For Colored Girls who Feel like Bitches after Watching Black TV
Got me feeling like maybe I am just a bad bitch or buss-it baby Nothing more than a D cup and round butt Face down and ass up, Dropping it low for he With the biggest bankroll, cause she On TV looks just like me In red lip gloss, a corset, and lace weave Ready to suck it off or get laid Oversexed and underpaid I Am an all week freak All blonde streaks And ass cheeks To rap beats I Am a consumer
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Compulsive buyer All I do is shop and bop Off these tricks or the gov'ment Compulsive liar See me on Maury, yelling, Sorry! This gotta be wrong! And still pop that P for the theme song I Am a loudmouth bitch Checking his email, voicemail, Facebook and Twitter And if I see another chick picture with some glitter Imma get wit her His space is MySpace I'm all in his face And if it's a problem, I'm running up behind him Wynita Bynum Yeah, I know you HEARD me! Fat, black, and insecure
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Martin Lawrence, Eddie Murphy I deserve to get fucked on the floor like Halle Berry Cause that's the game, girlfriends, Kelsey Grammer, Tyler Perry Hell to the naw And you can't get wit it If you can't follow this ass in the mall And if they wanna be like Mike and go White Or like Tiger and rather find her Caucasian bussing tables Than Black with an education I'll go bi Like Nicki or Eve I am Black TV And you can't change me Unless you change the station.

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The Future
This is our future? The failures of our education spelled In connect the dot patterns of shattered glass Across the beer and piss stained concrete; The smoke strangled laughter from the hallways The curlicues her legs make As her soul prepares to evaporate Leaving behind a curvy shell To be crushed Under pressure. The failures of our education misspelled In the profane slurs of graffiti strokes Across larger-than-life billboards, Advertising liquid dreams with which To drown your struggle. Yaki, kankelon, smooth, silky, permed 100% human hair That may not make you beautiful but the goal is Simply: not to look like Yourself.
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The failures of our education rhythmically Pumping through that ass bouncing bass-line In politically incorrect grammar and Grammatically incorrect politics; All they know is they mad A child proclaims with the wisdom of a sage When the complaints, prayers, war cries, Curses, poems, new age fast-paced spirituals And tired sighs of abandon Mingle together into a language Disregarded as primitive Because compassionate disdain Comes a whole lot cheaper than understanding. But this, is our future Wanton apathetic extensions of ourselves Long-legged and loud-mouthed, Flicking her tongue ring with her lighter; This, wrapped in gang colors Brain full of THC, rap lyrics, and video game codes; This, fueled by a proud and sordid past
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What shall we hand them to seed their gardens? Someone has to believe Someone has to believe, Because this full-bellied girl-child Is one generation in the bloodline away From becoming a grandmother A grand-mother. Someone has to believe Because this, is our future.

