Fourth Thursday

What do you all think? Hot or not?

"It only hurts when I lean back"

She wears that defense closer than her bruises,
Clad in purple shirts
Because that color got her the first compliment
She would receive in years.
Her hands shake,
Probably because they're used
to pushing his chest away
As he closes in,
But they steady when caressing
The hair of her kids.
She baby-sits, and treats
Each one as if it were her own,
So when money runs out,
They drink Kool-aid while
she swallows her spit,
And pretends it's red,
And she carries my knife
Because she says
"It's too rough for your grip."

She loves everyone and adores few,
And hates when that love is returned
Because every hand that fed her
Has scratched her
And she wears those scars
As plaques,
Celebrating the gain of knowledge.
They are her diplomas,
And she knows they're worth more
Than the school she attended.
She hopes for little
And when she stares at the stars,
Their light burns too bright for her eyes.
She's always one laugh away from tears.

I swear,
Every time I see her bruises
And count her scars, I wonder
How things would be for her
If I could carry her across that bridge
And show her life behind the red brick
Walls of this university.
I wonder how it would look
To see her trade that knife
For a text book
And those scars for paper cuts
And I wonder if I would have
The courage to tell her
Everything if it was
Here instead of there.

Dear Carina,

I'm sorry that I can't love you.
I'm sorry that my hands are stained
With graphite and that my mind
Paints pictures in black and white.
And that I play with words
But don't toy with hearts
Because I'm afraid to not know.
I can't heal your wounds,
I can't dry your eyes
And make life more than
Today for you.

All I can do is listen,
And not just to your stories.
I'll listen to every movement
Of your eyes and follow your interests,
I'll listen to your body and know
How to embrace you
Without remind you of him,
I'll listen to the shakes of your hands,
Convert them to a Richter scale
And figure out the epicenter,
I'll listen to every word you say
And use the letters to draw a path
Away from your home
And into your next dream.

I can't love you,
But I can't abandon you.
This is me, bandaging the scars,
And having the faith
To know that the same girl
Who loves those kids
Can love herself
Enough to let herself
Heal.

Love,
Gerald

Normally, I can count on my students
to be late
and to come wearing their smiles
under their caps.
These are the kids rejected by St. Louis,
who learn to turn their eyes
from pavement to parchment,
to write their stories in sound waves
and send them to their handcuffs.
All they want is a chance
to write at top volume,
screaming from the bottom
of their lead-tipped pencils.

Today,
their smiles were left at home,
consoling their mothers
who mourn the King of Pop.
We all sit there, silent,
me a teacher, with no prompt
and wandering thoughts
of canceling class.

One of them asks:
"Gerald, what did you think of MJ?"
I smile:
"He was the best there ever was."
Another looks at me:
"Wasn't he born in Gary?"
I cock my eyebrow:
"Yea, why do you ask?"
His eyes slide from me to his desk:
"You wouldn't know by looking at him."
I chuckle:
"I guess you're right. Can't judge a book
by its cover."

A girl named Candice,
usually quite with fingers
that pick locks and pat
her little sister on the back
before school daily,
raises her hand for the first time
this summer.

"Isn't Gary mostly Black?"
I smile:
"Yea, it's pretty Black."
Her voice softens:
"Wasn't he Black?"
I can't resist:
"It was contested.
But he's definitely Black."
She turns towards the window,
staring at the setting sun,
dying us all amber:
"I only knew Michael Jackson
as that guy that was supposed
to touch children. The guy
with the messed up hair
who couldn't decide what sex
he was or what race
he would be that day,
but when I see my mother
crying for him,
I wonder what it must have been like
to see Thriller when it first came out."

I take a deep breath,
her words heavy in my lungs:
"When you're the best,
they will beat you down."
Their eyes widen.
I continue:
"This is what it looks like.
When you're down,
this world will try
to keep you down.
It's fingers will grip your ankles,
and every time you take a step
up, it will pull you back.
Everyday,
we fight to escape gravity
and float with stars,
to never look back at the Earth
that never smiled back."

Their completely silent.
I'm completely silent.

