The Word Pimp Spits...

Moon Madness

2013-04-14T15:45:00.000-04:00

Spring cleaning & I found these poems I started during Shirley Brewer's moon poetry workshop at the January 2013 MWA Baltimore Chapter meeting:

Rave

The music is so loud

it feels like it’s coming

from within, each bass

beat expelled

with my breath. I am

surrounded by neon soldiers

spinning, popping, rocking

nodding. They dance in dreams

fueled by ecstasy & immortality.

I am mesmerized

by the movements

of these modern

day whirling

dervishes, oblivious

to eyes

like mine.

Even the yo-yos

being spun, glowing

on fluorescent strings,

dozens of tiny moons

in awkward orbits,
beguile me.

Disconnect

Do you remember brighter days,

days when I stayed

close, days when your extended

arms could not be wrapped

around me?

Do you recall those times

so long ago when you could climb

a mountain, and if your heart

was big enough, you could leap

from the peak & I could catch

you in my fullness?

Of course not. We were

so much closer then, back when

you worshiped me, revered me,

coveted my cheese. I loved you

then. But now? Now you have

grown up, grown old, grown

bitter & cynical.

I have become nothing

but cold rock to you.

Painting the Moon

I cried the night I realized

Gustav Klimt had painted

the moon. Before then

it was nothing more

than a ball

of rock, battered & broken,

sterile & lifeless.

And then came Yem,

a muse sent by the moon

itself--sent to show me

that its vitality lied

not in the presence of life

but in the weight

of our souls.

So, for Yem,

I went to art school.

I learned to see the life

in everything--nothing

existed in a vacuum

when I could make it all

breathe.

Like a willo’wisp

returning to woods

Yem winked out

before I could catch

her. Rumors were

she had to go

home, home

to money claiming

playtime was over.

So I mourned

for her. I climbed

to the rooftop and screamed

at the moon until I was raw.

I saw

it then, the face

was Judith’s;

tonight, she held

my severed head,

Holofernes’ rejected.

I cried.

I cried for Yem.

I cried for myself.

I cried most now knowing

everything had life,

everything

but me.

Tongue

2013-03-28T17:21:00.000-04:00

I know it's been a while, but creativity can't be rushed. Plus, I've been, like, busy & sick & stuff. I wrote this during last week's Writing Outside the Fence session, the best free writing workshop in Baltimore. My earliest memory...

I'm four, maybe five. Mom has everything I need laid out on the bed, except for my shoes, of course, because shoes don't go on the bed. "Okay," she says, "you know what to do," before walking out of the room and closing the door behind her.

I know exactly what to do. I'm ready. Underwear first: bright blue Spiderman Underoos with red trim. No problem. The matching Spidey tee, easy peasy. The overshirt's not so easy. My head slips into my sleeve a few times before I realize it's supposed to go through the larger hole in the center. I eventually get it on with not too much effort. Pants are even harder. Somehow, I get both of my legs into the same pant leg. I fall over, wriggling like a lost caterpillar until I can squeeze the wrong leg out. But even the pair of slacks is no match for my four-year-old thinking process, in the end.

What truly trips me up are the shoes, specifically my right shoe. I remember the way mom taught me to get socks on easily: roll them all the way to the toe, first. Each sock completes its trip over my toes, ankles and calves like magic. Not even my left shoe gives me any hassle.

The right shoe, however, puts up a fight. No matter how hard I try, it refuses to slip on. Eventually, I hear my mom's voice. "Fernando?"

I leave my room to ask my mother's advice, waddling the way we all do when we walk around with only one shoe on. "No me puedo poner el zapato," I tell mom, dejected that I've failed.

"Le sacastes la lengua?" she asks, sincerely.

I'm confused, but brighten up. I hadn't thought of that. I'm not sure how it will work, but mom's full of wise advice. I rush back into my room to try again. I sit on the floor and stick my tongue out at the shoe before trying to slip my foot in. Nothing. However ridiculing this shoe is supposed to help, it isn't. If anything, it's getting worse. Perhaps my shoe's mad at me for teasing it.

My mother walks in. "Fernando, what are you doing?" she asks curiously.

"You told me to stick my tongue out at my shoe to get it on!"

Mom laughs gently as she takes the shoe from me. "No, Fernando, sacale la lengua means to pull out the shoe's tongue, not yours," she explains as she does just that: pulls the tongue that is stuffed deep in the toe, the tongue that I had driven even deeper, right out before slipping it easily over my foot.

I get it now. Shoes have tongues. As I take mom's hand to walk to the PATH that will take us into New York, I just can't resist sticking my tongue out at my right shoe one last time, just for spite.

Ode to Joy

2013-01-05T15:27:00.001-05:00

for Joy Lowe

Joy is dying,
lying comatose
on a hospital bed
in Franklin Square.

Joy is dying
& there’s nothing
I can say or do,
pray, perhaps,
but even that
is no guarantee.

Joy is dying
& all I can really
do is remember
the fun we had
getting ready
to go dancing
on a Sunday night:
Destinations, Chaps,
All three floors
of PT Flaggs.
Do you remember
the Powercore?

I watched her
then, so full of life,
vigor & vim in every writhe
& spin, strawberry
blonde locks of hair
grabbing at the air
the way I wished
they would want
to grab me.

Joy is dying,
I have no time
to say goodbye,
instead I will remember
the dancing, remember
a young man’s crush,
remember the flames
of her eyes.

I want Joy to live
forever
inextinguishable
in my soul.

Lilith is Covered

2012-10-16T19:56:00.000-04:00

Original Art by Josh Collier

Today is the 16th anniversary of the day Sharon Denburg Lopatka let some dude she met on the internet choke her to death. You might not remember, but I could never forget. I just had to explore her life and her decision to die. Form that research came the seeds for my novel Killing Lilith. Now, at long last, I'm ready to release a finished version on the book.

I have the manuscript back from the proofreader (Thanks Kris!) and the cover art. Now if I can get the text to pass Smashwords' requirements while maintaining the integrity of the manuscript, I'll be golden. Thank you to all who've waited patiently. I hope you won't be disappointed.

In the meantime, remember: There may be fifty shades of grey, but there's only ONE shade of black.

Pimp on Fire

2012-09-26T22:47:00.000-04:00

Fall is here, and while our hemisphere is cooling, I'm burning white hot with a number of appearances coming over the next few weeks. Let's start with Baltimore Book Festival weekend!

First, I'll be reading with the sharper-than-scalpels William P. Tandy and his incorrigible, yet megatalented Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore crew at 6PM on Friday on the City Lit Stage.

Immediately following my Smile Hon gig, I'll be jetting back uptown to read at Mind Trip, the release party for Redlines: Baltimore 2028, an anthology of speculative fiction chock full of stories that take place in my hometown during that year. It includes my tale, Dream Catcher. The party starts on 7PM, Friday, September 28, 2012 at the Living Well at 2443 N. Charles Street in Baltimore.

I'll be back in the spotlight at BookFest on Sunday when I read at Lit & Art with Eric Goodman and lots of other great writers on the City Lit stage at 2:30PM. Finally, I will be closing the City Lit stage out by emceeing MWA's Me, Myself & I: The Art of the Monologue, starring my MWAB resident President of Vice, Shirley "Princess Leia" Brewer, and a host of other great MWA writers putting their unique twists on the classic ego trip.

But wait, there's more.

There's a chance I'll be reading at RAW: Baltimore on Thursday, October 4th, at Luckie's Tavern, 10 Market Place, Baltimore, from 8:00PM - 12:00AM. That hasn't been confirmed yet, so stay tuned.

I may be in a bit over my head on Friday, October 5th, I will be part of a truly Di-vine Reading featuring uberlitgods David Eberhardt, Clarinda Harriss (editor Brick House Press), Chris Mason (the Tinklers), Constantine Pantazonis, Stephen Reichert (editor Smartish Pace), Bruce Sager, & Laura Shovan (editor Little Patuxent Review), but I'm committed to holding my own. The Di-Vine Reading takes place at the Ivy Bookshop, 6080 Falls Road, Baltimore, at 7:00PM.

