A Public Display Of Juggling

Dwayne B! Southeast, DC Writer Break Dancer, HIV education/activist Aspiring DJ Hopeless Romantic Romantically Hopeless Crochet Guy Father. Anacostia Stand Up!!! .ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/[email protected]); background-size: 160px 178px; } } Tweet

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On The Motions And Going Through

We say goodbye And hello With the same mouth Breathe air for greeting And dismissal We go through the motions Waving a welcome Bidding adieu

Maybe it is all the same A series of arrivals and departures A coin flipping until it eventually lands Everyday — a door walked through Our shoes laced with yesterdays strings

We walk in and out Not knowing which breath will be goodbye We keep stepping A welcome into the future We walk on Because the door is always open Until it’s not.

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Enduring

Isn’t there a runner’s high? The punch-drunk euphoria For a battered boxer? Is the fight ever finished? Hands seeking salve know no relief.

Are we ever rested? Restored on our pillar– Protected?

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On Leaving A Life

I packed up my desk today. I put all my shit into a box and prepared to say goodbye. No one else was there. This isn’t how I envisioned it. I feel sad. I mean I’m happy about the new job and everything that comes with it. I’m excited to do something new. But looking at all the things I’ve done — filing through certificates from trainings and two decades of thank you cards. Love letters left on post-it notes and dust… so much dust. and data, and blank CD’s. DVD of the documentary with the Discovery channel…. there were so many memories being kicked up with the dust. I’d sneeze and see something new. The RealTalkDC festival that became The Golden Ticket Party for Prevention. old resumes and even older business cards. I put all my shit in a box and rode the bus away from twenty-two years of experience. It was heavy. cumbersome to carry. when I got home, I was happy to let go.

I packed up all my shit Prepared to say goodbye No one was there

I envisioned Sad and everything new All the things Certificates And two decades of love letters Left on Post-It Notes Dust

So much dust and data The documentary Many memories kicked up Old and even older business

I rode away From twenty-two years of Heavy

When I got home I was happy to Let go.

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A Mirror Asks

When was the last time you ate Was she sweet Green and leafy Good for you How are you sustaining yourself

When holding your vices Do you leave room for water Seep and sow Reap what’s growing within

Does your bathroom remember Have a familiar friend A chatter for rotting teeth And untamed whiskey

Don’t forget to breathe Let it sit in Really When was the last time you ate?

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The boogie is moving A beat in me that wishes The streets would open Feet force steps on kitchen tile The bus sway — a body wave Concrete backspin on 13th and U

It ain’t safe It ain’t healthy But hips in atrophy If waiting for an ending Hop fell ill Seeking access to a vaccine And the boogie is still alive Bouncing the body And rattling the mind

My hands forgot What to do when met Would fingers fall apart Or combust from touch A dance of shared breath Close As death is to life

We are made for motion Of muscle memories and rhythmic bones Fueled by the boogie — a beat in the heart A living record recalling days A groove wanting the needle to drop.

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What We Can Afford

After “One Jump Ahead” by Tim Rice as featured in “Disney’s Aladdin” 1993

“Gotta stay one jump ahead of the bread line One swing ahead of the sword I steal only what I can’t afford”

And what’s more expensive Than the cost of living In this country In this world This tan, brown, Black Where breath costs a lung And 2 running legs We gasp bullets And break to the sound of sirens Wish they could see the prince In all this “riff-raff” “Scoundrel” But lamps Don’t light the way to compassion And the weight of magic is Blue enough To suffocate a genie Snatch the light out our sky It’s “a whole new world” Of the same old stories “Gotta eat to live — gotta steal to eat Otherwise we’d get along Wrong!” Street rats scamper Scramble for escape From the trap bigger than our frame Belly aching for “Just a little snack, guys” See us ripped open Taken six-fold The block — an undug grave For all to witness

The is no reprise No reprieve No bridge to bring back a life

“I steal only what I can’t afford” And that’s…

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“As The Reported Rates Plateau” or “Normal?”

And here we are Moving again Kinetic Connecting again An electric ping And we are Forward and back Pinging Against grain and grime Contact on a busy street Moving Like nothing ever happened.