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Short Stories

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34

The Reality of Wishes

(mature language) I must have been about twelve years old when I ran into old Slim on the corner one evening. I was racing streetlights to get home just returning from baseball with the boys and Slim called me over with that glint in his eye that I couldn't pass by. Besides, Mama should'a known twelve was too old to have a streetlight curfew. Now Slim, he was huddled back hugging a paper bag against this brick wall with "Freedom" sprayed across in big red, black, and green letters. That was his spot. Some called Slim a wino, some called him a junkie; probably both were true. Yet, everybody loved old Slim and his stories. Thats why he was always able to get enough quarters in his tin can to keep his habits going. "Let me tell you a story, son," were his first words to me as I gravitated over. He set the paper bag down and positioned his hands in front of him tee-pee style. I just waited for the story. "See, one day I was walking along minding my own business," he began. This was how he started all of his stories. "And I started to shaking a little in the joints; I knew I needed a hit soon. So, I make my way into this abandoned project building, taking the stairs to the tenth floor for a little private time. Aint no elevator in these project buildings. I get up there
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to the tenth floor all out of breath and shit and find an empty room with the lock busted off the do and head in to get my fix. Rats and shit all over the gotdamn flo, but I got a purpose, a mission, you see. Rivulets of sweat started to run from under his gray wool cap down his face as he got into the story. He wiped his forehead and cheeks with a dirt-streaked white rag. Slim went on, So, I'm in this little ass room playing hopscotch with monster rats, but when I reach into my pocket, my pipe is gone! Gone! I'm feeling all my pockets and turning 'em out, but here I am ten floors up with the rock, the lighter, but no pipe!" Slim's voice rose animatedly as he acted out the story with his hands. This sounded to me like one of those Aesop's fables I read in school sometimes. He continued, "I'm panicking, but before I can think twice, I look and see a pipe in the corner somebody musta left and its just sitting there looking all glassy, pretty, and pristine. I run over there and load it up quick, but what do you know? Soon as I light it, smoke fills up the place real thin like a haze and you wouldnt believe it, I see a big, fat, greasy Black woman look like Ms. Butterworth all buttered up coming out the smoke. She walk out like a ghost twisting her hips and tell me I got three wishes, now what the hell do I want? I'm thinking a genie's not supposed to talk like that; I must be bugging out, right? But she still standing there, hands
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on her hips, like she mad for waiting. So I tests her out; I tell her, I wish this room was full of crack! Next thing I know, and you wouldnt believe it, but with a shake of her ass, the room look like a big swimming pool of white rocks with monster rats doing backstrokes and flips and shit. So Im looking, and I'm tripping out, right? This shit is unbelievable. But she hurried, in a rush and shit; she say, "What's yo' second wish?" all mad, like she ready to leave. Im like shit, let me get what I can! I tell her I wish I had pockets, no, a whole room full of money. So, she shake her ass again and its smoke all around and all the crack disappear. But where the rocks was, its nickels and dimes and twenties and hundreds corner to corner like my man, Scrooge McDuck, used to swim in. Im trying to think about how to get the money out the room, but Im still tripping that the dope is gone! I ask her, What happened to the rocks?, and she say, "Each wish cancel the last one out." What! I didnt know nothing about that shit! So, I tell her, I don't like this, right? Why didn't she just say I had one wish? So, and you not gonna believe this shit, she put her big hand on her wide hip, nothing like that White girl used to come out of the bottle on TV, and she say, "Motherfucker, if you don't like it, wish me away. "So, I look around at the all the money and figure that's not an option, you know? So, I think real hard, like how can I get over
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this bitch? And I get an idea! I tell her I wish for one thousand more wishes! She say no. I say why? She tell me she don't wanna sit there with my "stanking ass" for one thousand more wishes. And Im offended! She not so hot her damn self and she dont wanna sit her with me! So, I'm like, You just don't want to? That's all? Aint no golden rule or no shit like that? She say, "Naw, I just don't like you. Wish something else." So, I looks at her lips curling and neck rolling like a big, black, pancake-flipping monster rat telling me she don't like me, and I grabs my Johnson and tell her, "I wish for one thousand more wishes, and if you don't like it, suck my dick. As you wish", she say, and damn it all to hell, she kneel down and put her fat lips on me, and for a second, it feel so good. But then I remember the wishes canceling each other out and see that money's gone and I hear her laughing. The haze comes back all smoky, and she fade right into it. Then, there I am, standing in a tenth floor apartment with my dick out and an empty magic pipe with shit to show for it.", Slim concluded. "That's it? That's the end?" I replied quickly to the old man, realizing the streetlights had gone off minutes ago, and I was still over a mile from home. "Yeah, that's the end, son. You got a dollar?" Slim petitioned before I could run away.
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I threw a crumpled dollar bill in the tin can yelling back, "Good story, Slim!", as I hauled ass down the sidewalk. After a minute, I slowed down to a walk, knowing that no matter how fast or slow I got there now, I would still be in trouble with Mama. That was a long time ago, before I shacked up with Stacey and filled her belly up with little Nefertiti. Stacey would never let me live down giving our first daughter the name, 'Nefertiti Johnson', but she always said if we had a girl, I could name her. I was twenty-eight, Neff was four, but she was smarter than I had been at ten. She always asked so many questions like, "Daddy, how does 'lectricity get in the house?" Many of her questions were beyond me, so I'd just give her the best answers I could. "Baby, some things, we just need to know that they work, not how," I replied to her question about electricity. She would shrug at me and go ask her mama. Her mama gave her mostly the right answers. Stacey, the love of my life, was twenty-four and the brains of the house. She was the one who convinced me to go to community college and get certified in computer maintenance. She should probably be certified too, with all those late nights she helped me study. But Stacey had higher hopes; she attended
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school nights and weekends to get her bachelor's degree in Nursing. It was the least I could do to stay home with Nefertiti while Stacey pursued her dreams. After all, I wouldn't have even had a dream if it wasn't for Stacey. It was on one of these nights that our lives changed. We were planning to move to a bigger place. Perhaps I should say better instead of bigger. We lived in one of those apartments where sleep was hard to find over the traffic noise and all night music. There were always groups of people hanging outside with no jobs to go to. I tried to keep Neff clear of all this. I heard about children drowning in the dirty pool with no lifeguard, so we stayed away from the pool. I heard about fiends leaving needles sticking up from the playground sand, so me and Neff played our games at home. I had even heard about this older White guy who would drive through flashing children and giving away candy for sexual favors. I kept a switchblade in my pocket, promising myself if I ever caught him, I would chop first and ask questions later. None of this could have really prepared me. It was one of those nights when Stacey was at school. I had just tucked Neff in and barely got into my own bed, when I heard a noise, like a gunshot. I ran into Neff's room and the window was broken. Damn vagrant ass kids must have thrown a rock in.
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"Baby, you okay?" I asked Neff, pulling her from the bed to bring her in with me. I couldn't have her sleeping in here with the window broken like that. She was sound asleep. As I carried her, I felt wetness seeping through my shirt. "Damn, girl, you peed yourself?" I asked, thinking she had outgrown this habit a couple of years ago. The noise must have given her bad dreams. I took her into the hall bathroom to clean her up and when I turned the light on, I almost fainted. Neff's shirt had a tiny hole ripped into the middle and it was covered in blood. She had been shot. Somehow, my baby had been shot. I panicked. I didn't know what to do. Was she breathing? I placed two fingers to her neck. No pulse. I laid her on the floor and pushed my memory back to YMCA CPR classes. Chest compressions, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, or both? I decided to try both, and for a second, she was breathing. Then, there was nothing. I needed to call an ambulance, but I didn't want to leave her here alone. With a quick look back, I ran to my room, grabbed the cordless phone, and ran back. The 911 Emergency questions seemed to go so slow, but before they hung up, the ambulance arrived. I called Stacey. She met me at the hospital. The doctor said there was nothing they could do. Nothing? I was pissed. I