Candace raises her hand,
damp with sweat.
"What made him different, then?"

I walk to her desk,
her eyes avoid mine:

"He made it,
but instead of trying to abandon
this world,
he tried to heal it,
so that others
from Gary,
to Detroit,
to Moscow,
to London
and to this very classroom
can make that same journey."

The sun set fully,
but I can still see amber
in their irises.

"How do we make that journey?"

I laugh:
"That's a good question.
How do you think?"
Another student begins to raise his hand.
My hand beats his:
"Don't tell me, tell your notebooks."

40 minutes pass,
their hands searching their
pages for answers,
the stars becoming visible.
and a video playing on the projector
of Michael,
dancing with his white sparkling glove.
I watch the video
but I can hear them mumbling to each other
the culmination of their poems:

"My path was paved by my family,
and I'll walk it with you on my headphones..."
"I'm tired of looking at the man in the mirror,
but I have a lot to work on..."
"My friends play my instrumentals..."
"Our paths aren't the same,
none of ours are,
but you said that 'we are not alone...'"
"Thank you for showing me that I can live
off the wall..."

and in that moment,
on the screen,
Micheal's gloved hand
stopped before his face,
twinkling
like the jewels of his crown.

We're at a barbecue.

She just turned 20, I'm a little more seasoned,
it's our first time meeting
and we're awkwardly eyeballing the ketchup,
laughing uneasily.
She's laughing because i look puzzled.
I'm laughing because she says "Catsup."

She says "It's weird when you call it 'Ketchup.'"
I say "It's kind of a 'Tomato-Tomato' type thing."
She giggles and takes the ketchup,
we look away,
she staring at her toes
and I am staring at what i want to say next.

So i stare.

and I stare.


She stares.
I glance at her.
She stares.

and I puzzle piece her in elegance,
ballrooms and I was an accessory,
augmenting but never outshining,
diamonds wrapped gold
around her fingers

and she says
"I know this sounds random,
but rings are like tiny handcuffs."
and I say,
"I know this sounds random,
but there's no keyhole for rings."

She nods,
I cock my eyebrow,
she says
"Maybe because we're never
supposed to take them off,
even if it turns our fingers
purple."

And I'm awkward,
"You look good in purple."
And she's awkward,
"I'm wearing blue."

And I wonder where I saw
her in purple before
and she wonders the same
and I wonder if this is what it's like
to dream about someone when you're awake,

And we talk about Lupe Fiasco,
because i want to see if talking about daydreams
makes me act like I'm in the present,
but instead we talk about coolness,
because our food got cold and she's a little bitter,

And she asks,
"Do you want to take a walk?"
And I ask,
"Where to?"
And she says,
"Somewhere."

And we walk,
and I realize that I'm not comfortable
following and that she walks really fast
and I remember where we are,
that these sidewalks were rain-washed
of grass clippings and blood
and that a lot of these brick walls were
reinforced with bullets
and that this is where she's from,
and she walks like there are shackles on her feet
and every step breaks those rings
and I feel guilty that I was just thinking
that her legs were so nice

She looks over he shoulder.
"Are you tired?"
"No, but a little lost."
"How can you be lost when
you're following me?"
"Touche."

And we walk, further into her neighborhood,
to a park, and she sits at a bench,
and I stand next to her
and she looks at me like she has something to say
and she says it.

"I say really awkward things."
She's correct.
"I like awkward things."
She laughs.
"We have a lot in common."

And I have to be the more awkward one.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No, I have a problem."
"Which is?"
"That i can't love someone I trust."

And I see her,
fatherless,
mother who hates men,
and she, a woman hurt before
she knew what love was.
Who never knew
that you can be in pain and pleasure
at the same time,
Who thinks that men are afraid
to let their fingers turn purple,
and

and

she stands up and kisses me on the cheek.
I look at her confused.
She says,
"I don't really trust you just yet."
I smirk,
"Touche."

And we walk back to the barbecue,
she says
"It was fun getting to know you."
and I say,
"Are we done or something?"
and she says
"What, you think we'll see each other again?"
and she laughs
so hard that tears fall
from her closed eyes.

