Blue Legato: A Child's Religion

I know this evening to be a late hazy night, as the sky is dark, with streaks of gray. It’s humid, and the lead walls are crying. The fan’s screen has collected dust, mosquito's, and the words of dead men walking. I anxiously realize that traffic is running in and out the front and back doors-a slam here, a crash there, a kick and scratch there. This exchange of people is similar to a busy intersection. Neither side streets-nor closets, nor locked and closed doors are retreats from the cringing hustle of the hustling World's beat. A screen door plays the stoplight, and in trying to watch television I stand at the corner waiting for the white walking man up and over yonder.

“Please flash!”

Grant me clearance and deliverance to the other side. And as sure as he blinks, is enough to know that I will cross the street. I don't think twice that he will not show his presence, though we mostly live by faith and not by sight. Sometimes it’s better to see some change. I know he will show himself.

Similar to a train depot, some of the long and dark faces are known. Some of the people are short, or light skinned ones, with balled heads and tanned skin. Some have pale and tar black skins. Others, you just understand their plight. Everyone needs to get from point A to point B., regardless if they are steaming through to find that picker upper. Somehow they do not know that the real picker upper comes from within. Deep down sunny pastures offers the rays of hope, and altering ones reality can never attain what already lies within. They rely on an undue fallacy. Physical abuse and the mental stimulation of drug abuse can bring them closer to Zen. I am not mad though, not at those who use nor those who use others to use. I am merely concerned about the traffic.

You learn fast from those you look up to, as they nod to a blues and jazz that goes unheard. They’re somewhere else, beyond my understanding. Leaving but a corpse to admire and study the biology of a dying breed. Big hands and strategic marks on arms are like trains as well. Running noses mimic blown smoke stacks and signifies a need to recharge. They are whispering, to anyone who dares to listen. A train is a coming through. Sure, I am not yet too ignorant. Fighting against what is wrong, though I am young enough to know that what I marvel at and live within is not right. Right, what is really right or wrong? A World where you know of no one catching a break? Death from Diabetes, Cancer, strokes, and heart attacks have become the trivial norm. Just as dawn turns to dusk, another family member turns over in their grave to welcome the next defaulted soul. You realize that you are a product of a clan infatuated with the escapism of death's fury. It’s in my music, my clothes, and my hairstyles, which all are violent, unforgiving, and unremorseful. And who am I, but a nappy headed product of a project situation, thinking freely while accepting projections of failure because of my pedigree. How can you possibly succeed when you are afforded and force fed failure from day one? If there is such a thing as a race, you run it from day one with no leg below the knees. In order to compete, you find any means to get the necessary prosthesis. At least give me a chance to walk, let alone run. Even gaining one percent of a fighting chance is fuel enough to carry on. Just a quarter tank of fuel, a quart of oil, and a battery, will keep a car moving. From the moment of conception, and as competition becomes your mantra; you know that winning will never be an option. From that moment of clarity, you feel uncomfortable around the other people. You then find truth by whispering to your inner-self, "Black people from a functional pedigree also hate me". Amongst the entire fray, I find inner visions to remain me. Nappy hair, knotty head, fit full of heathen tendencies and inner infidelities, coupled with Worldly iniquity, feeling half dead at the tender age of nine…ten…eleven…twelve…and thirteen. Where will my future be? My lips move in unison with the reflection that peers back at me. For many days and nights, I search aimlessly for any type of prophecies. At thirteen, I scream alone, wearily strolling through a paradigm alone. I am learning to fend for my tiny self-alone. May God grant me clearance to stay myself a home of my own, without me asking “Where will I be tomorrow?” I hope and pray that tomorrow will be.