And last, but by no means least, I will be descending upon Laurel for Riverfest. I will be emceeing the day's readings on the Scarecrow Hollow stage, featuring oodles of fantastic writers, including Jennifer Kieth Ciatti and Sid Gold. & yes, there will be an open mic. Riverfest takes place around Main St & Avondale St, from 9:00AM to 4:00PM on Sunday, October 7th. Scarecrow Hollow opens around 11:00AM.

Phew!!! I'm tired just thinking about it all. But there it is... Thank you to all my supporters out there who've helped make this possible. I truly believe I have the best friends anyone could ask for. I hope to see at least a few of your friendly faces over the next few weeks.

☮& Love—The Word Pimp

Racist Republicans Strike Again, Against Their Own

2012-08-29T13:40:00.001-04:00

Poor Zoraida Fonalledas with Prince Riebus

I'M SO DISGUSTED RIGHT NOW!

I heard about Zori Fonalledas, the Chairwoman of the Committee on Permanent Organization & a Republican delegate from Puerto Rico was shouted down as she was introduced. Some called it blatant racism. Others, Republican honchos, claimed it was a carry over from some vote about not seating some Ron Paul delegates. I decided to watch what occurred just before she was introduced, & YES there was some flak about the vote. BUT, it had died down by the time Prince Riebus began to introduce her. Almost as soon as the word Puerto Rico got out of his mouth, the chants of USA & Get them Out! began ringing throughout the floor. So the excuse that this was about sour grapes on the part of Paul supporters doesn't cut it.

It's a shame that Puerto Ricans have been citizens since 1898, have contributed the 2nd most troops of any US state or territory, and have to be greeted like this. Even after Riebus bangs his gavel to demand the appropriate respect, you can hear the chanting, albeit quieter. ...& the Republicans wonder why they have such a hard time attracting Hispanics to their ranks.

Thanks to a handy C-SPAN feature that let's you make your own clip, I've provided what I looked at so you can judge for yourself.

Tonight, Luis Fortuño , Republican Governor of Puerto Rico gets his turn on the dais. I'm sure by then, all the thugs will finally be in lockstep, and yesterday's debacle will be all but forgotten. But don't be surprised if anti-Hispanic hatred spills over, yet again.

Peer Review

2012-08-13T14:20:00.000-04:00

I've had plenty of people that have read Killing Lilith in various stages of its evolution. While a few have been taken aback at its content, everyone who's read it has, at least, found a profound appreciation for the quality of the work. Many have given it very high praise.

David Kirschner, who you may recognize as the creator of Chucky from the Child's Play movies, as well as the producer behind An American Tail, Hocus Pocus, & Miss Potter, got his hands on it and enjoyed it so much he was supposed to help me find representation at CAA. Sadly, I lost DK to divorce. But still, I had a thirty minute conversation with one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, and most of it was about how he could not put down my novel. He began reading it one night, discovered his file was corrupted, and called his assistants to immediately get an uncorrupted version. I wish I had something in writing to share, but our emails were used, purely, to set up the phone call. Had I the foresight, I would've found a way to record the call.

Most recently, I received feedback from Tracy Byrnes. Tracy is part of my writing crit group. The only reason you may not have heard her is because she hasn't really shared her writing with the world, yet. She will, when she's ready, and you'll love it. I know I'd be willing to host a blog to showcase her writing!

I love Tracey's writing. More than that, I'm in love with Tracy's writing. She's like a contemporary Erma Bombeck with the sharp wit of Dorothy Parker. It's the Erma Bombeck part, however, that is of interest in relation to Lilith.

You see, while Lilith can be quite graphic, albeit not gratuitously so, it can't stand on that alone. It has to appeal to the average reader on a level that they can enjoy the rest of the novel. Gratuitous or not, if reader's think it's gratuitous, they will be less willing to explore Lilith's deeper themes.

In a sense, Tracy is the most important part of my target audience, that stalwart, middle-class girl next door, but smarter, who reads. As such, I was delighted to hear that Tracy truly enjoyed reading Killing Lilith. Rather than summarize her thoughts, I got permission to share her words with you:

I’m impressed. I think you’ve written a well-constructed story that proceeds beautifully from one chapter to the next. There were no wild jumps, nowhere I felt confused in time or space. The writing, as usual for you, is elegant and often eloquent.

You’re very successful, I think, in drawing the world of the chat room. It’s not an arena I know well, or even have much interest in, but you make it relatable, reasonable (an outlet, is all, a stage, of course everyone needs that) and fill it with moody suspense. Characters, chatters, take shape through just a few lines. And they are memorable. I’m thinking of Bill who wanted to talk about his dead son – a desperate question unanswered…I thought, I get it, I get it!

I can’t decide about Lilith – do I understand or not? Like her or not? She’s not that crazy, that’s the part that kills me. She seems to have extraordinary insights into her own life, failures, family. She’s smart. She knows what she did/does wrong. It’s completely sane to be depressed. Sane to fantasize about death, disappearance. I personally identify with the inability to DO…or the talking yourself out of doing. And that guilt/frustration. To get off the lazy river inner tube, finally, and swim! But – she means to DESTROY her children, in a way. I read advice chats online and they dip into darkness more often than you might guess, so I know that parents don’t always love their children. I can believe it. Still, I don’t exactly like her for not leaving them with something, anything better than Just Jack.

I liked the title “Forever , Lilith” better. As in the note she leaves– the whole idea of a punchy sign-off, making a mark on everyone’s psyche that will last. Somebody made you change it?

Slo, I like. God help me. Your details, once we meet him in the flesh, are just perfect. Trailer with Bargain Couch – a still life. I love the clean bedroom (that he cleaned his bedroom!), the tiny shower, the croissant egg sandwich. And the tears. Your story, it’s almost a romance. Maybe is one.

You make the right choice with the ending, I think, although I have to say that I’m a sucker for neat, wrapped up The-Ends like the kind in children’s books. So I’ll have to suffer not knowing, exactly, or feeling quite finished.

I know I’m way late in sending you Official Thoughts. But I wouldn’t advise much change anyway. It’s time to let this one go, and see. It’s a page-turner. It’s disturbing. I felt uncomfortable reading it at times, and also comfortable, and understood. Which is to say, well done. I’m wishing you the BEST of the best with the next step in the process, and the next.

Well, there you have it. High praise from a most valued reader. Now let's hope I can pull in some of those Fifty Shades of Sh— You know what, if you can't say anything nice...

Want to become a part of the Lilith experience? Check out Killing Lilith's Facebook page and press "like."

Dream Catcher

2012-08-11T14:07:00.000-04:00

I was invited to contribute a tale to REDLINES: Baltimore 2028, an anthology of speculative fiction edited by Jason Harris to be released, anon. After many delays & much contemplation, I came up with Dream Catcher. Below is a snippet, just so you can sniff it. I'll let you know (of course) when it's available. & come to the release event at the Living Well (2443 N. Charles Street, Baltimore, MD 21218) on September 28.

My eyes open at six. I sit up, touch my pad on, and begin reviewing my dreams. I don’t remember them. I never do. I know why. They’re boring. There are a few good ones—sex dreams, dreams where I’m bouncing over trees and buildings, dreams of flying. Those are few and far between.

I touch my keyboard up and type in some basic descriptions—shaving in a desert with sand and a rock, a ride on a bus next to a stranger speaking gibberish, in a laundromat waiting for a dryer. Mundane things. A waste of time.

A beautiful girl. I hope this is a sex dream. She stares at me. She says, “Be free,” and walks away. I want to follow her. I can’t. I have to go to work. I touch some music on—top forty—and head for the shower.

Hey Dude, Kiss Me!

2012-08-03T14:24:00.002-04:00

I might be kissing a man today. This is nothing new. I’m an affectionate guy who’s been known to smooch the occasional lucky fella. But tomorrow’s kiss would be, by far, the most important hombre á hombre smackdown of my life. You see, tomorrow’s Same Sex Kiss at Chik-fil-A Day, a protest of the company’s head’s words and deeds with regards to same sex marriage. ChiK-fil-A boss Sam Cathy speaks out against the trend of accepting the civil marriage rights of all people. He spends his customer’s money, or at least a sizable portion, on efforts to stop Our progress towards a society that treats all our citizens equally.

