BLACK UNICORN

With lightning speed
ripping through infinity
I hear your clacking hooves
Your cursed truth
charging ivory horn
chasing your prophecy
Your heaving mist
attacks the air
Your feral mane
tremors in grace
I see your red demon eyes
ignite for the horizon
Black Unicorn.

This was inspired by David Bowie’s ‘Tis a Pity She Was a Whore from his latest album Blackstar. Rest in power Mr. Bowie.

 

Miss You Entirely

I have been trying not to feel for awhile now, especially when I got the news about my younger brother’s death. What is the use of feeling anything, when there is not anything that can explain why, and even if there was an explanation, it still will not prove to be comforting?

I have experienced this sort of loss before — the known inconceivable… I think now, I have become so use to not going to places where it hurts the most, I have been consciously mindful of stopping myself. Locking something too painful to deal with in a place where, maybe, I will never have to visit? This has made me even more bizarre and un-relatable…

I could not attend Jason’s burial. The only way I was connected to saying a final goodbye was by keeping in touch with my other siblings. It was incredibly disjointing — a complete disconnect, that continues to haunt me — even as I try my best to ignore it. In a way of bringing some semblance of letting go, I have been slowly writing… But, here, — in the process of writing, as its effectiveness as an aid, a form for closure — this form of a ritual I have continuously chosen for dealing with most things which disturbs me, even here, there is not any comfort, and it does not explain anything.

When the program for the burial arrived, I could not look at it. I knew if I stared for too long; looking for some understanding of why I will never see or hear Jason again, it will be a crippling devastation. A devastation where I was and am unsure of my return. I’ll have to contend with this unexplainable knowledge in this unsatisfying state, that he is dead and never coming back, and everything we experienced together is left in this space, this void where nothing moves, nothing grows, nothing reconnects…

LAST MEMORY

I look at this program and its encapsulation of my little brother’s existence. I look at it with the same distance I have for everything that I can’t explain, and exhausted by the energy needed to get close enough.

These are the words I wrote for Jason:

Jason never asked permission for anything. Many times this arrogance was unnerving, and the question of, Who are you to have such an audacity?, would arise. I asked it throughout our childhood. I honestly believe, if he was ever asked this question, he’d simply reply with all smirks, “Well, I am Jason Errol Aalan McLeod.” I may have been the closest to experienced Jason’s budding arrogance, as I still remember when were kids, and he sold, unaware to me, my bike.

Even though Jason is two years younger, the dynamic of looking out and caretaking of a little sibling was reversed, he took care of me. He took care, wholeheartedly, in his support of my then unknowing aspirations and endeavours of becoming an artist. He was present for all of my first singing group’s rehearsals. Jason possibly is the first person whom saw and accepted my dabblings as potential, as he acted as the singing group’s business consultant and manager. At fifteen, he believed in me, when I did not recognize it.

Jason’s death is a tremendous weight on my heart, because even in our distance and the possibility of renewal of where we left off, there is now no longer a connection. An overwhelming void, which I cannot begin to understand and reconcile is where and what is… What comes close to any comfort about this realization, that I will never again see Jason’s mischievous, cocky smirk, is that he gave us an incredible gift of two amazing lives whom are Jayson Junior, and Israel. He also gave us thoughts which will continue to provoke our very existence. When he was nineteen, he taught, “You have to live your life not by others’ standards… When you choose on your terms, at least it is on you.” Love you Jason.

I think the hardest of all, and why I have chosen not to feel anything, is that this would open an infinitum grief hole. An infinitum grief hole in which I have no control.

What comes immediately to mind when I look at the below photo is, I have lost both of them. I remember when it was taken. It was Jason’s birthday. He and our mother were to spend the day together; just the two of them. He was so annoyed I was brought along. When the photos were developed, he tried to scratch my face out of them. If you look closely you can see the scratches. We were very young, so we lived for each other’s annoyance.

Love You
This next photo is of us, Jason and I, on our first day of a new school year. In spite of the many sibling disputes we naturally had, there were these moments:

Jason and Me

RoboCop

I’m not a robot nor secret agent
manufactured and trained in a factory
of compartmentalized parts: none and feeling

as this will interfere with my true joy
when and if I do experience the purpose
of this fleeting exercise of being happy

there won’t be any need for giggles
as a solid laugh will be more evident
of nothing and everything…

Yes Mommy Dearest

One of my pet-peeves is seeing people standing around doing nothing.

Then spin

a wheel of string
rope to play hangman with
buy time making
cardboard sleeves

just in case

drench a spineless shirt wet
without purpose
groove a grave in.

Hot coffee burns
lukewarm finger tips
nervously preparing
another lie–

There’s always something to be

Re
Dun
Dun
Dun
Dant:

paper
napkins
styrofoam
cups
plastic
spoons
sporks
forks
knives
Go Here!!

Swab slabs for red tape feelers
appearing in the dark
early morning’s stock rooms

after-hour cheap cockroaches
re-stock stocked shelves
a different kind of vermin
catches clockwise
the wheel churning
dynamic stale Splenda

an apron in slow motion
a smorgasbord of the top ten
most talented
next showcase:

Insecure Specials
End
less
List
less
events in Crayola:

Italian Panini
amused eyeballs
Cuban Sub
electricity
Cajun Chicken
clapping to attention
Tuna

Big smiles at the door
clean floor needing a good scrub.

A First Stroke of Passenger Peru

Uncommon to commonplace trends, Passenger Peru‘s self titled album subtly dismantles the norm, and engages with teases, licking  a familiarity only when necessary. You are a passenger on their quest. For sound that will rearrange thought processes for listening to and discovering devotion and discipline, I learned so much from this record.

I remember the night I first was introduced to these guys. They were Pet Ghost Project then, and I was so enthralled by their attempt to create something exceptionally special, that I bought all of their cds. The delicate attention to detail that I was waiting for back when they were Pet Ghost Project is now fully expressed in this new direction, where it’s just the two core members of Pet Ghost Project: Justin Stivers, and Justin Gonzalez.

With just Justin Stivers on bass, and Justin Gonzalez on guitar, they eliminated the need for a live drummer/percussionist with great success. You’ll understand what I mean, if you ever go to one of their shows.

Anyway, I’ll be playing Passenger Peru to its entirety on the next Broad Strokes hour with Calypso Sally, Wednesday, August 29 at 8:00pm on Washington Heights Free Radio (WHFR). The band will be present to answer any questions I, or you may have.

Teeth: fEnCeS ArE FoR cOwArDs

Photo by Tiffany Paul

your fence makes my bark ah howl louder
makes this caged world that you made me tamed
to believe in, salivating my bloody teeth youth
your mocking bird’s laughter makes my hind legs
stand, and eat you even when you command

don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

Cotton Candy

Catch me when
I’m not an awkward butterfly
lighting almost on the exhausted hibiscus
a weary comfort for a glimpse
an imprint on the fading sun

Catch me when
I’m not a bitter blue caged parrot
calling out for jack daniels like my owner
not owning a thing but a feathery bird

Catch me when my cliche is filled
jelly rolled happy joy, sunshine sprinkles
too consumed with sugary goodness of opposites.

Do parallels meet in the infinite demise of one?
Do we call them an equilibrium?
a  jelly roll, then a shot of jack?