Settling

How do you write
With an empty pen,
something that refuses
To leave it's mark on a page
And draws upon your blood to smear lines
If you press hard enough,
You can still see it

This is the poem I swore I'd never write.

Last year, I learned,
When I drove back from Kansas City
And left my future in a college dorm,
That I would never have the ink
To tell you how I feel.

I would freestyle every word,
And hope you wouldn't proofread it,
I would hope that your eyes
Would face that space between the stars
And know that gravity would pull
The arc of that angle back down to me
And vice versa,
We interspersed between our vices
And swore our atonement on phone calls,
You were the last person I texted at night.

We argued every day about love poems
Because you said I couldn't write one,
And I agreed
And you were angry because I didn't fight back
And I knew that my pen didn't have the ink
And that every time I said your name
Stanza burst from my tongue,
I couldn't eat spicy food anymore.
I love spicy food.
And of course, we fought
Over how important you were
Compared to habanera sauce
And how you both would
Cause my heart to burn.

We would argue about your ex
And how past-tense it all was
And why I was afraid of the night
Because it meant that day was coming
And how you were afraid of the day
Because sometimes the sun hurts
And we rested on each other's shoulders
More than our pillows
From across a state,
Distance is nothing but a longer glance.

This is the poem I swore I'd never write

You live in St. Louis,
Local, and every guy on the metro
Tries to holla at you
And you laugh it off,
They don't get you like
You do.

Neither do I,
Which is why I listen when you speak
And admire the class that passes
Through accented lips
You carry yourself like Athena
In a warzone speaking
With Poseidon's tongue
And I rode those waves
Because it's the closest I may ever be
To a beach.

You taught me how to deserve.

You taught me that St. Louis
Is an idea and that poetry
Is born in rivers and lakes
And that I would never find love
In a person, but I could find it
In their notebooks. You taught me
To be tough and fight with every
Word I have and never be afraid
To lose a battle
But to hobble my way home

This is the poem I swore I'd never write

Not because I'm afraid,
But because I'm tired of writing about women
Who don't exist
And fueling stomachs of players
Who use love poems as lust songs,
My stanzas are not dog food.
I swore that I would never write
About love because it sits above
My pen and drips onto my fingers
And I don't know how to wash it off.
It's a part of me I can't erase,
The ink,
That misstep,
That awkward laugh,
That dropped book
That deep sigh,
That late night conversation,
My heart speaking Morse code,
And its inability to simple say "Yes."

I swore I'd never write a love poem
Until I fell in love
Instead, I settled with the day that
Love stopped falling and I decided
To play catch-up.

"I saw the way you were looking at me..."

There was no blood between us.
Just two people with different blood
pumping through different bodies,
pushing themselves towards different
hearts and yet, we were the same.
Our love was the same.

You were my best friend.
My sister, buddy, confidant...whatever.

We would spend hours on the phone,
neither wanting to hang up, pressing
the number pad buttons to trick
the other into conversational submission.
We would talk about boys and girls
and why we were still single
and say why we would always
be there for each other and laugh
for being so corny.

"You know you want this..."

Your call came at 12:46am Friday.
There were no phony hang-ups,
no talk about being single
no crazy girls or heartbroken boys,
I couldn't hear your smile.

I heard your breath stagger
with the rise and fall
of your chest, heavy heart
beat off-rhythm and pushing
sobs, One of your tears rested
on the 3 button of your phone.

"Why me? What did I do to deserve this?"

You told me about parties
and alcohol
and his smile, small, defined,
how it turned into sharp eyes,
snarls, grunts,
how the fabric tore

and about cuts
trailing up your thighs
opposite the blood running
down your leg and about
bruises circling your eyes
and spreading to your hair
and about the hand
on your throat, his sweat,
his hands trailing your stomach
your fists struggling to set you fee
and about his thrusts
and your screams
and how he goes back to smiling.
And that kiss on your forehead.

"I never even had sex..."

I never drove that fast,
crossing the plains of central Missouri,
telling you I'm on my way.
The world speeding by,
all i can see is your tear on the 3 button.