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Bird Watching

For Regie Cabico

Regie is a peacock Shining on stage In black fringe and Perfectly tailored iridescent slacks Elegantly courting a crowd Of velvet and vapor

The bass bottoms out the day Eases us to bed Low lullabies and lotioned notes Slide like shea over heated skin Regie shimmers at night Struts to perched microphone Shimmies the plume And leaves earth behind

Most are surprised by Peacock flight “Far too many feathers” “Cluttered wings won’t float” Peacocks don’t know logic Just the joy of the soar A bird free In habitat and habit.

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“Street Art?” or “Apathy Wears Rose-Tinted Glasses”

A poem of Stench and mistakes Blows throw the green line metro Epithets tumble Tears for a father foregone A dollar to spare Pennies for a meal

How Broadway A solid block of Cellophane in motion Crying out for everything That is missing

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Remember The Sabbath

I pray To a God of rest That reaps the harvest Of seeds sown We are fed by our deeds But life resides in the rest

Because a meal Prepared slow Meets the flavor fully Takes hold of tongue Stays

Because Sleeping in Is twice as holy As Sunday Service Nap — Bible study Vacation — Revival

There is a spirit That calls out for the body A blanket that seeks my still Holy be the highly relaxed Peace be a God well served

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Quantifying A “Win” or “It’s Better Than The Usual, I Guess”

Guilty is not A father’s hug Won’t undo A family’s grieving The children Littered on asphalt Their warmth Watering the rock

Every victory isn’t joyous

A cause for celebration This is not How broken a clock That we celebrate It’s being on time

Do lungs inflate Guilty Pray guilty On a stained-glass altar Can guilty strum the strings Sing the song of justice

Do we win Ever in Our Death

Is a win Still a win If there is no breath

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Alchemy

For Orozco The Embalmer

I. From dust lust multiplication breath failure and steps mathematics and its trappings wax melting on hot radiators winter crush — warm beginnings fresh air in tents first kiss and mourning dew glazed fields the blossoms fall learning to swim in a lovers eyes prom dance ripped silken rage biology new partners and discovery self definition work place pandemonium worldwide pandemic gray hairs dye digital coronation binary code of conduct robbery and regret wrinkles wrapped over golden bands the coffee and the context mourning bedside manner a letter box of shoes jigsaw memories with missing breath memory warm To dust

II. Take the body All of its bits In liter and meter Take the flesh And its fault

Take the bruise prone Make a cake Flavor it warm Make a holiday Dress it with fond thoughts Take the broken And remember

Alchemy From cadaver To a living memory The last gift to give.

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I. Shadow dances With light Partners — unheld

II. My web Is wide stretched Thin Barely enough to hold But it is home

III. Your sky A wide black Holding space For your glow

IV. I spin for you Under you Lit by you And home is still Thin

V. How high Is the moon today A shotgun’s scatter A stone’s throw A tiny thing’s hope

VI. Today Isn’t a metaphor It is for kissing The only solid we have Spin this web Be caught Glow from the inside

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Famished

Distant lover sits In wait. Phone screen dimly glows. Crumbs for the starving.

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A City Awakens

The people are out Chasing a lost year Makeshift bars In oft forgotten gutters A city breathes Familiar in a new world

And everyone mourns the dance floors Beat catch — rhythm thrown The shirt bleed-thru The comfort found in Strangers sweat and consent

How easily it all went The venues tragedy A stagehand’s wish dismantled A parade of abandonment On dusty roads Ashen with our absence

The people are out tonight A city awakens Bathed in sepia tones Finds itself dressed Without a place to go.

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The Old Player’s Lament

I want to play But the game ain’t what it used to be Fingers just can’t find the spots To make a fine instrument sing

But the game aint what it used to be Maybe change is for the better To make a fine instrument sing a troubled song would be a weary blues

Maybe change is for the better A dollar more — too rich for this blood A troubled song would be a weary blues Strummed by old bones on older roads

A dollar more — too rich for this blood Saccharine sweet, molasses thick Strummed by old bones on older roads Paved with lust’s toxic kiss

Saccharine sweet, molasses thick And yes, I want to play Paved with lust’s toxic kiss But fingers just can’t find the spots.

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“The Time Keeper’s Tick” or “Black Boy Studies Phenomenology”

Time doesn’t wait It is Every moment lived All of time turned on its side A solid block of time A cut — a slice of time Stacked Memories sandwiched And never ending

Every now is right now Every tomorrow — today in wait And are we not living it Every breath Stacked like memories Holding space like All of time turned on its side A block of time Solid experience to be lived And living All at the same

Time doesn’t move It is In the way we are Constant Solid

A memory to be made.

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