My kiss would come on the heels of a counter-protest on August 1, where many of our less enlightened American friends and families defended Cathy’s right, as an American himself, to say and spend as much as he wants to defend traditional marriage. Most were bigots, afraid that gay culture will pervade, worse—pervert, what it means to be American. “God hates fags!”

Some who claim to support progress got in the long line to fill Chik-fil-A’s tills, plenty of it which will undoubtedly be dumped into Cathy’s moot war. “I support gay rights, but I LOVE chicken!”

There are a few who have taken the opportunity to poopoo marriage all together, saying that it’s something the government shouldn’t be involved it at all, ignoring things like the tax benefits of marriage, or the ability to put a spouse on one’s insurance, etc. “Marriage is a dumb institution anyway.”

Then there are those who’ll dismiss my kiss as just a stupid prank that doesn’t even call to light all the other organizations that donate to anti-gay marriage causes, many of them retail operations, like Chik-fil-A, who nobody’s paying attention to, much less boycotting. “You’re wasting your time!”

The thing is, I don’t want to live in a nation where our morals are dictated to us by a narrow interpretation of someone else’s religious views. Giving special creedance to one group's religious morals over another’s is downright disrespectful, not to mention unconstitutional. I’m not going to discuss what some mayors are opting to do by blocking Chik-fil-A from their cities and towns. That does raise issues of censorship, but has nothing to do with my kiss.

I don’t expect the naysayers to approve of my possible man-to-man kiss, later today, whether I raise their homophobic hackles, their chicken-loving hackles, their anti-all-marriage hackles, or their there-are-more-important-things-to-do hackles. The great thing is that this is America. I don’t need anyone to approve of my actions. The only person I have to justify my kiss to is myself, and I do that just fine. You see, I am a culture warrior, and we are at war.

It may be a pointless war, but it is a war nonetheless. I say pointless because progress is inevitable. Society evolves. However hard people may try to stop things like ending slavery, interracial marriage, or gay marriage, the best they can do is slow it down. As far as gay marriage is concerned, every new generation is less inclined to see a problem with it. Those who do are simply adhering to old beliefs and calling it “tradition” so they can wrap their hate in a pretty little package.

Even if I did nothing, all those backward thinking people would eventually die off, and the pushback from the religious right would barely exist. The question is, can I just sit on my ass and wait for all these bigots to die. I can’t. Why? Because I have too many friends who are in same sex relationships that they want to, but can’t, take to the next level. Some even have kids. Laying back quietly and biding my time does nothing to help them achieve their goals. What kind of friend would it make me to ignore the blatant inequality they have to live with?

So yes, I’m a culture warrior, and today is just the latest battle in what may prove to be a long, hard war. The law legalizing civil marriage for all in Maryland has been challenged, and enough bigoted theocrats signed petitions to place the law in referendum limbo. So far, no such law has held up to referendum. Any law ratifying the civil rights of citizens should never be put to referendum. Can you imagine if interracial marriage laws had been put to the people? Thank goodness for the Supreme Court’s wise decision in Loving V. Virginia. Hopefully, this case will make it to SCOTUS, soon enough; and they will rule properly, as they did back then.

Until that day comes, however, the fight is up to us. Until then, I will continue to fight for what is right. I will continue to fight for freedom for all. I will continue to fight for everyone’s right, including yours, to fall in love with another consenting adult, regardless of sex, and try to find your happily ever after. Not doing so would be, to me, Un-American. I want you to approve. I want you to at least get it. But it’s not necessary, as long as I’m okay with it. I am.

Now, any of you guys wanna kiss me?

Sometimes

2012-08-01T14:17:00.000-04:00

My mother and my older brother, Carlos, 1986

It's funny how, after the people in your life pass on, they slowly drift from your consciousness, regardless to how close they once were. Yesterday was my mother's birthday. It had slipped my mind, until my older brother, Carlos, reminded me in a text. To be fair, my family has a lot of birthdays in July. It can get confusing.

Anyhow, none of this would really mean much if not for the fact that, yesterday, I finally wrapped up editing on my novel manuscript, Killing Lilith. I sent it off to be read by an editor who I believe will want to publish it. This is a big deal, for me.

The fact that I got it off yesterday seems apropos. Mom was my biggest inspiration to be a writer. She believed I could be anything I set my mind to. She was my earliest fan and advocate. She would be really proud to see how much all my hard work has paid off, thus far. So, yeah, I may have forgotten her birthday, but I certainly found a way to honor it.

Here, a little belatedly, is one of the many poems I've written inspired by Miriam Esther Figueroa.

Sometimes

I sometimes wish
you could see my success.
When I wish too loudly
I am told you do,
I am told you share in it,
I am even told you help.
I don't believe them.
I want to believe them.

Perhaps I'm just so vain
that what I truly want
is what I can't have:
to hear your pride ring
loud like church bells
after mass.

Is it really my pride
or just a need for your
reassurance to go on?

Guns, Nuts & Gun Nuts

2012-07-20T14:29:00.000-04:00

Today was supposed to be a simple day for me. After a long week of modeling gigs & giving a talk on my writing and my use of the internet & social media in Annapolis, today was supposed to be the day I could relax a little, do some overdue chores & apply the finishing touches to Killing Lilith to prepare it for the editors about to read it. Instead, I am distracted by yet another gun-fueled massacre, this one mere miles from arguably the most infamous one of all, Columbine.

I wish I could say this is unusual for me. It's not. On the morning of April 16, 2007, as I was finishing a speech for my Communications in Business and Society course at University of Baltimore that afternoon, news broke about the shootings at Virginia Tech. I immediately scrapped what I'd done, to that point; and instead presented a speech on gun violence in this country, and the ease with which even the mentally ill can obtain firearms.

My speech may have seemed premature, but I wasn't the only one thinking it. Stories all over the media explored how anybody could approach a non-licensed gun buyer at a gun show and purchase all the weapons they could afford without the standard background check. As long as you are not officially in the business of selling guns, or you are not engaging in interstate firearms sales, 33 states basically have a no holds barred policy. Anything goes.

Gun rights advocates claim that private sellers can sell their guns when and how they wish, as long as their following state and federal laws. There should be no difference between selling your gun out of your home versus selling it at a show. They're right! A system for the private sale of guns should be universal. Making it easy for any nutjob to get guns is not only dangerous, it's stupid.

Something else that's stupid: this idea that if we allowed everyone to carry guns to public places, killing sprees like this can be stopped before too many die. Shortly after the slaughter at VT, Ted Nugent, a spokesperson for the NRA, called for the end of gun-free zones. I have a hard time swallowing the concept of "too many." Isn't the first person hit by a bullet already too many? Can you imagine the chaos that would have ensued had someone else opened fire in the darkened theater? The casualty count would have been even higher!

Granted, none of this matters. You won't hear Obama or Romney mention anything about closing the Gun Show Loophole. The National Rifle Association (NRA) has created an environment wherein any proposal to make us safer, any legislation that would help make a trip to the movies less anxiety inducing, would sink a national political campaign. Worse yet, I'm beginning to believe that the NRA wants madmen & criminals to have tons of guns. It helps justify their paranoia, cement the need for so many weapons in their own heads.

Sure, a few Congressmen will resurrect legislation to solve the loophole issues, yet again. The media will focus on it, yet again. People will understand what needs to be done, yet again. But nothing will happen, not in this political climate. So yeah, next time you take your family to the movies, you will be a little afraid. You should be.

Gustav Klimt Painted the Moon

2012-07-14T15:42:00.001-04:00

So, I saw on Google that today would have been Gustav Klimt's 150th birthday. It reminded me of my days in art school in the mid 1990s, and a story I began inspired by my experiences. I dug though The Hoard and found it. Here's the beginning, with a little bit of a makeover.

