Monday, October 10, 2011




--------------------------

DejaVue



Got off the #10 bus tonight

at 8th Avenue,

a.k.a.

Frederick Douglas Boulevard & 121st St.



1 block north

to West 122nd St I walk.

Before turning onto the block

I sense someone stepping

Behind me.



It is deserted, late and lonely



The side-walk surface

Is broken, cracked and filled of pot-holes.

Fearing a mishap,

I turn unto the block

in the middle of  the road.



Behind me

a voice asks,

“How’r you? How you been?

Wassup?”

Scanning sideways to the sound,

There he is; one ‘Cute Youth’



Smiling, speechless, tongue-tied:

Pretending not to know him,

I query, “may I help you?”

“Just asking how you been?”

He replies



Knowing very well, who he is,

I say; “Oookkkaakay, I know you.



“You don’t have to walk in the street;

I’m not gonna hurt you,” he insists.



“Oh,” I reply,

“that’s not why I walk in the road;

my eyes are bad in the dark, 

the sidewalk is uneven..”



Silence follows us 1/5th into the block.



Hurriedly, I mount the safer sidewalk.

“See!” I say,” I am not afraid;

here it’s safe.”

He moves to

the middle of the block

I follow in tow to my stoop.

.

Knowing he is going to pass by ASAP

I sit on the steps:

A document pretends

To be reading;

Passing, he says,

“Goodnight.”



“Goooodnnnnight’, I stutter; “be careful.”



Into the darkness of night,

He goes, knowing their will be no rest for me.





 
(COPY RIGHT/#610

       ROUTE 66





Along the calendar voyages

from August to August,

a twelveth/thirteenth month’s cycle

depending on one’s calculations

beginning from conception to that

premature ejaculation

from my mother’s womb

it’s been a journey within sojurns

along the way

finding that I didn’t fit in

like all my other peers

into their all boy’s club

although we often compared

and took notes

on whose is bigger

going beyond the simple viewing

to actually irritating one’s foreskin

as some strange sensation, -

not sure what its genesis, -

overtakes me

back and fro rocking

to twinkling impurities affecting me.



A.W.O.L from puberty to young adulthood

without attention to advancing decades 

- the idea of immortality predicated, -

I desert ship between the early 30’s,

and can you believe it? 

I now claim seniority?



Again, getting off,

I question the taboo which states

I must stay aboard?

Is it not for me to walk another road

to get to whichever nexus reveals

a more rigorous roulette

where my halcyon memories,

although an allusion to yesterday

deludes decay and rust

for however long?

Monday, June 1, 2009

Jamaican’s Hijacking of Andrew Buchanan; Stephen Frey


Allow me space in your esteemed site to vent some thoughts on Jamaica’s culpability in destroying the lives of its youth, among them, Andrew Buchanan, and Stephen Frey.

Since the hijacking episode hit the screens of our lives, i. e. those of us who, even though domiciled abroad, are as assiduous about disseminating events ‘going down’ down there.
I have read almost every article/opinion written about it.

Apparently, there are two basic types of thoughts being expressed on Mr. Frey’s escapade. They run the gamut of a) because of his background/social standing within the Montego Bay diaspora, the security apparatus approached the situation with ‘kid gloved’ hands, as the expression goes; and, b) the security forces, mainly the Jamaica Constabulary Force, were not motivated by the familial standing of Mr. Frey in addressing the situation, as it was being played out at the Sangster International Airport, Montego Bay, St James.

While I want to give the benefit of the doubt to those thinkers who are complimentary to the security forces, there is another side of me which begs a question: ‘Why did the security system, of which the Jamaica Constabulary Force is the prima facie agency responsible for imposing law and order within the society, not apply similar considerations in apprehending Mr. Buchanan, and eventually murdering him?

Some might /will say: “Oh, but the circumstances were different; you can’t use one situation to make a judgment on the other.” “Why not?” I ask. Let’s look at the actions of both of these young men; let’s see which of their behaviors was more diabolical than the other. Which one of them deserved to die at the hands of the security forces, more so than the other?

