As he studied my attention
I refused to blink.  He told me things about my-
self I tried to keep hidden under a coffee stained
American Eagle sweat shirt
that found me on the Clarence rack.


I told him to *******!  But he continued
to weave his words through my intelligence.
He was such an inspired *******; cruelty
bunched together in fifty-seven pages


of brilliance.


There was no winning against his intellectual
abuse.  So I let him have the last word.


I closed the book.

So… he looked on, watching from afar the imagery of family.
Now alone, sitting in place on an old cranky stubborn
porch, eighty-one years of tears laughter and memory/smiled;
his smiled gleamed through the haze and humidly
of another summer day:   a day that reminded him
of his younger years when the joy in many eyes gathered
                       for a day of barbecue and rejoice

in his voice, as his raspy cough briefly interrupted the moment,
was the song of an elderly man missing the days of innocence
but briefly in this time, in the sight of the young boy
he now studied from across the street
he saw a familiarity.  His vision saw support and togetherness;

his hearing heard the song of compassion
and in the charcoaled flavored heat, his heart felt
                 what he thought was forgotten;

the genius and destiny of hope.  In his life he has seen
once inspiring  brick-layered sidewalks become the mask
of crime that has kidnapped a neighborhood once
proud.  He has seen the dreams of children become temporarily
paralyzed by the heights of poverty and many visions
of fear.  He watched in silence over all these years

but the tears of his mind has always been vocal.  

                                The shackles
of osteoarthritis that now held on to his bones and the slight
battle with old-aged deafness that now challenged
the vibration of harmony  and not even the parade
                 of high blood pressure marching through his veins
could keep him from feeling the pain and decay

of days passed.  But as he looked on at the sight
of burgers and hotdogs sizzling on the grill;  as he looked on
at the pleasantries of young and old joining in good times
and fun playing the games of life; as he looked on
and lived again through the body language of the young boy
                        who now looked back at him

he saw the glimpse of renewal in a community
holding on to the aspects of a neighborhood’s inheritance.
For the first time in many decades, he saw the enjoyment
in dancing trees that waltzed in the breezes of tomorrow;
                           he felt shades of sweat trickle down his bronzed almond skin
that was the welcomed condensation of happiness
and he smelled a renewed energy of genetic fortitude
that was family all in the aroma of summer cooking --

                                  and so…he dreamed on.

Dear desolate eyes,

I write this letter as I reflect upon the fog that breathed
around you on a heavy damp day back in September
and all I could remember
was how you stood on the corner of my eye
dressed in a three piece fitted suit that dripped
down over your boney frame.
And then the rain came
soaking your presence with a familiar
sound of invisibility

but you seemed to embrace it
as you clutched the earth’s tears with shivering lips
and buckling knees that lowered down
into shallow puddles of loneliness and distance;
a distance that could only be healed
by a simple connection.

And I walked past you that day
failing to recognize your wardrobe of hidden
emotion and the raspy voice of your soul
calling out for help.
I walked past only wanting to see you as a stranger
but you needed me to see you as someone
so to whom this may concern
I apologize for not seeing the deep sadness
in your eyes and although it’s too late,
I apologize for not trying you off with a “hello”

and P.S. I’m sorry for not remembering

your name.

sincerely,

  another stranger who walked by.

“If you can make it through the night, there’s a brighter day.”  - Tupac Shakur

I see your tears crawling silently on the stairs of fear, alone
no one is near but your cries are heard young child.  Emotion
black & blue from the punches of their laughs/the commotion
inside your mind baring scars from the lacerations
of loneliness you feel  -- searching but finding no way to deal
with the internal pain that throws you up against
the wall of difference and trips you onto the curb
of your own self-expression.  

I feel your heart calling out for someone to grab your fall;
someone just to see that you are someone other
than the names they call you and you are someone other
than the shouts of abuse that has you afraid to step out into a harsh
world and someone who sees that you are someone
other than the echoes of humiliation that threaten to tear
down the walls of your mental stability;
you just need someone to show you that

within you there is an ability to escape and fight back
with the force of just being you.  Young child let your individuality shine
because every inch of your soul is someone proud and fine.
Walk strong because no matter how hard the world kicks you
your bones will not bruise.  You will not limp
because your mind will not fracture through their attempts
to try dislocating your sense of self.  There is always a better day
waiting to show you that you will be okay
and I know now your nights are long
as it is your fear that tomorrow will be cruel
but just remember you are filled with worth and a voice

born to be heard.  Believe in you

  because life is not a bully.

Through their eyes I see the instruments of hope
and in their faces I hear decayed dreams whistling
through the hollow silence of these forgotten streets
where only those with strength can cope;
they are the many lives
who reach out to be heard in this place
where very few stop to listen to their song
but tears dry strong
because in this world everyone needs to feel
they belong.

In their hearts I feel the blues; single mothers
standing on street corners because
they have nothing else to loose. Selling their soul
for survival just to stop the heavy beats
of starvation from silencing their young child’s
future ovation.  They do what they need
just to find a way to feed as poverty
has become their song
but their tears dry strong
because in this world everyone has
a place to belong.

I hear in their voices the echoes of many cold
lonely nights  -- some are familiar strangers
lost and confused and others are old
searching for something out here to feel and to hold.
No amount of spare change
can heal their minds because they were left
without a home as alone
they stand as a song
but their tears dry strong
because in this world everyone
needs to know they belong.

I write for their eyes
as I narrate the loneliness they feel
from the inside of hidden identities
that have become immersed
within the transparent confusion
of society’s delusion.

Some are brave and stand alone
on judgment’s concrete stone
afraid to shine their difference
in the dampened skies where hateful
eyes
plagiarize their souls to be ashamed
of how they were born;

some are young, abandoned and living
in houses that done feel like home.
They are trying to be clones
of who they are told they have to be
but in their hearts they just
reach for the moment where
they can be free

and some are reminders of me—hidden sexuality
searching for air
and the right to breathe their own
civil liberty.  I write for their pride, their beauty
and their strength
I write for every emotion
they feel they need to keep locked up
Inside/afraid no one would understand;
afraid there would be no one
on their side

and I write for their courage;
the everyday journey
of new discoveries and the celebration
they will inherit by loving who they are
because they will be loved.

I write for them and I write for who
I used to be – lost ones
ready and searching to be found.