I cried the night Gustav Klimt painted the moon. My lips were damp with the tears, mixed with the lingering tingle of a kiss, as I made my way home. I tried to push Elise from my mind, filling it instead with thoughts of how far I had drifted from the plans I had made as a child. Refreshing thoughts full of growth and gain —thoughts that could not relieve the sense of loss. I asked myself if perhaps I would rather have stayed with simpler times, simpler plans.

In third grade, I wanted to be an inventor. I thought I could create a happy formula mixed from laughing gas and other stuff that could be sprinkled from a hot air balloon to make people stop hating each other. I also began writing in third grade. I still remember the small boxes in the back of the room, each containing cards with either the beginning or ending to a story. We would have to write the rest. My stories were usually read to the entire class. The kids laughed.

I loved the attention. I’d do anything for it. School plays, mostly. In fifth grade, we got to read a script from MASH. The studio that made the show had sent them to schools as an English activity to promote one of their special episodes—the one where Hawkeye has to save a life in thirty minutes, real time. I got to be Hawkeye. I read ahead, so that I’d be ready to deliver my lines, on cue. I noticed that Hawkeye, at one point in the scene, says Damn it! It crossed my mind whether or not it would be appropriate to say damn, out loud, in a classroom. In the end I decided that if it was in the script, it had to be too important to ignore.

When the time came to deliver my line, I offered up, “Damn it!” with such gusto that the class immediately erupted in laughter, including the teacher. I waited for them to stop to deliver my next line.

Ultimately though, I always felt I would end up choosing a more practical vocation. By high school, I wanted to be a geneticist. I read every article on genetics in Omni, Discovery, and Popular Science. I watched specials that came on news shows like 60 Minutes and 20/20 that discussed breakthroughs, like the creation of the sexless fruit fly. I was enchanted by the magical, medical possibilities. I just knew I would be the first to clone whole organs. Spare organs would be produced from the cells of a person’s body. If that person ever needed a transplant, an organ, his organ, would already be available, making organ donations unnecessary and organ rejection a thing of the past.

In my senior year, I was even able to take a genetics class. My interest in school had waned by that point. I’d lost my friend, Eric, when he was hit by a car while riding his bike on Dundalk Avenue, just before the end of junior year. I spent most of my time hanging out alone in a little fort a few of my neighborhood friends had built under a railroad bridge that spanned Eastern Avenue, dividing Highlandtown from Greektown. I’m not sure how I passed anything that year, but I aced Genetics.

Not that it mattered. My grades dropped so bad that I lost any chance of going to a decent school. I enrolled into Baltimore Community College to study computers, another love of mine. Computers and I had come of age together. The time I didn’t spend hiding bunder a bridge I spent with my friend, Mike, coding programs on his Commodore64. We played games, a lot. His parents got him a modem for Christmas in 1986, and we spent a lot of time hanging out in Bulletin Board Systems—BBSes, precursors to internet websites.

It was on one of those BBSes that I met Misty. She was the sysop of the Inner Sanctum BBS, known for its bawdy, adult content. Misty worked loading cars off ships docked at the Dundalk Marine Terminal. She would get home at around two in the morning and check to see who had, and was, on her site. That late, it was usually me or Mike. Traffic was lighter, then; and we were kids, prone to use any excuse to stay up late.

Together, while Mike’s parents slept.we would browse the adult photo board. Then , we would take turns either playing games, or more likely in my case, adding to stories posted on the writing boards. Like exquisite corpses, the stories were written in pieces by various users. I especially liked the erotic stories board. So did Misty. Most of the stories there were collaborations between Misty and me. We would trade sexual fantasies back and forth until we had something close enough to call complete, then start a new one.

Misty and I began chatting online during those late night sessions. Chatting turned into snail mail, handwritten letters we sent by post. We met, eventually. She offered to pick me up and drive me to Dundalk to see where she worked. She warned me, however, that unlike her fantasy persona, her real self was overweight. Even so, I imagined that upon meeting we would eventually begin flirting, which would lead to living out some of the fantasies we had shared.

I was nervous when her car pulled up. I was seventeen, and I had shared so many intimate things with this woman I had never seen in person. I got into the car and was taken aback, even with the warning. She was heavier than I’d imagined. I looked for something appealing about her, but I couldn’t find anything. She was nervous, too. She was in her thirties, and here she was driving around with a minor with whom she’d exchanged dirty stories. Nothing happened. We talked a little and she took me home.

I got on the Inner Sanctum after that, but it was never the same. Reality had ruined it for me. But it didn’t ruin computers. That was my calling. Writing would always be a hobby, but the Computer Age had begun.

It didn’t last long, at least not for me. The math classes became more difficult, and the part time jobs I took to pay for things became full time jobs, became better paying full time jobs. My classes were a breeze until I hit Calculus. It hurt my brain too much. I made careless errors with the easy math and barely passed tests & exams. When having money got more fun than college, I started selling cameras and dropped out.

It was one of those jobs where no one was really a salesman. The job was only a pitstop on the way to greater aspirations. Rick, the manager, was a screenwriter from Towson State. Tonya, who ran the photo lab was doing research for her own lab. Matt was a model builder who claimed he could build any architectural structure with nothing but cardboard, toothpicks and magic markers. He wanted to build small scale models professionally. Tod, the only one who admitted to being nothing but a salesman, left for dental school after three months. I was just lost, unsure of where i was going—until I picked up a camera.

Employees could borrow cameras to try them out. That wasn’t always a good thing, like the time Matt strapped one of our video cameras to a remote control car we were giving away with them and sent it rolling through the mall as everyone looked on—pure fun and games until the car, duct taped camera on top, tumbled down the up escalator. Fortunately, no one got hurt, except Matt, who had to go figure out how to make money with toothpicks, or find something else to do. So we hired Kenny who went to Coppin State and also wrote. He seemed as lost as I was.

We were banned from borrowing cameras, after the incident. I didn’t let that stop me. Rick and I got along, well. I did his paperwork and generally helped him run the store. We would do inventories by ourselves—just the two of us and a six pack of Killian’s Red, and we would count every item in the store faster than a team of four. We would talk about our favorite fantasy books and making them into movies. So yeah, he let me borrow cameras. It helped me sell them better.

When I printed my pictures, things would happen. My co-workers would praise me with, you got a good eye, and Rick would blow up some of my shots to promote enlargements. Customers would see them, and buy them, shots of the surrounding harbor—boats, docks, harbors, a car that I just happened to see burning while walking out of work—shots I thought nothing of as I took them. The attention did little except to leave me more confused about my place in the world, so I decided to try art school.

∞

The smell of turpentine stung my nose as I walked in. In the center of the room a single egg stood upright in a pile of salt, atop a white podium. I scanned the room and noticed a few students already painting. Others were setting up. One was stretching a canvas, pulling the course fabric tightly over the wooden frame with one hand, stapling it down with the other. I looked for a place to fit in.

Off in a corner there was a girl on a stool, contemplating the egg. The sunlight came in strong behind her, enveloping her in an aura of white brightness, but obscuring her features. As I walked towards her, they became more apparent—the unkempt auburn hair, the slight, obscurely shaped lips, the small, slightly upturned nose, and those eyes. They were a deep green, the kind of deep that pulled you in, like the deep green waters of the Caribbean that I recall from my childhood when my family could still afford to spend summers in Puerto Rico. I resisted the temptation to dive.

I smiled hello as I set my supplies down near her. She pulled herself out from her trance only long enough to mouth, hi. As I fumbled with an easel, I couldn’t help throwing glances her way. By the time I was set up, she was finally working on her canvas. It seemed like she was using a rather large brush for such a small egg. But then again, I had never painted anything that wasn’t by numbers. Up until I got accepted, I pretty much figured that there was no way I was getting into one of the best art schools in the country, local boy or not.

Somehow, I managed to throw together a portfolio with Melisa’s help. She went to the Institute and worked in our photo lab, part time, for spending money. I put together my best photographs, a few collages that incorporated some of my writing, and some terrible drawings. I had also pasted some newspapers together and created a mural inspired by a few months I spent painting graffiti with friends. Some of them had applied to the school. None got in, until I was somehow able to bullshit my way in.