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cursed out the doctor, nurses, and anyone else within ear-reach. But the doctor delivered the mortal blow. "Mr. Johnson, while you may speak poorly of our healthcare system, you should know that applying chest compressions to a patient with a bullet wound is in most cases fatal," this Arab looking doctor said to me, with no gotdamn emotion even. So it's my fault? "It's YOUR fault!" Stacey yelled, as if reading my thoughts, lunging for me. This strong-looking male nurse or medical assistant caught her by the arms before she could tear me to pieces. It's my fault my baby's dead? It's my fault. Of course, Stacey left me. I couldn't bring myself to move from the only place that smelled like Neff, so I stayed at the apartment. I would go into her room sometimes fingering the frills on her comforter or the softness of her teddy bear and just cry. She had the prettiest smile with two little dimples in her fat cheeks. Her hair was that hard-to-comb crinkly texture like her mother's. I missed them both so much. I had a feeling that if Jesus wept for Lazarus, he must be wailing with me now.

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Back when I was in high school, I graduated from cigarettes to marijuana simply because I was out of cigarettes. I saw a group of guys hanging around on my way home and asked if one had a square I could buy. "Naw, we don't smoke that poison. Here, hit this," the oldest of the group said, handing me a tightly rolled brown cigar. Since Neff and Stacey left me, my drug of choice became cocaine. Sure, I tried to blur it all out with the good old Mary Jane, but it didn't alter reality enough for me. The powder put me in a world where I could still function, but none of it really mattered anymore. Some nights I would wake up and hear Neff calling out for me. I would quickly take a hit and her voice would go away. It was one of these nights that I woke up hearing her voice that I realized, I didn't have any more powder to take it away. I jumped up and called my guy. Be it three in the morning, I needed it now. He wasn't answering. How could he sleep? He had customers to help. I dressed quickly, knowing that someone in the neighborhood had to know where to get some coke at. Before I even got out of the alleys between the building of the apartment complex, I came to a group of Hispanic boys, maybe between 15 and 25. They were dressed in all black with bandannas on. I was a little nervous, but I asked them,
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"Hey, you know where I can get some white girl? They responded with blank stares. You know, white girl. Powder? Tony Mon-tana?" "No ingles, calbron," a young-looking Latino replied. They all laughed. This was useless. I power-walked to the sidewalk outside the complex. The trees seemed to blow ominously. The streets were so empty. Why now? Why be empty now when I needed the noise and music and mostly, the white tee-shirt wearing cornerstones, calling out to me, "You need somethin'?" I saw a lone woman standing a ways up the sidewalk. Her thin body waved with the wind; her legs trailing long and brown down to shiny red stilettos. A hooker, no doubt. She would know where to find some coke. I almost wanted to run to her, but I didn't want to scare her away. I walked slowly, pacing my steps, containing myself. "Excuse me, Miss?" I opened amiably upon approaching her. "You know where I can score some powder?" "Sho, baby," she replied sweetly, smiling slightly as she looked me up and down. Unshaved in sweats and a tee shirt, I hardly looked like a cop. Besides, I'm sure my eyes had that burning drug-lust in them that marked those trying to chase away bad dreams.