Where was I? Where was I
when you needed me? Where
was I when he blew smoke in your face
and smirked? Where was I when
the alcohol poured into your red cup?
What was I doing as his hands curled
through your hair and clenched,
drawing pleas of "Please STOP!"

Where was I when he forced himself into you?

WHERE THE FUCK WAS I?
What was I doing as thoughts of dates
and boyfriends became thoughts of predators
and prosecution and pregnancy,
when cries of "no" became null
and as you lost the last bit
of childhood you had?

Three hours away, wondering what time
I would go to sleep.

"He told me he loved me..."

I arrived at your house at 3:36 AM Friday.
We didn't talk about him.
We talked about popcorn and movies
and about sign language
and about math class, and fear of ourselves
and about church and about each other
and about the cost of gas and how there's
nothing between Kansas City and St. Louis
and how Lee's Summit isn't hard.

Everything but him. Everything.

There were tears in your eyes, barely
contained by bruised lids.
You said don't look away.
I wanted those tears to vanish.
I tied my eyes shut, wanting
to make your tears die
with the absence of light.
When I opened my eyes,
the tears had dried.
She said

That didn't help
I'm sorry
Don't be.
Why?
Just don't.
Are you okay?
I don't know.
Then I'll stay here.
Why?
To be sure.
Thank you for being.
Here?
No, just being.

Every bruise will fade.
She'll smile again.
I'll make sure of it.
Our love is the same.

It's been awhile since our last check up, hasn't it?

I see you're recovering finely from the last ailments,
My medicines are having positive effects on you,
Aren't they?
Are you following my instructions?

With the crack of sunrise, ingesting
My prescription will keep you sane.
Stained sheets are your medication,
Take once whenever you're feeling
Down, twice if the feeling is that
Overwhelming.

Above that, calming exercises
Are necessary, being addicted to success
Is easily counterbalanced by greater success,
Because eventually,
all you thirst is more.
Your attributes are not yours.
They're all side-effects
And I am the doctor
And pharmacist.

Take each dose the way I prescribe,
Chewing the tablets and swallowing
Broken dates, missed phone calls
And facebook messages.
Sip the nyquil and dream
"I'm sorry, Mom, I can't come
Home for my birthday."
Don't regurgitate, for all that
Will come is
"What do you mean, I've changed?"
And you will slip back,
Relapse,
The state I defend you from.

Take my injections,
I'll vaccinate you from her smile,
Draw a blood sample
With her words dancing with
Red cells
And draw out the plasma,
Polio was cured,
And so can lovesickness.
Let me numb your arms
So you can't feel when you
Hold…

Yea, that's right

Hold her.
Caress,
Give her a slight tickle with your breath
And remind her
That she is not to be there
When the sun rises.

And don't fight the drugs,
Remember how high felt like
What it was like to be that man
That the pills made you out to be.
Remember where I pulled you
From, where I put that tube
Down your throat and pumped
Rejections letters and failing grades
Into your lungs, allowing it to flow
Through your bloodstream.

My procedures are tattooed
To the inside of your flesh.
You said you didn't smoke,
So I gave you vapors.
You said you didn't drink,
So I gave you shotguns
And told you to put the glass
To your lips,
Your heart is a series of
Chambers, and I hold the keys.

I am your own Dr. Harold Shipman,
Engraving my name on your chest
Like dogtags so that everyone
Who sees my title can come to me
And receive the same treatment.
I'll pump their stomachs
Of accomplishment so they
Can remember what empty feels like.

And eventually, you'll reach the real world,
Outside of my red-brick hospital.
Don't worry, as long as you pay
My bills, I'll continue to treat you.
I have the perfect pills for that.

Ahriyana always admired
The fingers of Alicia Keys
But couldn't forget Rihanna's songs.
I watched as
She would press between black keys
And hope to see the stems
Of techno-pop anthems spring
From the strings of the baby grand.
Alicia would tell her to be a superwoman
And my cousin kept her head up,
Even when Rihanna told her
Rehab was okay
My cousin would grow the hands
Of Alicia Keys and the head
Of Ri-Ri.