Stephen Frey recognizably came from an echelon of means. His family background decorated his comportment; suggestive of having had the benefits of collegiate schoolings, lived in comfortable circumstances, and which he did, as a resident in the upscale neighborhood of Albion, Montego Bay; possible feature recognition, his family having been active members of the business community there; probably projected an air of some one of means, not as a naturally born, bedraggled person.

What did Andrew Buchanan have to show to the society/system, of which the JCF is its representative? Did his demeanor advertise him as a socially correct citizen? Or did it show him, as he really was, impoverished, and inconsequential? Certainly, the security forces/system, which apprehended and murdered him, did not respect his children’s mother/wife sufficiently to consider their futures before they gunned him down.

Indulging in some qualitative analysis, let us ‘check out’ whose behavior was more compromising, so much so, that one, Andrew Buchanan paid with his life, while Stephen Frey is living to see another day, even though his future and home life are severely compromised.

My knowledge of the late Mr. Buchanan’s life prior to his death is limited to the circumstances surrounding his being visited at his home, in the presence of his wife and children, by members of the constabulary, being taken away forcefully, and never to be seen alive again. He was purportedly suspected of being involved in some criminal activity. Whatever it was that he was involved in, why was he not civilly incarcerated, brought to trial, have access to legal representation, and be judged guilty/innocent? What are the JCF and/or the system trying to hide? Is that why he was sanctionally wiped out?

Stephen Frey on the other hand, due to his comported, indulged upper middle class bearings is able to slip by security personnel at the airport, board the CanJet aircraft, while its passengers are embarking to return home to Canada. He announces to the flight crew that he is hijacking the plane; he brandishes a gun, threatening to use it if necessary, unless he is flown to the United States. Then he proceeds to rob the passengers of their money. If ever their was a scenario that begged for an emotional and panicky bravadoism of blazing guns, and bullets, as the body/bodies of the hijacker/passengers lay carelessly around, this was certainly it.

Yet the utmost care was taken to sensibly defuse the situation, enough so, as to enhance the reputation of Jamaica’s security apparatus as a rational culture when placed under critical/stressful situations. Earl Frey, the hijacker’s father was brought to the airport, and along with the security forces, including members of the JF, coaxed the young man to stop his outburst and reasonably surrender to the authorities without loss of life/lives.

“All’s well that ends well,” as it could be said. Or is it?

Could not the same diplomacy have been used by the JCF to bring Andrew Buchanan in for questioning and possible imprisonment, as preludes to a trial, instead of killing him?

Who are the personnel making up Jamaica’s security forces? Are they from some other planet that simply happened like UFO’s to drop from flying saucers unto the island, taking up the task of policing the citizens? Or are they members of our communities; families, friends, neighbors, relatives? Where did they get the inspiration/orientation/power from to a) show deference to those within the communities who are demarcated by hair and skin tones, and by socio-economic status; and b) to despise, and look at others, including themselves, as less than, the way they deprecated Andrew Buchanan, and his right to life?

I put it to you this way, the only difference between the demographics of the local security forces, such as the Jamaica Constabulary Force, and that of the late Andrew Buchanan, was that he was not able to join their fraternity, for whatever mischance. The members of these apparatus, for the most part, however, are/were able to rise from out of their humble/miserable/poverty-stricken self-abnegated existences to enter into the security fraternities of the nation, thereby gaining, not only careers/respectability, but freedom to reek anger and vengeance against the likes of an Andrew Buchanan, a mirror image of their self-hating selves. In the process, they have abused the futures and lives of his family, depriving his children especially of a father, and showing how cowardly they are in not attacking that echelon of society, which they hold in awe and dread, and from which cometh the likes of a Stephen Frey.

How grateful am I that young Stephen Frey is alive; yet how much does my heart grieve for the life of Andrew. Both of them are/were brothers, countrymen, cousins, friends, grandsons, neighbors, nephews, sons, uncles. Both of them in their lives made mine worthwhile. With Andrew’s demise, I am but a fraction of myself, always mourning for him. With Stephen, I will wish he had had a chance to vent his anguishes and pains to a more caring and cognizant society, sensitive to the needs and turmoils running rampant within him, intervening and saving him from himself, before he imploded/

What an awful waste of two beautiful and promising young lives? Such a horrible grief and suffering meted out to the families of both Andrew and Stephen. How ugly a blemish, and tragic surrender of the Jamaican people for expending the lives of their youths, both females and males, as cruelly epitomized by Andrew and Stephen.