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"Where do I go?" I asked, getting impatient, "Or do you need to take me there?" Her lips, caked with bright red lipstick, curled upwards more into a full smile, revealing her gap between her small white teeth. Her eyelids seemed to want to fall from the big, black bats that were her glued-on eyelashes. Wavy blond extensions rose and fell over orange hay-straw pieces of dye-fried natural hair crinkling down to stark black roots. The contrast intrigued and frightened me. She was striking in a strange way; like a rose dying, the lifeless ends, dry and dark, accentuated, yet diminished the beauty. "Just follow me," she beckoned, lifting one of her ringheavy, thin-fingered hands. "You got the cash?" "Yeah, I got enough," I replied, hoping she wouldn't walk me into a robbery. She led. I followed, down the age-cracked sidewalk, noting how her hip-twist picked up every time we passed under a street light as if they were spotlights. When we got a few blocks down, she dipped between the bars of a bent fence, signaling me to do the same. She brought me to an apartment that she had a key to. Her own? There was little furniture inside. My eyes took inventory of the dimly lit room. A black linoleum folding table crowned with two cigarette-butt filled ashtrays. Three folding chairs sat near the
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table, the whole setup adjacent to the west wall. A full-size air mattress spread haphazardly with a thick navy blue blanket took center stage on the floor. No couches. Plugged into the outlet on the right side of the room, sitting directly on the carpet, there was a lava lamp spinning red and orange. In the same outlet, a small radio with a CD player was plugged. She promptly moved to this radio and pressed play. From the speakers emerged the sultry voice of Billie Holiday. Was I in the Twilight Zone? The recording quality was poor, rendering the music scratchy with a haunted feeling: "Them that's got shall get, Them that's not shall lose..." I was sweating. I wanted to cry now. "You got the powder here?" I asked, losing the little cool I had left. "Yeah, baby. I got what you need," the girl answered going to a kitchen drawer and coming back with a little black bag. I watched her hands. She was getting a pipe ready. A pipe! "Crack!" I yelled a little louder than I aimed for. "I just wanted powder; I aint no junkie!" "Baby, anybody searching the streets for a hit at this hour can't be choosy. Now, relax," she said calmly.

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Billie sang. The girl took her hit first. Her eyes widened, then relaxed real low-lidded with those damn ridiculous eyelashes. She handed me the pipe, lighting it for me, mouthing the word, "inhale." I inhaled deeply. Billie sung to me. "Yes the strong gets more, While the weak ones fade..." The girl touched my thigh. I tensed, then tried to relax. "What's your name?" I asked her. I didnt know anything about her. "Trish," she answered, lighting the pipe to take another hit. After she took a hearty inhale, she held the pipe to my lips again, and I unwound more as I took my second hit. The orange and red shadows on the walls seemed to dance to the music in hypnotic waves. Trish was... beautiful. Like a goldenskinned Marilyn Monroe. Her hand was still on my thigh. Then, there she was. She stepped right out of the wall like an apparition shedding an orange-red glow that made her seem even angelic. Nefertiti. My eyes were burning. Fire bound my chest in a tight white-hot knot.

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"Neff? Baby?" I called to her. I wanted to hold her. I needed to smell her. I needed to know that she was real. Daddy!" She yelled, smiling, running to me, hugging me. She felt... warm. "Daddy, where are we? Neff asked innocently, touching my face, like she wanted to know it was really me. I want to go home now. I want to go to my room, Daddy." My face was quickly becoming soaked in sweat and tears. My voice cracked as I tried to speak. "We'll be going home soon, baby. Is that really you?" I asked, my face tensing as I strained to see her better. I could feel her. She was here. My left hand held her tiny fingers and my right rubbed hand through the crinkles of her hair. She smelled like... Shea butter and baby powder. My Neff! "Of course it's me, silly," she giggled; smiling that big, dimpled smile. "You bugging out, baby boy," a womans voice cut into Neff and Is reunion. Trish. I forgot that she was here or even where I was. I didnt want her to be here anymore. No, me and Neff just needed to leave. Trish moved closer, walking up behind and past Nefertiti to me, she kneeled and ran her hand from my thigh to my zipper.

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I couldnt really move. I felt like chains with weights were on all of my limbs. "Let me see what you got down there." Trish crooned provocatively. "Not in front of my daughter!" I yelled, pushing through the lethargy, pushing the whores abominable hand away. I had regained control on my arms and hands now, though it was still difficult. With both arms, I held on to Nefertiti tightly, struggling against the heaviness to move away from the hooker. She was crawling toward me on her hands and knee, also very slowly. She was smiling. Her lips were electric red and her hair a fiery orange. Lady Day sang still. "Stop! Stop it! Leave us alone!" I yelled, kicking at her violently. Me and Neff needed to get the fuck out! But my arms were empty. Neff was gone. Again. "Neff? Baby? Where are you?" I called out frantically. As tightly as I had held her, she wasn't in my arms! I dropped the fucking ball, again! "I'm right here, Daddy. C'mon, let me get at that big, black dick," Neffs voice said from below. What the fuck? She was on the floor, crawling towards me. Neff. With too red lips and orange fire hair.