Ahriyana met Stanley when
When the good girl went bad,
2007
Rihanna's song stopped in 2009.

My cousin won't tell us how often
Stanley hit her. We don't know
When the techniques of BF Skinner
Were used on her, Conditioning,
where his palm
Kept her silent and his fist
Kept her obedient,
where his knuckles
Suppressed her opinion
And where his eyes swallowed
Her indecision.
17 and impressionable,
Carrying the head of a Barbadian
Goddess with no Kingdom,
My cousin walked away from
Her piano and became a drum.

Sometimes, I wonder how hard
It was for her to push those piano keys.
I wonder how much weight she
Pressed down every time a d-flat
Rang from the hammers striking
The strings, How hard was it to
Keep her head above the
Keys, to not drown at the pedals,
to see the notes she grew up
Knowing.

How hard was it to remember
The A-sharp that started her name.
How hard it was to know the tempo
Of a heartbeat
How hard it was to remember
What fingertips felt like
I wondered when I would get the strength
To tell her
"That your voice was not created to be wasted,
That your body was not created to be a tool
But as a vessel,
That when a man speaks to you,
He'll me speaking his future,
Even when he's stuck in the past
That you are more than sum of your parts
You are a math that can only be
Explained in the form of hearts and treble clefs…"

I wondered
until Ahriyana found her
Hands again.
Her hands, which molded melodies
And brought chords together
As families, held men and hugged
Women
She found those hands that
Couldn't break bones but
Could scratch skin and tear
The flesh of any animal
Willing to harm her,
Those hands that made songs violent
And made lullabies sweet,
Those hands that demanded respect
Even when she's falling
In and out of love.
Ahriyana found the fingers
That didn't press keys,
But became them,
Which would one day hold a child
And which would hold the hand
Of the partner who wished to help,
Once again, her hands crafted
Masterpieces, and I hope
They show him
That the cracks in her palms
Do not harbor hate,
But are the proof that she
Is still alive,
That the strength in her fingers
Are the not the sign of a man
But the beauty of a lady
I hope that Yani's Hands
Remind Stanley what
a woman's worth really is.
Her hands move men to curl
Their hands around pens
And rewrite their own albums:
Apologies
In A-Minor.

Yani is not Alicia Keys.
She wrote her own song,
No longer listening to the drones
Of SOS, no longer needing a replay,
She needed her own hands,
Her own keys.

I am not defending Stanley.
I am merely remarking upon the
Wonder of watching a woman
Rewrite the melody of her
Own song.

You and I met on a battlefield
You were not a nurse,
I was not a technician
You and I were soldiers,
Two people with guns pointed at opposite sides,
Our governments
Were two kids who loved to play
Capture the flag,
And we were the guardians,
We were the team on the wet fields
Knees soaked with our brothers
And sisters left lifeless by conflict
I was not a killer, I was a defender,
One last stop between patriotism
And nationalism
And my nation was myself
And you were not my country
And I was not your hero,
I was a grenade throwing
Rocket launching
occupant
Of your lands,
Breaching this contract for a taste
Of your grass

And every time I bit my tongue,
I tasted you,
Your scalp was in my crosshairs
As your beam centered on my heart
And if unlocking this part of me
Would set you free from the
Fingers of your idealism,
Then pull the trigger
It won't hurt,
No weapon formed against us
Shall prosper but each others,
I held the gun and you held the rockets
And when we closed our eyes,
I swear we saw bombs
The trenches close,
The ground was flat
And the only war was
Between us and father time
To see who would last longer






And we promised
to hold our hands
like the grips of our weapons
Never light stepping around our duty,
Because you were loyal to me
And I was loyal to you,
And we were loyal to our countries

And in the presence of our
Of platoons,
We would stand back to back,
Ready for a quick draw
But at least I could feel your
Fingertips against mine
And with every step away from
Each other, you remembered
Our invasion,
I remembered your rejections
You would say you hate me
I would say I hate you
And we would turn
With our weapons raised
And scream each others names
Louder than our muzzles could
And shoot each others
Bullets out the air

Until all that stood was us,
Chest to chest, taking
In each others breath like
Narcotics, calm, our first laugh
Since the battlefield erupted
With your comrades and my
Friends at the top the of the hill
And our weapons embracing
We'll raise our guns
And declare war on everything
Because we were a nation
We were nationals,
I am your patriot
And you are my Jefferson,
And all that matters
Is that our last breath
Belongs to us,
We were our Coup D'état,
And as the bullet struck my stomach
And one caught your shoulder
We became our own flags.

