I had the most scary,
awful,
horrifying,
sickening dream last night.

It was a dream that my grandmother had passed away.
Died.
She was gone.

And I
wasn't
even
there for her.

I was told, no, informed,
through the most insensitive,
impersonal means possible.
A simple, three worded,
text message.

I don't remember how much I cried
in the dream.
Or if I really even shed a single tear.

All I know now, as I scribble down these
scattered thoughts
in a handwriting almost illegible,
an attempt to rid them from my mind,
is how I feel with my mind racing through the possibility of such an event.

My stomach hurts, every muscle in my being clenched in a
sudden stress,
a tactic to hold back that urge to purge myself
of all contents and feeling whatsoever.
Both hands are cramped as one braces me
against this abnormally warm and now uncomfortable bed,
the other struggling to write while my forearm
throbs with discomfort.

My breathing is off.
There is no normal steady rhythm to it;
rather a scattered pattern of inhales and exhales
both long and short,
often separated by uncharacteristic
pauses.

I've dealt with death before.
More than once,
many years ago.
(I'm still dealing with it.)

I understand that it is very much a part of life,
and the rest of us must continue on,
void of voice or choice.
It is the cruel awakening.

And my relief at waking to the most normal of texts
from dear old Dad
and the realization that my fear
had only occurred
in the depth of that unconscious realm
ruled by sleep...
I just cannot ever explain.
I can only remain horrified that I would dare endure
such a pain, even in imagination.

And yet,
as the day's busy agenda begins to take over all else
and I am only too eager
to push the dream away
and let it disappear into nothingness
as I mentally prepare for today and this week,
I've already decided...

I think I'll call Grandma today.

A nontraditional background
white and black or other
Created by your false narratives
Not my father or mother

But, am I less?

A Skin tone that is visibly filled with melanin
Seems to determine my ability to succeed
I worked hard to deepen my knowledge
But that’s not enough or so it seemed

But, am I less?

A mind filled with culture
Aretha Bob and Diane
Created by my Afro roots
They became more then society plan

But, am I less?

A society built these walls around me
But everyday I knock them down
Your casual racism isn’t ok
Just because your cousin is brown

But, am I less?

We got civil rights so I suppose I should be happy
But isn’t that the standard procedure
Don’t reduce my oppressed community
Because the mass media delivers you fear.

But, am I less?

I am more more then this society offers
I’m going to preach all week til you hear me
Because I’m more then what you say I am
I’m capable of greatness and I’m not even free

I am not less.

halfway between sleep and the beach,
thoughts drift to needs unfulfilled
made greater by perfect words and better timing.
nontraditional in the conventional way,
confusion raging through my veins faster than white cells multiply.
the space between the stone and the setting, cage.
the space between the canal and the mountains, distance.
bruised and beaten, no beauty on the outside.
mirrors **** the soul out so they've been covered and crossed.
taped the stories together like a storybook from another life.
watch death come to me with the first bit of scotch.
Greendale wasn't perfect but the steps up don't equate to those that we take
down that self-destructive path that leads home.
rumors from a past, littered with truth. scared of mixing that with this, oil and water.
a child's tornado, just add food coloring to match the mood.
eternal corruption may be the curse of this path i've chosen
no time to look back, no reason to question.
paths crossed like oregon trail.
only i'm the indian and you're the settler -
small pox is coming to wipe me out.
spineless because i can't do this on my own.
tried too much,
can't do it all anymore,
done it all before.
stand tall on my own, crumbling, because these bones are old.
a ghost dance with the past, no desire to two-step.
need to go west, start afresh, fall for something new.
cold feet, wrapped in layers. intimidated by possibilities.
hope for the future in strange ways, engulfed by rancid news.
curious of the other side; how about them apples.
eyes waiting, legit heart hurt, unreasonable.
muttering words you'll never hear for my own well being.
twenty-two legs, twelve eyes, pulsating like a flame.
separation of heart and mind because there's no other way.
in over mind control, never had control over the yellows and red,
seeping in between the blinds.
this is paradise.