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"No! No! NOOO!" I yelled, running for the door, breaking through my sluggishness completely. That wasn't Neff! I needed air. I needed to run. I needed Stacey. I ran and ran for miles, getting chased by dogs and crushing beer bottles underfoot until I made it to Stacey's new apartment. I knocked and called for her, but all I heard was, "Go away." "Stacey, I need you! Stacey! I know youre not going to believe this, but I saw Neff! She was in my arms!" I sobbed, "She was in my a-arms." "Go away!" Stacey yelled back. "Damn it, Stacey, please would you open the gotdamn door?" I half-yelled, half-cried. I heard the lock twisting. She was coming. Thank God. But then, it wasnt her. There was this big, coffee-black, cockstrong cat standing at the door with a gun to my face. This was the same fucking guy who held Stacey back from me at the hospital the night Neff died. I remembered. "She said, go away," Superman Mandingo said, with a voice like Barry White. What he didn't know was that I wanted to die. "Please, shoot me!" I begged, falling to my knees before this mighty black grim reaper.

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"Don't shoot him, Greg!" Stacey pleaded, pushing her away to the door to get a good look at me. I can't imagine how I must have looked, but she got Big Greg to let me in and have the couch for a few hours. Stacey sat there with me for a while and I just keep telling her, its not my fault, Stacey. Its not my fucking fault. I tried to take such good care of her, but the bullet came through the window and what could I do? I just want her back, Stacey. I just want to hold her again "Fuck you. she responded. You think you're the only one hurting? You need to get your shit together." She walked away, but soon, I saw her coming back. "Don't pull this shit again," Stacey scolded, throwing me a thin blanket. I folded myself inside the blanket with my knees up against my chest and surprisingly, I slept. When I woke, I walked home in the hot sun. It was a long way. I wondered how I had been able to run this far the previous night. Once I made it home, I sat on my bed nursing a warm bottle of brown liquor I found in the cabinet. Paul Masson, E&J. The cheap shit. It was hard to swallow and burned going down my throat. As the bottle neared empty, my head began to spin.

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"Stacey, did you remember to lock the door?" I called out. No answer. "Stacey? Neff?" They were gone. I was alone. I let my head fall into my lap and felt the tears clenching tight in my throat and behind my eyes, but they wouldn't come out. The previous night flashed before my eyes followed my all the nights I had lied here trying to blur the past away. I leaned to the side of the bed and threw up. Stacey was right. I needed to get my shit together. I started going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings. A couple weeks into the program, this beautiful woman came in with a short natural 'do and full lips that made me break the golden rule. "Do not get romantically involved with other members of the group". I needed to talk to her. Get to know her. Surprisingly, when I asked for her name, she said Trish. Trish? Was it her? Really? She told me that our night together shook her up and made her realize that the drugs don't take away the skeletons; they just grow them bodies. She told me a story of running from her dead daddy only to be abducted by aliens who raped her and left her back on Earth to die. She told me how she woke up to find, yes, she had been raped and beaten, but not
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by aliens, and her daddy was still dead. guess I would have gotten a lot worse.

I thought to myself, I

Trish and I hit it off big and found we had a lot in common. She asked if her past would be a problem, so I told her, "Sure, both our pasts are problems. That's why we're at NA, right?" Now, looking back, I can tell my story knowing that old Slim was right. There really are no three wishes or magic words. Slim wanted a room full of dope or money, and got nothing. But even if all you want is a little peace of mind, you have to be willing to work hard and sacrifice for it. I know that Trish and I had to work hard for it; taking it a day at a time with the meetings and learning each other without casting judgment. She wanted to get tested before we had sex, so we did it together; both negative. Now, she's five months pregnant with my second child. A boy. As we sit here listening to Billie Holiday and making plans, I touch her full stomach and think: this child is going to be able to run and play and enjoy himself, because ultimately, all we have is this life. No matter how good or bad, this is it. We've got to savor it.

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Liberation
The fingernails always went first. The tips where they were greyish-white began to fade into a stone grey and spread backwards into the pink base of the nail. The shape would change too, of course; each nail contracted smaller and more pointed like walls closing in and forming a tunnel to nowhere. The nails were the hardest part to watch. Khalil would cringe and sometimes close his eyes tight to avoid this horror. Each time, it confirmed to him that this was not a dream, that he was different, and that at some point, he would have to accept it. After the nails, it was the skin right under where the cuticles would have been that turned. The green seeped backwards through the brown of Khalils fingers towards the knuckles as the skin puckered into a creased leathery texture. This was enough for today. Last time Khalil went all the way into this type of transformation, he almost got eaten by a snake. You have no power when youre so small. All you can do is run, and sometimes, your legs cant carry you fast enough. Khalil set the lizard back down on the ground and began to focus his mind on returning to normal. He closed his eyes again, this time to concentrate. Khalil remembered the earth brown skin of each finger pushing into the pinkish white tips and when he opened his eyes, his hand was restored. It didnt even
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hurt anymore. It wasnt always like this. Khalil was 15 now, but it started when he was younger, only 7. He remembered, that was back when Momma used to mess around with James from downstairs. James would always come over real late at night. Khalil knew it was late because he was already sleeping when he heard the knock on the front door that signaled Momma to lift Khalil from the safe warmth of their shared bed and pull the little blanket out of the closet; the furry green one that barely covered his legs when he laid down unless he folded them in towards his body. Momma carried Khalil and the little blanket to the living room, where it was cold because the air came in under the door and through the cracks in the caulk around the window. She moved quickly, he remembered; setting him on the itchy green and maroon plaid couch with a heaviness that felt like falling. Khalil hated that couch. The cushions felt like the firm bristles of a hairbrush poking into his skin, but Momma told him to go to sleep and he didnt want to get a whooping. Thats when she would let James in. Tall and lanky, James would pick Khalil up sometimes and pull him close to his face, so close, that Khalil could see the skin expanding over little hills on Jamess cheeks that he would later learn were razor bumps. Right here, when their faces were almost touching, James would say real loud