***

You are one of the cool girls
I was one of the nerds
You weapon was a cell phone,
Mine was a Game Boy
And your friends could
Not take my friends
And our weapons
Were aimed at each other
Until we realized there
Was no flag to capture,
And when the bullet struck my stomach
And one caught your shoulder
They found out.

Sprouts

I am an ambassador from another dimension
I come bearing a problem I wish to discuss
That problem pertains to the Salad

That's right.

The Salad.

Not the salad you are used to, for in my dimension,
the Salads are men
and women with dressing pumping through their veins
and a lack of chains tying them to the earth.

They walk, they talk, they breath carbon.

The Salads walk through their fields as kings, wearing
crowns of weeds decorated with precious stones,
keeping earthworms as pets and allowing them to
swim to the dirt and peek their heads up to their masters.

As with any good group, this clan met their own problems,
coming by way of meat. Meat, which boasted it's carnivorous
tendencies, shooting spices and locking the Salads together in
vines, bundling them, wrapping them, sealing them and sending
them to the meat packaging plants
Where they imprinted a simple message in their stems
and their minds, saying
"You are nothing more than a side dish! Meat tastes better!"

They stripped them of their identities, renaming them “sprouts.”
That's right, sprouts. Sprouts would be beaten, have eggs
splashed on them, be raped only to produce veggie patties.
They became used to the name Sprouts, started to act like sprouts
until a few select Salads helped fuel the fight to free Salads
from their dish.

Salads were freed but they didn't know what to do
with their title of Sprouts, which was always hung over their
head along with sides and toppings. Some grew so attached
to their identity as Sprouts that they continued to call themselves
by the name their Meaty oppressors handed down to them

Sprouts became a culture, Sprouts became the definition
of ignorance, with Sprouts being blamed for rising
produce costs, blamed for farmer's job security,
blamed for the destruction of the salad bar.

Sprouts also became popular. Meats became lean,
they covered themselves in sprouts, being leafy was a
compliment, an honor.
Meats would see
each other, away from Salads and say “What's good,
my sprout?
What's hood, my sprout?
Sprout, please!”

Sprouts would drip from the prejudice lips
Of the teacher to the student from the teacher
To CNN (Culinary News Network)
Where Meats would see the story and say
"Why can't wee say it? They say it all the time."
Then flip the channel up and see
An eloquent salad running for office and say
Wow, he speaks so well!
Then flip the channel once more and see
The story of a multi-platinum artist
Releasing his new CD, S.P.R.O.U.T.S.
Which was renamed Untitled to appeal
To the sensitive ears,
but we all know what the real title was.


I know what you're thinking: What kind of world is this?

Well, as your ambassador from another dimension
I can say
That Your world is not that much different from mine.
The only difference between your dimension and mine
is that in yours, Sprouts actually own the record labels.

I
We walk the cobblestone streets barefoot
with black masks tied from temple to temple
with smiles carved to connect our cheeks
with lips filled in blue.

II
We dance through the prison
and celebrate this expensive captivity
by replacing dollars with points
and allowing it to inflate.

III
We learn to ask questions
and to answer questions with questions
and to explore the context of those questions
and to never question the absolute absence of answers

IV
We like the sounds of our own voice.
We record it, remaster and resample the original
add a basseline and redefine ourselves
by the number of downloads compared to the original.