They are however, drops in the buckets of so many more Jamaican youths, regardless of their cultural and socio-economic status, who will be sacrificed on the alters of inferiority complexes, self-deprecation, and wanting to be like the others.

Would Jamaicans have idolized/loved Usain Bolt as they do, if he had not excelled as the world’s fastest man? Not every Jamaican female/male can be a Sherri Ann Fraser, Michael Frater, Asafa Powell. Yet all Jamaicans are worthy of the dignity, love, and respect simply for being humans, born of a father and mother. No Jamaican female/male should be earmarked by the system just because he/she is not born into status, and be persecuted by the society; likewise, no Jamaican youth should be ignored/shunted aside, left to negotiate on her/his own a system which, instead of being sensitive to the passions raging in their lives, is critical and judgmental of her/him as ‘being mad/criminal/got de devil in dem!’ These are simply ignorant/insensitive castigations that instead of addressing the problems hurting your children, relegate them to disasters and tragedies. They do not solve anything.

Both of these stellar young men, although coming from vastly different circumstances, shared one thing in common, - even if their hair textures/skin tones/ and socio-economic exposures diverged; - they were equally bored and trapped within the futility of their ambivalent society. Seeking for better alternatives within which to organize themselves from the abandonment of those from whom they sought empathy and love, they instead, became pathetic victims to the mayhem of an atomized, constricted, grasping, greedy, insensitive, serpentine system.

To transpose a line from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: “(I) (WE) have lost a brace of kinsm(a)(e)n…All are punished!”

Saturday, May 23, 2009

STEVE ADAM


The sub-frozen tundra cast its repressed severity
radiantly over its Lambeau Field memoirs, chiming
breathless dreams from the abyss of the assembled
molecules, busy rustling heavily gloved hands together, their
faces masked surreptitiously beneath knitted hooded helmets: Beards, ears,
eyes, mouths, nasal drips, noses, salivate lips, stitched coaxingly together,
cleave inseparably to skins made to stick fast; icicle particles proliferate:

Plaxico Burress in pirouette precision; team mate, Manning,
strutting the pas de dieu, seethes at opposing phenom, Brett Favre, fleshing
gritted resolves, spanking ferociously Al Harris’s styrofoam
challenges, determined concertedly to freeze these giants in their sisyphesian
goal, with a packer’s adieu:

Daddy Adam swivels olives impaled on sticks, among home town heroes,
Abe, Aaron, Dave, Esau, Jake, Josh, Noah; chips, chugs, mugs,
nuts with locust licorice, etc., enjoy an event’s festal foray, warming
frozen fans; invading nomads convening for a
faux pas, cheering the homeboy giant challengers:
Daddy Adam teases martinis! Wasted Packers tackle attackers, the
bottom of Adam’s aperitif, their icy field

Alpha honeys, beta wives, escorts, girlfriends, mamas, sweethearts; accomp-
lices; gallivanting gals; portraits painted on an Hieronymos Bosch’s like
“Garden of Delights” canvas, abet Mother Eve; her self-claimed ‘hostess
cup-cake’ sweetness, the ‘apple’ of Daddy Adam’s adoration;
himself, haughtily engaged with peers under the shade of an overheated
conduit down in the bleachers section of the Green Bay field….,

“Here, Daddy! Munch on a talon; tamed for you!
Makes this freeze for all warm you: Having a good time pops?”
“Ta, Ma! Hey guys! Listen up!” Daddy Adam shouts his boisterous hoody
boys, imbibing transcontinental six pacs of native Cana Manishewitz, Eden Lager,
Ewe 666 Ale, Galilean Comforts, Gommaroh Stout, Porkslap Pale Ale, Prophet
Daniels:

You name it; spirits fizzing freely, melts one’s jugular.

Interrupting again, Daddy Adam shouts, “Hey guys listen up; hush for a few!”
“When your kids and their kids learn history; what we do for fun; how our
boy, Steve Adam, for one, exhales; how we strut
the wild side; chilling; here’s how he, his mates, Ishmael, Isaac, Joseph,
for instance, tell it…


Mama, where’s our boy, anyway? Stevie, where are you kiddo?”