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like he wanted the whole world to hear, Hey, theres my boy! with breath that smelled rancid, like he had always just had a beer and a cigarette. Khalil would usually cry and squirm real hard to try to get down. This particular time, James, as usual, tired of the squirming; his wide toothy smile closed into a straight line as he lowered Khalil to the floor. Khalil recalled noticing that the faded beige carpet was in some spots brown and some spots red where muddy shoes had shuffled or fruit punch was spilled. From here, Khalil watched James walk to the bedroom with Momma, grabbing her bottom as he closed the door. Noises emerged loudly from the room; first laughter, then a knocking, like wood against wood. Momma screamed like she was in pain, but Khalil knew better than to knock or try to open the door. Whenever he knocked before, Momma yelled at him to go away. One time, James even hit him for knocking. You have no power when youre so small. At that moment, Khalil heard the tapping, even over the bedroom noises. His ears were searching for quiet, but found a constant and tiny thud. At first, he thought it was raining, but when he looked over it was a moth beating against the glass of the living room window like it was trying to get out. He walked over, clasped the moth gently in his hand, and stared out of the

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window. Khalils gaze surveyed the night through the fly screen and iron burglar bars; even in the darkness only broken by blinking streetlights, men and women walked purposefully forward. Yet, there were some who sat seemingly immobile on curbsides and front stairs, as if stillness would provide shelter against the cold. Khalil could feel the frigid air flooding in around the window glass against his face and the moths wings drumming inside of his little hand like a heartbeat, rhythmic and strong. He opened his fingers a little to see the moth struggling inside, but didnt let it go. You trapped now, man. You trapped. You cant never get away from here! Khalil whispered to the moth, wondering when the insect would give in and stop desiring freedom. Then, one part of Khalil wished to also be thus winged. That way, when James came back in clutching his belt buckle, Khalil could fly away unnoticed and unpursued over the people that walked and those that sat; up, up, to the streetlamps where the moths congregated in clusters. There, in the misty circles of light, the winged creatures gathered in close hordes like a real family. The fingers went first then too. Shrinking grey and thin, his fingers seemed to verge on disappearing and he couldnt hold on to the moth anymore. But, shit, it hurt! The pain pinched and twisted. It felt like when the big boys that huddled under the

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stairway on the first floor smoking reefer caught Khalil walking to school and turned their big hands on his little arms until the skin stung and burned. Like then, Khalil screamed. Tiny hairs sprang from his quickly shrinking forearms like needles pricking by the hundreds. Both arms buckled stiff, and then began to withdraw into themselves; the flesh puckering and contracting like a ripe fruit dehydrating in sunlight. Tears now ran down his cheeks and chin; still, the rapid knocking from the bedroom continued without pause, wood on wood. She must not be able to hear me with all that noise, Khalil thought. Mommas screams were loud and hyphenated; her breathy pants punctured the air like those of a woman giving birth. For Khalil, it was becoming very hard to breathe watching his body change this way. He closed his eyes against hot tears and rolled up on the floor real tight with his knees against his chest and remembered just being a little boy, without fingers becoming thin legs. He felt the hurt in his arms subside; they both began to numb as if losing circulation. When he opened his eyes again, he had returned to normal. Since then, the pain had stopped, or maybe he had gotten used to it. He went all the way sometimes when he found a stray cat, lizard, or other small animal and no one was around to see him change. He liked to get the animals that could run real fast