V
Each mask has a different marking.
That marking puts you into a group of similar markings
who hate other markings because they aren't like theirs
even though they don't like their own markings

VI
It seems smart to say "I don't know."
We've worn the masks so long that we don't know
who made them, who placed them on our faces
all we know is the scratch marks on our temples

VII
Some scars are deeper than others

VIII
How many tears have dried up
behind the masks? What if each had a story,
one that could teach us something
or at least allow us to see more than a blue smile.

IX
What will happen when the ties that
bind these contraptions to our faces finally
break? What will we see?
How afraid of our own faces will we be?

X
I want to break every fucking mask I see.

Hey Kid,

How has things been for you?

I brought a gift this time, hoping to sooth my mind,
since last time I brought something, it withered;
without warning, the gift wept it petals away,
slipping to the ground like the words I want to say.

Since, I've made work from wordplay.
I've made money off sound, beats blast the ground
and every time that bass pounds, I get rounds
even though it's so understandable that

every dollar feels like another inch sold
to the highest bidder, centered around a
quest to the stars that can't be achieved
but is promoted by everyone who believes

in me.

Heh

Funny, isn't it?

The art of being second best has always been
my mastery, my pallet, my brush and canvas.
Stanzas may be my speakers, but
lines will never make base

Breaks will never be the treble, but they make
me tremble. I keep stumbling on words that
I should know, making up lines and words as
I go. (Misunderestimated.)

Somehow, people believe in me,
invest in the second best like it will overtake
the best and make haste to a finish line
and cross the ribbon at the last possible time

Yea, right.

Things aren't the same

It's not like when we were kids,
poppin off at the jaws whenever anything
went wrong, swinging fists and crying
over the people we missed

Until our eyes burned from being so dry
that we'd feel more pain by being unable to cry
all we knew how to do was live
but it was only a matter of time

before some of us learned how to die.

Now, we wear reminders of the fine
soldiers with no war, but refuse to
acknowledge that fighting opened
the door for us to be slaughtered.

Now, it's just us.

Best friends.

Holding onto memories that connect
and heal the worst wounds from the
hand to the chest and back to
the knee and the back.

I know you can't speak back,
but you can hear me.
Probably saying that I should
stop tripping off the little shit

and focus on the big fish.
Get the big hits,
fight the good fight and forget
the last wish

of anyone who wanted me to carry
the burden. Yea, I'm hurting, but
pain is short lived (ironic, huh?)
and eventually, it'll pass

Wounds heal. The scars on my body
may remain, but only as a way to mark
the lessons I've learned on my frame,
not as a way to mark pain.

Yea, we're not the same.

I'm still one step behind.

I'm still here, you're not.

How am I supposed to pass you if you're not...

Oh...

I get it...

I'M still here.

You're not.

*sigh*

Thank you.

(next time, I'll bring red flowers, Elysia would like that! Keep watching, I have a lot left to do)

I don't feel so good...

like the moment before combustion
so much gathers within every vein
that blood refuses to flow.

Every vessel, capillary, artery
is filled with some feeling that turns
this skin cold and forces my blood
to settle within my feet.

My chest tightens

these words that swim through me grip
my heart and clog the veins
until my body cannot stand it...

So instead of standing, I fall to my knees

Attempt to throw up every word,
every feeling, every fear
every reservation

I have faith in this body,
believing it can dispel every shortcoming
since prayer made the words stronger.

That which does not kill me can only
make me stronger.
But if that is the case, then
say a good reason for the fact
that this symptom which refuses to kill
me makes me weaker!

Tears well up, not a single tear of
sadness but thousands of
frustrations (DAMMIT!)
which bond to water to form
some heated solution which burns
streaks down my cheeks
as they race to the ground

Another Wretch

Cough

Sputter

Wretch again, hoping that these
feelings will be released, but instead,
I get nothing.

Nothing but some spit and the realization
that my body has failed me.

With blood of malice feelings and
a face with tear-soaked burns,
I realize that every hurtful feeling
has saturated my stomach acids and
burns every inch that it touches.

A victim to the human virus,
trying my hardest to release this,
trying to live again or at least
become so numb that I can fake

like I'm feeling better

Your Son
by: Gerald Jackson
Written & Performed 4/15/08 in Ursas's Stageside.