I noticed a smudge of charcoal on my cute classmate’s cheek, and I immediately feel compelled to wipe it off. The instructor came in only long enough to pass out a syllabus. As I picked up a brush I became increasingly worried that art school had been too lofty an idea. I could feel Green Eyes looking at me. It made me nervous. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead. I saw her coming over from the corner of my eye, and my paintbrush began to shake.

“What are you doing?” were the first words I ever heard from her mouth. I knew we were the only ones that heard them, but it felt like she had yelled them out loud enough to echo through the hallways of the Institute.

Meekly, feeling sweat run in rivulets down my arms and ribs, I answered, “Painting an egg?”

“I know that,” she said a little testily, “but you haven’t even gessoed the canvas, yet.”

“Gessoed?”

I felt a thrill as she stared at me through scowling eyes. Didn’t you know this was an advanced painting class?”

“Well, yeah. But it was the only one open. I had to take one this semester or wait until next semester to start classes. My advisor told me that the instructor would help me... catch up?”

Her frown was a distraction. I wanted to kiss it.

“Well, you got bad advice. Pappos Econopolos doesn’t have the patience for beginners. His mission in life is to advance the talents of those already gifted with the ability to paint, and to weed out those who don’t deserve the privilege of holding a brush.

“Great!” I say, flustered, “That’s just great. I’m gonna die. I’m going to end up killing myself if being ripped apart in front of everyone by my teacher isn’t enough to do it.”

I looked at her and saw something soften in her face. “Look, don’t worry about it. Just go down to the bookstore and bring back a canvas that’s pre-gessoed. Gesso is a coating that seals the canvas so the texture of the fabric doesn’t show through your work—you actually have a bucket of it, right there—and I’ll help you get started.”

I looked down at the bucket I had just bought minutes ago, clearly labeled Gesso, looked back at her and nodded. “Thank you,” I said, “you didn’t have to help me.”

I don’t have to. You better hurry,” she stated, the scowl returning to her face.

I got the message and began heading out of the classroom. But then it struck me, I wanted to know my savior’s name. I whirled around. “By the way, I’m Hector.”

For the first time, I saw her smile. Her eyes lit up with a bit of glitter. She sighed and said, “Hi, Hector. I’m Elise.”

Elise, Elise, Elise, I repeated to myself on my way to buy another canvas. I had walked right into something wonderful.

More later...

Chango Crying

2012-07-11T13:42:00.000-04:00

Now that it seems like my work with Killing Lilith is coming to and end, I'm back to thinking about Chango Crying, my second novel. I'm very excited to get back to that project, especially since it'll be a trilogy, followed by Lazarus Rising and Turning Prophets. The trilogy is inspired by my childhood experiences with Santeria. Click here for an excerpt, if you want to get a feel for it:

Yes, I know... It's PDF. Sometime very soon, I'll dig out my MAC and paste the text, directly.

A Clockwork Moon

2012-06-27T14:28:00.000-04:00

A Clockwork Moon

I dreamt of a clockwork moon,
face failing, falling,
revealing an intricacy
of gears & springs & cogs
& things & a pendulum
that slowly swings & pulls
the string that weaves
Our blessed Universe
together.

I saw Us singing to
a clockwork moon,
praising her in harmony,
raising arms in unity,
revering her;
& I could see
humanity dancing,
supplanting
it’s foul tendencies
in favor of a new reality
as it was finally
apparent that the string
pulled by pendulum
that swings connected
Everything
Like you & you & me.

I dreamt of a clockwork moon
suspended in a blue-black sky,
now free of its flimsy disguise,
illuminating everything in sight
a glow from which nothing
could hide—nothing wanted
to. Finally, the strings
that connected everything—
you to you to you to him
to her to them to it to you again—
were obvious. No one
was willing to return
to the thought that
we are all alone.

I dreamt of a clockwork loom—
You just know her
as our moon,
but close your eyes
& stretch your mind
& you too will feel the fine
tapestry of Universe
she weaves. Once
you do, like me
you too will dream
of strings and all the things
connecting us to
the vastness of infinity.

The Last Cinnamon Sunday

2012-06-25T17:51:00.002-04:00

So, I've started a piece for Tales of Blood & Roses. It's an idea I had a while ago, but finally got around to... executing. Sure, the beginning seems very nice and wholesome, but with the title, you can imagine it won't be long before all hell breaks loose. You can catch the rest at the ToB&R reading on July 14, 6:30PM. Enjoy this taste, for now.

I wake to cold dampness darting around my face and the sounds of tinny explosions and music. I slowly spread my eyes open. Princess Leia is staring at me, longingly. She loves me. I gently shove her off me, slip into my robe and head downstairs, Leia at my heels.

I say good morning to Donovan as I pass his room. He blurts out a quick Hi! without looking away from his game. Donny is too busy killing things. He loves killing things. Thankfully, everything he kills is digital—binary villains, a threat to none but his own ego. I descend.

Once in the kitchen, I reach out to turn on the oven on my way to the sink. I don’t even look. I don’t have to. I’ve done this for so often that I know how far to twist the dial to get the oven to 400. I fill the kettle, set it on the stove and turn on the burner. When I get to the back door, Leia is already there. She pops a paw at the knob, as if I needed a reminder. I open it, and she darts out.

I’m greeted by a chorus of mewing near the back door. I step over to Lola and Mouser, give them each a rub, open their food tin and fill their bowls. I make my way over to the fridge, pull out the bacon and a tube of cinnamon rolls, set them on the counter. I grab the bag of Sumatran and grind enough beans for a pot. That wonderful aroma—a perfect blend of earth, moss, nut & spice—fills the air. The kettle whistles just as I pour the this perfection into the press.

I turn off the burner and pour the water over the freshly ground beans. The aroma explodes throughout the kitchen, spreads through the house. I layer the bacon on a cookie sheet. I prefer to bake the bacon to keep it long and flat. I arrange the rolls into a round cake pan, set them on the counter while the bacon begins to slowly sizzle.

The smell of brewing coffee has awakened the Goddess. This, too, is as expected. I turn in time to find her lips, exactly where they are supposed to be. I kiss them. “Good morning,” she says. Cinnamon Sunday has begun.

Saving Fase

2012-06-21T15:47:00.000-04:00

Here's a little preview of the story coming out in Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore's upcoming "Alleyways" issue:

Two people are dead, my one-time bestie is in prison for the rest of his life, and it’s my fault. Not really. I wasn’t there during either of the two brutal murders he was involved in, but maybe I should have been. Maybe I could have stopped him.

I moved in with Chris Mills in the Fall of 1988. I had no choice. My mother was fed up with her boyfriend, Jose, who had become more resentful the more successful mom became . After years of living on the dole, mom had finally decided to abdicate her throne as Welfare Queen. She had to. I was nineteen, meaning she had long stopped receiving benefits for me. My sister, Kyra, was a senior, meaning she would soon lose those benefits, too. Her only choices were to finally, officially join the workforce or become even more beholden to Jose and his income. My mother never liked being beholden to anyone.

Jose liked it too much. The more money mom made on her own, the more abusive he became. When he began to demand her paychecks, I wasn’t surprised to see mom come down into my basement to let me know she was leaving, taking Kyra with her. My little brother, Jojo was safe and sound with his father, in Delaware. I, on the other hand, would have to fend for myself.

Apparently, there was no room for me whereever she was going. That left me as the odd man out. Jose came down a little later to let me know that he thought of me as a son, that I was welcome to stay. I had never thought much of him, especially after watching him change in the face of my mother’s success. I loved our little house on the unit block of North Rose Street, but the time had come for me to try on a pair of those big boy pants everyone always talked about, branch out.

The problem was that I had nowhere to go. I began wandering Patterson Park and its surroundings aimlessly, wondering where in the park it would be safe enough for me to sleep, when I ran into Chris Mills. I’d first met Chris when he was in Jojo’s class at General Wolfe Elementary School. I came across Chris in tears on Washington Street, being shoved around by a couple of bullies. I chased them off and walked him home. His mother thanked me for bringing him home safely.

You know you want to read the rest. Pre-order your copy, now!