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because you have no power when youre so small. He saw books in the library about big animals with power like the lions in Africa that could take down any animal, or even push over a whole jeep and if they wanted to. But there were no lions in Brooklyn, except maybe at the zoo. The zoo, where there were too many people and if anyone saw him change, they would probably shoot him or carry him off somewhere in a cage. He wished he knew how to change without needing to touch the animal, but he couldnt figure that out yet. For now, Khalil liked flying most of all. Moths were the easiest to catch. They were just so damn stupid, always pushing against window glass like they didnt know there was a wall there or spinning around the light bulb like some treasure was inside. Stupid and slow never flying away fast enough to escape the clench of his palm. Thats what scared him about being a moth; somebody might decide to swat him flat against the wall or crush him into a tight fist and he wouldnt be strong enough to do anything about it. But oh how he loved the feeling of flying! His muscles contracted right under the wings as he lifted from the floor and the air seemed to suspend him as he looked down at the couch and the carpet, separate from his former reality. Even so, he never stayed in any transformation long. This was still real life where the utter finality of death always threatened ones smallness.
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Khalil really wanted to become a bird, but they werent stupid and slow like moths. Birds, even little ones, flew away before he could even touch their wings. Then there was one day, the day, when it was sunny outside and Momma hadnt been home in 3 days and there was no food left in the refrigerator or the cabinets except for canned milk and one box of dry spaghetti. Khalil was walking purposefully, but he really had nowhere to go. It was just last year. School was out for the summer and he hadnt made any friends; he was too afraid that someone would found out his secret and somehow make his life harder than it already was. It must have been about noon because the sun was real high in the sky, he recalled. Thats when he saw it. Perched on the crosshatch metal fence near the liquor store, a raven stood. The wings, which were in at the body, were so black and shiny that iridescent rainbows shone in ripples across the feathers. The beak was maybe half as long as Khalils pinky, lengthy for a small bird. But he wasnt so small yes, Khalil felt that this was a he he was as big as a small cat, about a foot tall and plump around the middle. Khalils chest contracted at the opportunity ahead; he noted, the fence wasnt very high maybe 4 feet up from the concrete. Khalil sauntered slowly forward, feeling, but not looking at raven; he was afraid to scare it into flight. He was

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close now, maybe a few feet away and the raven was still there, Khalil knew it even without turning his head. Quickly! He reached long and grabbed the bird, uncaring that men sat on the sidewalks near the liquor store with glassy gazes fixed upon him, that the three women who cloistered near the pole at the intersection slowed their chatter at the strange phenomenon. Yes, it must have been strange to see him there, clasping the bird with all his might, though the strong wings violently resisted his clenching palms like a suppressed explosion. Khalil closed his eyes, shielding his vision from the squawking beak of the bird, and focused with a concentration more deliberate than ever now. His arms began to tickle where he knew glossy black feathers were sprouting. The muscles in his legs and arms contracted and his face compressed and extended into what he knew was a beaked countenance like the one he just beheld. The raven flew away now because Khalil wasnt strong enough to hold it anymore, but it didnt matter. As he glanced down at the shirt and jeans beneath his claws, Khalil knew he too was raven now. Khalil craned his small neck at stared back at the men and women on the street. Their mouths gaped in utter disbelief. Had the stiff beak allowed the expression, this was the moment where Khalil would have smiled.

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The wings did not take as much strength to lift as when he was a moth, or maybe he was just stronger. Khalil thrust from the concrete sidewalk and bundled clothing easily, pulling and lifting his lithe muscles to soar above the crosshatch fence, above the stained plank roof of the liquor store, above the telephone poles; up, up to where fourth and fifth story windows revealed old women sitting on recliners watching television or babies sitting alone in their cribs or men strapping their arms tight with elastic strips to inject some hot liquid. And even higher, up to where the roofs of project buildings formed an emotionless grid of squares with grey lines of streets cris-crossing in between. Up here, with the wind in his eyes and the world at his feet, Khalil didnt care where his mother was or if he would eat tonight or if everybody knew he was different because now he had power and he didnt have to run anymore. He could fly.

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Finding God
So I'm coming home from a long day at school, right? And I do mean long; my history teacher, Mr. Everything-I-SayIs-The-God-Given-Truth Williams, goes into this whole spill about "manifest destiny". The whole idea seems bass-ackwards to me. If it's destiny, how can it be manifest? Isn't that an oxymoron? I'm walking in the house with all this on my mind and Mama Sugar, my great auntie, is sitting on the couch with a wine cooler watching the church station and she's got Rakeel over here from next door frying some potatoes, doing what he does best, talking. Mama Sugar, I don't mean to be the iconoclastic pessimist, or maybe I do - but I don't understand the Black compulsion to nullify self-freedom with the pale man's religion. The multifarious ideology of Judaeo-Christian belief all boils down to the same bullshit principles. Teach the strong how to be weak and feel like they're strong. Teach the masses how to feel like individuals without seeking individual knowledge. The system created and orchestrated by these charlatan, sham-artist, self-proclaimed ministers and priests does nothing but make willing slaves of our people. In fact, that's how we were first
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made subservient, with whips and Christianity..." Rakeel began. If you knew Rakeel, you knew he was just getting warmed up. "Ra, you cooking them potatoes while you teaching history lessons?" Mama Sugar interrupted. She was just as wellstudied as Rakeel, but didn't feel the need to show it off all the time. I admired her for that. "Yes, Mama Sugar..." Ra replied, and before he could get back into his groove, I threw in a question I had on MY mind. "Ra, let me ask you something. If God gives us free will, then how does He know everything we're gonna do?" "Sweetie Pie, when you refer to God, are you referring to the self-serving, sanctimonious hyperbole perpetuated by the Anglo-Western hegemony to rule and confuse you, or are you referring to god within yourself, queen? You are god, so if you give yourself free will then you know what you are going to do because you make up your mind to do it. In order to understand and traverse the deception bequeathed to you by our great European forefathers, you must first extrapolate their way of thinking..." "Extrapolate?" I interrupted; sometimes I got confused with Ra's vocab.