"Do you think about me now and then?"

Plays in my headphones as I look at the only photo I have of you.

All it does is remind me of growing up without seeing your face

Sprouting without knowing who you really were
Caring about something that never held me
Fed me, never led me through my first fall,
First scrape on the skin that you shaded
That faded by being inside my father’s house

Now, I’m not saying I don’t love my father,
But me and my brother would have liked to
Have been nursed by you, raised by the breast
That never nourished us. I would love to
Play football on your yard, in your soil,

With my feet, not plowing with my shoulders
Wearing my father’s pads. I was raised to
Reject you because you were never around.
You were always some fictitious character that
Was cloaked in the hides of animals

Walking through the fields of grass
Searching for something to eat. You were always
An animal, unreal, unsure of what love
Was, is, or could be
You were a beast

Father tamed you and brought me here.
Through years of tears, blood and fear,
I transformed into my Father’s son,
Wearing his reds, his blues, his whites,
Fighting for his house, even if it defiled yours.

Then I saw this picture of you.

Wearing clothing of greens, blacks,
Browns, swirling around your black skin,
Staring at the distant oceans, waiting for
Rain to fall so that more of your children
Could sprout from your arms.

I see your skin, all the lacerations
Caused by those who wanted your
Being within them, all the people who raped
You, beat you, used you, abused you
My father included.

I see the scars around your neck
From where they snatched the diamonds
Off the platinum chain. I see the names
Of all your children killed on your legs
So that every time you fall to your knees to pray

They return to the earth.

I see the gold burned into your hands
From the bangles you wore, the handcuffs
Those men held you by. I see the bugs they
Said you ate, the animals they said you were
The societies they hid from me

I see your coasts, your real diamonds sparkling
Amongst the horizon. I see your lush hair,
The forests, the giver of breath and life to
Those who deserve it and those who don’t,
I see your nails, used to fight, the children who sharpen them

I see the mouth that cannot speak
I see the mind that cannot teach
I see you, I see everything about you
I see you in the desert, staring at me
With your hair covered, your face hidden

And only your eyes remain
Eyes so brown, skies so blue, that
Stare back at the land you are
And show the beauty, the tragedy
And the celebration of every life born

In your arms…

Here I am.
Wearing the chain with the gold
Ripped from your wrists. Rocking the
Diamonds snatched from your neck
Inside the skin you faded

Looking into our eyes that
Allow one trail of blood to fall from
Face to the chest to the leg to the
Ground, splattering the map of your
Home in my fathers house.

Our blood.

I love my father and rejected you.
Even though our blood is the same.
I can never have your name, instead
Of something that represents your beauty,
My name will be Jackson.

But that’s no excuse.

With my headphones still on, I flip the
Picture, which is a postcard, and write

Dear Mom…

I’m coming home again.

Maybe we can start again.

Love,

The distant child of Africa raised by America.

Your Son

What's hood, everybody?

I'm Gerald "AD the Hero" Jackson. Don't ask what AD means...I won't tell you. You have to REALLY know me to know the true origins of that name.

I'm a Junior at Washington University in St. Louis, living in the same city I was born and raised in, and doing all I can to make it a respectable city once again. I am an avid hip-hop head, a rapper, producer and a writer. Lately, I've really found my niche in poetry, which is what this blog is dedicated to.

Fourth Thursday is actually my first solo blog, so bear with me. (Hopefully I find someone to pretty this place up...designers, holla at me.) It's meant to be a place where I can share what's on my mind without worrying about type-limits and such. I'll probably post any poetry I have here, along with rants and songs that I make.

The name, "Fourth Thursday," comes from several important people in my life who both passed away of the fourth Thursday of the month. They helped shape who I am and taught me many valuable lessons about life and death, and I decided that I'll immortalize them in writing.

This blog will be broken up into sections:
1) Poetry
2) Opinions
3) Funny Ish
4) Random Ish
5) Purpose

There should only be one purpose post (this one) unless I decide to turn this into a real project.

So, let's get this crackin!

~AD