Water: A Love Story

2012-06-18T13:41:00.000-04:00

Birth When the Earth was born,
it was barren, dry. Yemaya, a goddess, baptized the Earth

with the oceans of her womb, giving birth to the seas, the rivers, the lakes. This fertilized the Earth,

& the Earth gave forth life.

Rebirth

“Did you know,”

I tell more than ask her, “that water is the

most important ingredient

for life?” I love talking science. She loves listening to me talk science.

“Of course,” she replies, almost defensively, “We’re like, what, 80% water?”

“Sixty, actually, but it’s more than that. Water is the only chemical compound that gets less dense when it gets solid. That allows it to float. Otherwise, ice would crush out life in winter. If water sank when it froze, we wouldn’t be here.”

She thinks for a bit. My heart stalls as I watch her smile fade. “What are we doing here?” she asks.

I hesitate, looking for the right words. “I’ve stopped evaluating it. I figure, at this point, it is what it is. Everybody’s gonna see it differently anyway—your husband, my wife, our kids. Why even bother trying to explain it? I would say that we’re celebrating creation, a lot, but who would get that, really?”

She thinks for a second before pouting out that smile she pouts out, that one I love, the one that reminds me that we are all just needy children. “Yeah. You’re right. Why bother?” Her eyes widen as I watch the light reflect sparkles on the irises of her chartreuse eyes. She shies. Turns away. Rises. “I’m going downstairs,” she announces, “need anything?”

“Nothing. Just you, Yem. But a little water would be nice,” I reply as I slowly drift back into the afterglow.

∞

The Word Pimp Reads @ Poets in Preston Gardens

2012-06-16T15:43:00.000-04:00

You may or may not be aware that I have a YouTube Channel. It doesn't have much—a video of me sumo wrestling with my oldest son, one of the Exploding Judases ritual in San Miguel de Allende-Mexico (with an accompanying poem), my appearance on Stoop Storytelling, me reading Mating Maria at Lit & Art (accidentally shot in portrait mode!), me reading Pissed On at Atomic Books, & a clip of my stepson playing in Druid Hill Park Pool.

Still, I get requests from friends who can't make my readings to post them online. This is the beginning of my attempt to be more diligent in giving my audience what they ask for. So, without further ado, here is my reading at Poets in Preston Gardens—my second appearance at that venue. It's divided into three YouTube friendly sized parts.

Part I includes Elegy for a Prom,
Lunacy, Phase & Lunatic.

Part II includes Soular Eclipse, These Lips I & II, Tarot for Beginners, & Villalba.

Part III includes my signature poem, Snapshot.

Phase

2012-06-16T14:06:00.004-04:00

I just realized I never posted Phase, one of my Lunar Cycle poems. This poem, along with Lunacy, appeared in the anthology Life in Me Like Grass on Fire. Enjoy!

Phase

Waxing—

She approaches

cautiously

knowing Her desire

but afraid of the price:

the loss of everything—

livelihood, trust, reputation,

child—everything

that She’s fought

so hard to build,

again.

She is only ever

completely Full

for a mere moment

before lapsing—slipping

back as slowly

as she came,

Waning—

when She walks

away She takes

with her the last

vestiges of hope

I can carry—

I was virtually dry

when night

finally fell

revealing

Her glow—

and now She slides

slowly, solemnly

into the dark

leaving me alone

under

a black Sun.

Her risks are greater,

but mine

may just prove

fatal.

Candelario

2012-06-15T13:14:00.000-04:00

Un candelario—A lamplighter

Another from the hoard. This one chose me. I came across an old schedule book from 1993, the year my uncle, Andres Candelario, died. I grabbed the book, and it opened to my original, handwritten version of this poem which I composed after visiting him in the hospital during his last days, as his body gave in to AIDS complications. His last name derives from candela, the Spanish word for flame, also related to candle, chandelier & lamplighter. Uncle Andy's last days are also chronicled in my short story, The Handsome Man.

Candelario

Yea, though your candles glow dimly—
stubs to the towers I once saw—
and yea, though you walk through
the shadow of a death you deserve,
I come to your bedside
not to blow out your puny, pungent flames
but to watch them die
out on their own, perhaps
even stoke them a bit
with forgiveness.

No, I don’t forget
the days we had nothing,
yet you took it all,
anyway, to sell for a few days
euphoria. But I also remember
holding your hand through the streets
of Manhattan, your friends laughing
as you put the dice in my hand,
shouting when I rolled sevens.

I don’t forget the tears
my grandmother shed
every time you were caught
in the act, or after the fact,
not knowing which of you would survive
this inceration. But I also remember
walking through schoolyards
with you, my friends asking,
“Is that your dad?”
the temptation, not knowing
my real father, to simply say,
“yes!”

I don’t forget the peace
you broke, showing your face,
waving your carrots
in my mother’s face, pulling
her off her wagon
by her teeth. But I also remember
the tears you cried at my bedside
as I lay on the brink
of death: the porno
mags you gave me working
as well as any medicine.

I owe you no debt,
Candelario:
The days I basked
in your glow are equal
to the days I wished
to spit your flame out,
tears & smiles flowed
concurrently. Yet
one final request
since you are incapable
of making one: please
tell mom I said, “hello.”

Poets in Preston Gardens on Channel 2

2012-06-12T13:07:00.000-04:00

¡I was on the news! ¿Did you miss it? So did I. However, I got a copy of the clip & posted it to my YouTube channel. Features organizer Sarah Edelsburg, Kate Gillespie, & Ron Kipling Williams. Unsung Hero Award goes to Andy Rubin.

The clip includes an excerpt from my signature poem, Snapshot. I did record my whole performance. ¡I'll post it as soon as I finish editing it down to YouTube sized bites!

Yeah, yeah, I look like Prince. ¡Get over it!

2012-06-07T15:33:00.000-04:00

Today is Prince Rogers Nelson's Birthday. In honor of his 54th here's another entry from my MySpace archives. It was originally published on March 23, 2006...

So, I couldn't be bothered to put clothes on today—at least not until my son was due home from lacrosse practice. That would be just too weird. Anyway, I never made it to the record store to pick up a copy of Prince's newest joint, 3121. Ergo folx, no review. Yet. So, just to tide you over, I'll tell you about my life with The Artist.

If you're keeping up, and you're probably not, I shut down my store last Friday. I decided I'd take the young ladies who work with me out for a few drinks to celebrate. Now, it's also St. Patrick's Day, so my biggest fear was rowdy celebrants splashing green beer all over. Little did I know what I should have been worried about was some ghetto leprechaun bartender giving me a hard time.

I don't even get to my stool before I hear him shouting, "Look everybody, Prince is here!"

I didn't really hear him at first, so I'm like, "Huh?"

"The long curly black hair! You look like Prince." As if he had just shared a joke I wasn't in on.

Prince

see the difference?

Before I go on, let me just say that, yes, I do realize that some people see all 5' 4.2" of me—the dark hair, the olive complexion, the chiseled jawline—and think, What kind of deal can I get for a Slurpee & a Big Bite. And yes, some even say I look like Prince.

It started way back in 9th grade when my buddy, Dave Purdue, asked me if I had heard of Prince. I didn't have a clue, so he took me up to his apartment, went into his mom's record collection, and showed me the album cover for Dirty Mind. "You sorta look like him," he pointed out, to which I shrugged my shoulders. It got a bit creepy with his mother staring at me the whole time and licking her lips at me as we left.

Then "Little Red Corvette" hit that summer. I didn't even realize it was the same guy, but everything changed after that. I would get it everywhere, in school, on the street, on public transportation. This is not to say it bothered me. Most often, it was a girl, and it would offer me the opportunity to flirt, so it wasn't all bad.

I'll even admit that my ex, a HUGE Prince fan, thought I looked like Prince when she first saw me. Granted, regardless of what attracted her to me in the first place, it was ME that won her over in the end, I think. She prefers me! I think.

I'm a bit of a fan myself. I've heard most of his music, know whom he laid in his prime, and have seen him live three times. It was pretty cool too, when I got a free copy of Musicology during his last tour. Hell, the man is sexy and can put on a good show. He's a good writer too, so I liked to imagine that Prince and I were related in ways, as artists. Only difference was, I get fined for singing in public, and I escaped the Jehovah's Witnesses. He's apparently a recent convert.

