Dear Maya


Dear Maya…

It pains me we never met. It was an ordinary Wednesday, til I caught wind of your death, now I’m distressed- fingers running through my hair and getting lost like broken barretts. I would never claim to be your greatest fan, but the breeze that blew through your cage as you sang, carried your scent of greatness through time and space over to me.  It was like a seed of your love DNA was reframed and painted an awkardly strange yet desirable portrait in me.  The only thing I wanted to be… was your grandson.

Not in the legal, social sense, but in that special way that sometimes happens between two people… You see, I had this fantasy- and in it… I would walk up to you. Hesitant. You would smile. I would smile back. Then you’d take my hand and I’d cover it with my other one. We would look deep into each other’s eyes and see the kindred light shining the Morse code of the poetic mind in flashes of brightness that out shined the sun and made it look like tire rubber. And then, before any words were spoken, we would just… know. I became your grandson; And you became my grandmother.

The next words will probably make people scoff at me, but the pain of your passing is the anesthetic protecting me… I never read any of your books, never memorized your classic pieces, but I was fascinated by you as a person and how you taught the believers about believin. Truth be told, in every interview and recording I never saw you as old, but as living poetry. Every word, every breath, every phrase, every inflection of imparted wisdom, was literary excellence dipped and baptized in the Heavenly Nile- I fell in love with love off of your FREESTYLE!!

But now… like a confused caterpillar trying to get out of its shell, my heart is cracked with grief. Trying to rake away the sentiment that everybody leaves right when I need the strength to stay free. I don’t know where they store the tools to shift heart gears, but when I read that you died I shed real tears… I’m not a snail in a shell, I’m a caterpillar in a broken cocoon… but I’m not sure what’s coming through. Can’t tell if it’s a butterfly or something underdeveloped… I was hoping that one day you would tell me.

Dear Maya… I love you. I never met you, but I love you… that’s what your legacy is all about isn’t it? Love. And purpose. To cradle in your arms a lost and aching generation and tell them it’s okay to walk in your footsteps, as long as we yield control of the road to God and how He paves it.  Your words… your heart… your spirit… were aMAZING… I’m praying to be like you- the hero I loved. Which is probably why this hurts so badly. I would gladly trade any of my successes for seconds to look you in the eye and tell you…

I love you Grandma Angelou.



The last tear drop on the counter belongs to me…

There is a breath- a heaving really- that takes place when the place taken by taken places plays favorites.  When the track record of spun emotional hits fails to record the streaming tracks sliding down your face and plunging off lips- when the only thing you’re left with is the counter that caught your scattered fragments.

OCD lovers, and made friends who became maid friends, frantically clean up my environment.  Glass is swept, but 20/20 tears remain invisible and quiet.  My clothes are straightened out- stains removed by re-staining with stain proof “new.”  The glue they used to fuse the crude accoutrements on this broken warrior into something suitable for a fashion lawyer is an oily substance.  Not designed for repair, but to reap the air and draw a harvest of hotly blown explanation to cover my unveiled illumination of how I really feel.

Thousands of paper towel rolls expire as they mop up the soaking wet counter- that’s because each and every splattered ocean drop is undeniably real.  They wipe faster and faster trying to dry the counter off with the rapidity of their movements.  Get a gusting wind to come gusting in gushing gusto to give strength back to my guts again… but they missed a spot.  There, dangling like pieces of my fractured insides, out of sight at the edge of the countertop… A swirling, prismatic, micro-cosmic globe of stained emotions, pierced heart pieces, and misunderstood intentions all wrapped up in the bosom of the sea…

That last tear drop on the counter belongs to me.

The Win

If this one is for you then say this one is for me…

I’m a winner- point blank period. No matter how you rework my life sentence, I’m coming out with a win at the end of it.  This isn’t wishful thinking, pretending, or manipulative preaching- this is losing’s worst nightmare…


I’m incredible simply because I am.  I have no need to brag- I just boldly state these glowing, accurate facts. And in fact, my failures are failures- loss is intended to discourage, but what you gon do when I keep raising my bloody head from the dirt? 

I play for higher stakes.

Some strive to be the greatest taste on the plate, but my aim is to be the great Greatness that forms and creates. Battles may break me… People may scar me… Foolishness may plague me… But NO one can stop me.

I am where the unstoppable force and the immovable object potently coincide with cohabitating, violent harmony.

Mine is not the plight of ordinary men… But then again…

I’m in this for The Win.

If this one is for you, then say this one is for me.

Into the Wild

We’re all animals and beasts just trapped in this cage. Provoked into baring our claws and our fangs, and expected to find the way that love should be made…

What do we know of heart?

Moreover, why should we care?

The one that wounded me is right over there. I’ll slot her throat, and shred her hair. I know how to handle this. This beast inside me was released to unleashed fury upon beauty. Appreciation is a weaker creature’s duty, but I refuse to let these tender happenings of the heart subdue me. We all know the truth…

Earth is a cage, and life Cagemaster.

Normalcy is insane because deep down we’re really slaves…

Love is the gold offered us at the end of a rainbow-

And we are the foolish blind mice falling through the air we failed to walk on to get there.

Color is of no substance.

Beat Misery

Callin out for the lost, but the lost causes repeat it.  Call droppin back down on me, I’m callin back out for healing. Callin for backup breathin.  Screamin like babies teethin.  Lungs collapsing like London Bridges and black freedom.

Give me the toughest level, blind me, tell me to beat it. I see it- the intricate conspiracy to rip from me my courage, and stir up the grave like horses, allow my fears to flourish.  But I don’t actually have fears, I shot em all in the head.  These things that are assaulting me, are zombie, they’re really dead.  They’re coming for my life. To pull me into the night. To take their heart of darkness and supplant my heart of light.

I wake with warm thoughts, but cold soul.  Tight walking through the air with no rope.  This faith gave me everything, so I give em a show. But these stunts, are not performances of pointlessness, this story is how I pointedly see and articulate my hope.

But when the crowd leaves, guess who’s the fallen tree- me. Shakin not stirring kryptonite give Superman a drink- geez. Didn’t I just save the world? Pour my life out for the boys and girls? Sanctify these women, restore men to the spiritual?

I don’t want the credit, and I sure don’t want no glory.  I’m cursed by the plague of Moses- leading my people to the promise, by wandering around slowly.  This is war, and I fight. In the face of death, I give life.  Yet when depression hits all I do is roll over on my side…

Daily given the opportunity of strengthening the inner me, but one way or another I’m starting to think-

You just can’t beat misery.