“Yow daddy, don’t really know; Steve’s
maybe down in the pit somewhere!

Steve honey! Helloooo Steve! Steeeevey! Where did that boy disappear to?”
Mother Eve, exasperated & tired in her state, shrugs her droopy shoulders,
indifferently:

Meanwhile, down in the dugout, buried below the frigid bowels of the stadium’s
subterrenean conundrum, ammonia, body sweat, urea; odors, smells, bulging
muscular biceps, stalwart spandex veined triceps, filter erogenous steam oozing from
armpits, crotches, foreheads, mouths, nostrils, pores:

Steve Adam is elementary here;
smiles astygmatize his blue, green, (this is termed ‘hazel’, I think) eyes, revolving in
their orbits, contrite from basting in pureed spirituals; eponymous potentates in an
imaginary carnage dedicated to another’s elimination.

“Honey, he’s your son alright! Just like papa! Sure don’t take after his mother, that’s
for sure! You know what they say Father ‘bout them silent ones’; what they say again? Oh, yeah, ‘runs deep’; should’ve a girl like me this round!”

“For your sake ma, (hiccup), hope so!” Daddy Adam’s Porkslap breath belches, en-couragingly.

1 look outside! Shameful!

1 look outside! Shameful!


One look outside the window
into pock marks of slushy snow
depressed even moreso
with chiclets of rain drops;
a Chinese take out trough
fuming to its brim
floats leaves of spinach
mixed with slops of ‘healthy choice’
noodles conveniently drowning
inside
hiding behind jealousies,
that is;
torrents of
torments of
coulda, shoulda
Prospect Park/Van Cortlandt tracks
beam ‘pon di brains
who cares really
where
running 3.5 miles thru thick ‘n thin
become mi{(l)le}stones
round one’s neck;
such confluence ,
no indolence, hell, call a spade a spade
bugging out is more like it
marinating ‘oh I’ve got the flu,’
moaning“O me miserum,”
dat’s a bum
cop out you!

1 look ain’t no ‘1 love:’
“No! No Bob Marley, yo!
Get dat butt pon di move!”

A look again outside,1say No!”

CONDENSED FLAKES

Condensed flakes,
Not the Kellogg’s type; indeed not;
crystal-silvery cotton ball-like blurbs
provoke ones last nerves
sprinkling escaped tear drops
from the sadness
stretched on heaven’s frown
wasting crumbling tissue tidbits of
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas”
on winnowed ‘Rudolph’s’ nosedrips,
this deer’s pasture of soupy slush
flummoxing ‘change we can believe in’
from the sidewalk café
reciting over and over
‘yes we can,’
A cute mantra
taped to the lexicon
of lost believers lips
incanting choruses probabilities scoured
from an elected leader’s
‘one liners’.

“Oh me! Oh my! Your very own secret santa!
Why is this so? Fannuel, Lemuel, Yitzabhel
Yow mothers, you’ve got to be ‘in it to win it’ you say?
How come me ‘miss de chestnuts roasting ‘pon dat raging bonfire, homies?”

Herald Square; Times Square; Union Square;
gold green and red twinks
scare us into the gridlock
parsing me flying into Foot Locker,
next stop G A P,
Fannuel revolting through Macy’s:
Lemuel, lame and old, old navy’s namesake
WhodoneinYitzabhel?
Her hordes
stampeding into Jack’s
gets a jill of anything, everything, something;
nothing really.

It’s all just make belief;
“gottcha make to be a buying
whatsoever
our pockets lean and mean
though our ambitions rich,
fancy.
Fanny over there
don’t never care,
like me over here,
not even own a farthing to ‘er name

mekking fi a buying richly
a finding nit to pick wid
den walking in disgust like
when all the time not really buying nothing she humming

‘silent night, holy night.’

between her spatial tooth picked teeth smiles falling flakes
of flax
filling the furtive air with dour derelicts in daffy’s decent dungerees
a step from ‘im/’er ‘
dat 1 over there’
daring to call ‘my bluff,’
dirty, disheveled, nasty, stinky,
begging Lemuel
for what his
pride forbids him to beg
even from Yitzabhel.