Thankfully, I wasn't the only Prince look-alike in Baltimore. One kid that would occasionally hang out and drink on the playground with us even dressed the roll. He did the jackets, the tight pants, the high-heeled boots. Everything. It was a little gay, actually. And that was where it bothered me. I think only Prince can pull off Prince without coming across as gay. If I dressed like that and tried to pick up a girl, she would try to hook me up with her fey cousin, Rupert. There's nothing wrong with that, except that I wasn't, so I worried that I was registering on folx' gaydar.

Fortunately for me, Prince went through some eccentric times with name changes, contract issues, and crappy music. As his popularity waned, so did the comparisons. Until this bartender, not too much taller than I am (who isn't?), dressed all in green, including his little green Celtics cap, starts teasing me about it. It's like I'm back in High School, again. I ask him what's on tap, and he spouts off name brands like ice cream flavors at a Baskin Robbins, finishing the list with "Oh, & Purple Rain".

"I'll bypass the Purple Rain and shoot for the Blue Moon," I retort, trying to out-wit him. I thought of ghetto leprechaun later, but by then, the time had passed. You know how it is. Timing is everything.

Now I'm left wondering, considering Prince's recent resurgence, am I going to have to put up with all that again? Will a whole new generation of teenyboppers who love the way he wiggles start fawning over me because I look like somebody? While it wouldn't be all bad, I'm secretly hoping that the album sucks so I won't have to deal with it anymore. Sadly, I hear it's his best work since Sign of the Times. Guess I'm screwed.

¡Thinking of the Master, SKAM!

2012-05-07T16:20:00.000-04:00

UPDATE: Don't even bother reading this crap. I just finished heavy revisions. You can find a taste of Saving Fase by following the link. The rest will hopefully be in the upcoming issue of Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore.

Another entry pulled from my old MySpace blog. I'll be editing it for submission to Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore's next issue, dedicated to Baltimore's wonderful labyrinth of alleys. Pardon all the crazy formatting. I went a little crazy interspersing images back then...

So today we're talking about my life on the wrong side of the law. Actually, just one aspect of it considering I've had other brushes. Regardless, what you are about to read will probably preclude me from ever running for President of this or any country. As a matter of fact, I suppose I need this disclaimer for the kids out there: Some of the things I have done in my past are idiotic & dangerous. DO NOT ATTEMPT ANYTHING YOU READ IN THIS BLOG.

Okay, now that I've gotten that out of the way, let me tell you about SKAM. I was 19, too old to be doing this shit really, and my mom had finally gotten fed up with Jose, her man-for-the-moment that Fall. We were all living together in a little house in East Baltimore when she decided to up and move out, taking my sister with her. I guess she figured I was old enough to fend for myself.

I wasn't about to stay with Jose either, so I got this buddy of mine, Chris Mills, to put me up. I should say, I got his parents to put me up, cuz Chris was only 16 and still living at home. Anything was better than staying with Jose. Chris looked just like Hermey, the elf that wants to be a dentist, on "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer", but he was fun to hang around. We always found ways to get in trouble, like the night we were cutting across Patterson Park and got chased by a group of gay guys. Back then, I was just leery; Chris was downright homophobic. A man would die because of this right in that very park someday. Any how, He yelled something at them as they were coming out of some bar on Eastern Avenue, and next thing you know, they're chasing us through the park.

We were starting to worry as they started catching up, not to mention that we were running out of steam by the time we got to the tiny lake on the south end of the park. Just as I felt my lungs were gonna give out, we practically trip over a bike someone had abandoned near the lake. He jumped on the seat and I balanced myself on the bolts that held the back tire in place. We thought we were home free as he pedaled us out of danger, but then we realized why the bike had been abandoned. It had no brakes. I know we wore out some of the rubber on our Chuck Taylors trying to stop that thing before it dumped us out onto the oncoming traffic on Baltimore Street.

Our favorite thing to do though, was to hit the streets of Baltimore, starting around 2am or so, and tag the hell out of any wall that would hold spray paint. Actually, he would do most of the tagging. He was greedy with the paint. Now, this pastime immediately created some issues, not the least of which was obtaining said spray paint. He was under 18, so he couldn't buy it; and even though I could, I'm sure it would've raised a few eyebrows. The only way to get paint without making people suspicious was to steal it, or "rack it" in tagger lingo. So we went racking, a lot (you need a lot).

We were actually pretty good at it. I wore this oversized surplus military trench coat at the time that hung off me like a duster. It was good for about six cans. We'd walk in a paint store, and while he distracted the clerk, I would sidle my way over to to the cans of Krylon and carefully pack my pockets. When we went into department stores, first we would go over to the bag section and rip the tags off a back pack or two. We would then head over to the hardware section where we would organize the colors we wanted and lay them on their sides. Back to the bags, where we would sling the prepped knapsacks over our shoulders. Then back to hardware again, where we would quickly & quietly pack our sacks with our colors. The toughest part was walking out. I would always dread that hand on the shoulder as I got to the exit. Never happened.

It got to the point where we would just steal anything. I saw this shirt I liked, gray denim with red splotches. Really, it looked like someone had just shot me. Nevertheless, I went in the Young Men's dept. took my trench off, put the object of my affection on, put my trench back on over top and walked out. Chris loved the shirt, so I went back in and did it again so we both could have one. Did I say "Kids, don't try this at home" yet? Of course, it felt almost natural to me. When I was 9 or 10, my mother cut the tags off a coat in a Two Guys in NJ, told me to put it on, and we walked out without paying. Racking shit was already in my blood.

So the night he let me move in, we had to come up with a decent tag for me. I was a sucker for symmetry, so I had tagged "OttO for a while, putting dots in the "O"s to make them eyes. Then I had tagged "Fry" cuz that was part of my nickname growing up, "French Fry" or "French Fried Freddy", but Chris claimed that it was too short and had limited artistic potential. Eventually, we settled on SCAM or SKAM, depending on the mood. It was perfect, because back then, it always seemed like I was scamming my way into things or out of trouble. It stuck, and when we went tagging or "piecing", I would think of it as "goin' skammin'". That first night we tagged along Route40 from Highland Ave. in Highlandtown to Howard St. Downtown. The best part was holding on to Chris as he hung upside down over the Orleans Street Viaduct spraying his FASE tag so rush hour traffic could see it as it flowed down the Jones Falls Expressway.

The best times would happen when we went "piecing", meaning we were going to put up full-color works of graffiti, not just quick little tags. This always took planning and patience. One time a crew of us, Chris was part of Kant Stop Writing (KSW s'up!), wanted to put up a piece at an elementary school on Lombard St. Only problem was that there was already a piece there. Now piecing over someone else's piece is a good way to get your ass beat, so rather than risk a fight, we stole a bunch of milk crates from a nearby 7-11, tossed them onto the roof of the school, and stacked them so we could paint above the existing piece. I've never held on to a milk crate so hard in my life.

Another time, Chris & I were piecing alone. We were on the athletic field of Patterson High School. It was only 1am, too early to start. We decided to hide out in this little wooded section nearby. We came across a blanket someone had laid out, picnic style. Obviously, this was someone's make-out spot, but it was the perfect place to chill. There was a paper bag just sitting there, not far from the blanket, and immediately Chris & I thought it would be perfect if there were beer in it. I opened the bag, and sure enuff, a whole unopened six pack was there, chilled by the cold November air. Nothing like piecing with a good buzz on!

We weren't always so lucky. One night we were piecing at Stemmer's Run Middle, a school I had attended five years previously when I was living in Middle River. Beforehand, we stopped by this kid's house. He tagged "CARR", but not really, because he was always too scared of getting caught to go out with us. He was really good though, so sometimes Chris would have him do a "FASE" sketch for him to work from. We vainly tried to get him to come with, but his mom was having none of it. Back at the school, we start throwing up our outlines when Chris notice a car in the parking lot a couple hundred yards away. "Is that five-oh?" he asks, always a little paranoid. He would get angry if I looked at other people's work for too long during the day because he thought a cop might see us and "know" we were taggers.