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"Ah, he just talking shit, Sweetie Pie. If he don't extrapolate those potatoes with some onions and red pepper, Mama Sugar gonna extrapolate some ass." Mama Sugar jumped in. "See what I mean, Sweetie? That's why Mama Sugar is wasting valuable time on some swindler's heretic ideas of God's love." Rakeel continued.

"Heretic in contradiction to what? The Temple of Rakeel Ali? Negro, please." Mama Sugar responded, sipping her peach wine cooler, eyes glued to the White man on the screen that was laying hands on people while they fell backwards. "In contradiction to the truth, that's what, Mama Sugar. The truth cannot be falsified or personalized for the interests of those doing the telling without serious consequences being incurred. If not in the physical sense, consequences to the soul all for inconsequential "power" over trivial matters or "money" with no more value than a promissory note. But back to your query, Sweetie Pie, to extrapolate means to infer an unknown from a known, such as in the case of our tea-sipping, Native-scalping forefathers. We know that the Council of Nicaea met in 325 A.D. to decide even whether Christ was one with the Father God or a separate being. Since we know that even such major foundations
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of this religion are determined by the inadequate knowledge and wisdom of man, how can we possibly apply even the most insignificant parable to our lives without first questioning every nuance? And after you factor in the Western element, you know that you, queen, have no part left to play in their visage of free will except birthing the gods who build countries on their backs only to be deemed as useless rice-eaters and poisoned with alcohol, nicotine, crack/cocaine, AIDS..." "And who put that crack pipe to they mouth, Ra? Did the Council of Noxzema do that? See, Sweets, this is why I tell you that Ra is just talking shit. He wants to blame everything we do on everything the White man did without holding us to personal responsibility. I aint giving the White man that much power. My mama didn't raise to be a weak woman and when you tell me I only do what I do because somebody led me to do it, you make me out to be weak." Mama Sugar cut in. "You could be just trying to survive, Mama Sugar. Like our ancestors who gave in to being enslaved so they wouldn't get killed." I responded. "Sweets, that might-a been true during slavery times, but with all this Rakeel is talking about - somebody all up on a crack pipe or some AIDS-infected coochie, that's personal weakness. All vices are personal weaknesses even if everybody's doing it.
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Like cigarettes or this wine cooler, even if I can buy it legally at the store, it's still poison. And if I keep putting poisons in my body, I can't turn around and yell conspiracy unless I'm hollering at the mirror. You can't listen to Ra because he makes everything so one-sided. It's not even about color, Sweetie Pie, you remember that..." Mama Sugar let her sentence drift into the air like the wafting smoke spiraling from a forgotten cigarette. "You both are so confusing. If it's not about color, what's it all about?" I replied, understanding more than I let on, but surprised that I understood so much of it at all. "It's about money. It's about power. It's about control and gold and oil and stocks and bonds and subjugating the Black and Brown man like chattel..." Ra began, ready to light the world on fire with that quick tongue. "Shut the hell up, Ra and put those potatoes on some plates so we can eat. Sweetie Pie, you come sit by Mama Sugar and I'll tell you what it's all about." Mama Sugar beckoned, smiling. I took a seat next to her on the soft leather couch and waited for the revelation. "See this?" Mama Sugar asked pointing at the grey-haired minister on television, red and swollen in the face from his fireand-brimstone sermon. "Now, watch." she said, and I watched.

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The old man on the screen huffed and puffed and proselytized on some topic I couldn't decipher because Mama Sugar never watched television with the sound on. She said it distracted you from what was really going on. The man walked down off the high Stage/Altar up to a limping man stumbling forward from the audience and took a deep inhale before raising his huge, hairy hand to the cripple's waiting head. Umph! I could feel the vibration as the cripple hit the floor. A telephone number flashed across the screen along with the solicitation of a "love offering" for your own personal healing. "That's what it's about, Sweetie Pie. Setting 'em up and knocking 'em down. Survival of the strong of mind. This world just like those lions and tigers you see on Discovery. You keep that brain running, girl, or it'll end up somebody's potatoes and onions. Ra, you got those plates, ready?" Mama Sugar inquired, finishing up her wine cooler in one long gulp. "Yes, Mama Sugar, you want some ketchup, hot sauce, or anything?" Ra replied, bringing the plates over to the low coffee table and setting them down. "No, thank you, love. We'll be just fine like this." she replied, all of a sudden polite and cordial, as was her doublesided nature.

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"I want some ketchup, Ra... and thank you both for all the insight and everything. So I am god, huh?" I pondered aloud and to myself, forking holes in random potatoes. "I am god... that's what's up."

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