"Nah! Can't be," I said, "I don't see the lights on top. Must be a couple making out." He couldn't stand not knowing, so we crept our way closer until we could make out the flashers on top. It seemed that at that very moment, we heard this sound in the distance. "fwooop fwooop fwooop" And then we could see it: a helicopter flying straight at us. We did the only thing we could think of. We dropped our paint and booked like illegal mexicans from border patrol. We made it about two thirds of the way across the campus, hitting a small hill, when I turned to look to see how far the chopper was. I swear to you, the bird's light was just about on our heals when it suddenly veered left and away from us. We made it to Carr's where we had planned to rendevous afterward, only to find a note on the door to his bedroom. "Sorry, my mom said I can't let you back in." At that point we realized that his mother had snitched us out.

Having nowhere to go, we just ran. At one point, we were so exhausted that we had to stop. We made it to this nearby High's convenience store. We took a moment to catch our breath, and casually walked in. We had hardly made it in the door when the cops cars came flying by, flashers making the High's feel like a disco. They didn't stop, but neither could we. We figured it was just a matter of time before they looped around and decided to check the High's. So we started running again, this time until we reached this giant drain pipe that poured into some stream, probably Stemmer's Run itself. We hid out on the banks of the stream for a couple of hours. When we felt the coast was clear, we made our way back to the school to see if the paint was still there. It was. So what the hell, we thought, we might as well finish what we started.

This situation with Chris didn't last too long though. I had a job and he didn't. I eventually realized he was mostly using me for my money. One night, he told me there was a big party at his girlfriend's house in Perry Hall. He convinced me to get a cab to take us there. When we got to her house, there was no party. We went straight to her bedroom where I had to lie on the floor listening to them fuck. That was the beginning of the end. I paid him back a few weeks later, but that's another story for another time.

Chris is in jail now. He apparently developed a streak of violence and apparently beat an old lady to death for her money. I saw it coming when I had heard he had struck the first blow in an incident where two of his friends beat a gay man to death in Patterson Park. The only reason he didn't get time for that was because his girlfriend at that point, Kim, had vouched that he wasn't involved. She told me about it when she lived with me for a short time. It was a bit sad, because I felt that if I had been around, I would have never let that happen. If I hadn't abandoned him, maybe he'd be out of jail today. Of course, if he had treated me with a little more respect, I wouldn't have felt the need to leave his ass behind. You don't scam SKAM.

SonSpot

2012-05-02T18:15:00.000-04:00

As you may know, yesterday would have been my brother Joe's 38th birthday. I finally dug the only poem I've written about him, thus far, from the depths of The Hoard. SonSpot was inspired by an incident that happened shortly after the death of my grandmother. Joe, my sister Kyra & I went to the airport to catch flights to Puerto Rico for Grandma's funeral. Joe was turned away, unable to board the flight because he had no form of identification.

Wearing Joe's favorite cap

SonSpot
My baby brother died
with my mother,
not in a fiery mesh of auto-
mobiles, like all good
rebels, but in a slow,
black spiral dance.
I could only watch
as his silent, livid corpse
shambled along
the streets, one hand
asking why—the other
asking when.

My baby brother was reborn
When my grandmother died.
I watched him shrink
away as he watched
my plane taking off—
both hands pressed
against glass, asking
how—but his face,
his face knew
the answers—
I could see
it brighten as I left
the ground, until,
as I crossed Cancer,
his tear-scarred cheeks
consumed the sun;
and from a thousand
miles away
I could feel
his heat, could see
his hands digging
into the earth,
finally searching
for the more important

questions.

Elegy for a Prom

2012-04-26T22:02:00.000-04:00

Elegy for a Prom

In hindsight, it was the peach
schnapps that was the final
spike in the coffin
where my prom
lay rotting. I didn’t see
it, but I felt it, dread
spreading like pitch
in my belly, as KC cracked
the fifth open, swigging
the sweet syrup, sucking
& sucking & sucking
it down until reminded
that the schnapps
was for the whole party.

I smothered my stomach’s
complaints with hope
because that’s all I had left.

You see, KC was a dream—
just this hardcore Shirley
Temple, all whirls of gold
curls & dimply smiles wrapped
in a black Metallica tee.

I was just some geek,
a short one at that.
I lie. I was the King
of Geeks, sovereign
of my very own nerd herd,
capable of fitting in
where my subjects
never dared:
theater,
wrestling,
KC.

We were lunch friends,
me & KC, bonding over
math & metal,
but when I dared myself
to ask her, I knew
she would say no.

Yes was worse.
The pressure
for the perfect
prom, for a night
full of stars & hands
& tongues &...
well, let’s just say
I was a Vesuvius pimple,
ready to pop pus
all over poor Pompeii.

Perfect’s impossible,
but as I watched her glide
down the stairs drowning
in scarlet, as I nervously tied
the corsage about
her wrist while her parents
snapped pictures,
I allowed myself to believe.

& that’s where perfect died.

Already running late,
my broken stepfather,
with his broken English
got lost, had to stop
for directions
at a station full
of broken white trash
fools for whom
it was more important
to harass & laugh
at the foreign
guy than help.

We finally arrived, are rushed
to have the photographer snap
our pic. Starving, KC & I
explore the buffet, full
of what began life as cold
salads, now picked
over & discolored
with shrimp that were starting
to smell. We ate rice.

Band sadly won out
over DJ, & we were tortured
with songs that my mother
would have danced to
at her prom. We did dance
to one: Celebrate
good times, come on.
But you know how hard
it is to celebrate misery.

Frodo saved us.
Just as KC & I
were commiserating
with our eyes, trying
to find a way out,
Frodo approached
to let us know he & Sammi
were leaving for the Senior
Party, inviting us along.

Here was my last chance.
I ran to the payphone,
called my mother
& lied. A group
of us were heading
to the harbor to find
real food & hang out.
Mother would meet us
at midnight at the Chi-Chi’s
that was once on the corner
of Lombard & Market.

As KC & I slid
into the backseat
of Frodo’s Mustang
I imagined sliding
my hands under
yards of scarlet satin
in some secret, silent
corner somewhere...
& then I watched KC
guzzle a third
of a fifth of peach
schnapps.

We split
at the party. That
was fine, I didn’t
want to blow yet
another shot
due to overbearing
clinginess, a common
complaint.

I was sipping
beer in the basement,
sharing too many
good times
& goodbyes
when I realized
I’d lost
track of time.

Midnight was coming—
Pumpkin Time—
I scurried, hurrying
to call a cab & find...
Where the fuck is KC?
Someone thinks they saw
her upstairs, maybe
one of the bedrooms?
I raced up, skipping
steps, knocking
on the first door
I find, opening
just in time to see
KC being zipped up
by the star
of the baseball team.
I apologized & closed
the door.

It dawned on me,
sulking back
down
stairs:
KC had hit her homer,
I was the one
who’d struck out.

The cab ride
should have been full
of nothing but silence,
space for me to seeth.
I couldn’t even have that!
She was nauseous.
Was it the liquor or the guilt?
I didn’t care. I just begged
her to hold it in
until we got down
town. I didn’t want
to take the chance
that my mother
would beat us
there and beat me
afterwards,
possibly
in front of KC.

KC rolled out
of the cab
on the corner
of Lombard &
Market, sprinting
to the hedges
wrapped around Chi-Chi’s.
I paid the driver
& got to KC
in time to rub
her back as she spewed
forth a toxic blend
of rice & peach schnapps.
KC was wiping her mouth
as my mother pulled
around the corner,
honking.

“What’s wrong with her?”
mother asked
about the girl moaning
in her backseat.

“Remember the shrimp
I told you smelled bad?
Apparently, it was.”

I led the moaning, groaning
KC to her door. Before
I could finish knocking,
KC’s pulling away,
rushing for the gutter,
spilling her guts, again.

I’d had enough.

I jumped into the car,
yelling at my mom
to go.

“Is KC going to be
alright?”

“She’ll be fine,”
I said, “Go, just go!”
There was nothing
left to do but go
home, go fetal, go mourn
the death of prom
& hope.