Pride Before the Fall: Short Story to Preface the Scene

…The waking moments that greet our young LoverThinker on this day remain full. Of the recollecting of the dreams he’s just returned from. The Boat and the sea on all sides where his little sister vacationed with a cad. The Gotham skylight window of a top floor hotel room, where he and his father fired round after round at floating perpetrators fleeing the wrath of the righteous. The Forest pathways that hid the desperation of his thievery. Yet in a minutes worth of blinking and bathing in the breath of a new day, all that captivated him were the words that he could not yet discern to have really been a mistake to have typed during that select conversation the day before.

He could not have known, nor did he expect that she would be available to chat when he and his companion made their somewhat religious trip to the internet café up the hill and around the corner. On the walk his thoughts wandered. Would they make it to the beach again soon? For the sun was high and hot that day and he could feel his skin under the sweat browning yet. Going on a tour of the cedars riding ATV’s seemed like the most appropriate thrill to spend some cash on, but how could he convince his pretty patron of that much when her spirits were leaking in limbo? Her beauty accounts only for so much, but it sure helped days go by faster. Casual conversation continued in spite of his ambitions, and soon screens saw them sit.

Typing, he found out not long ago, felt like playing the piano, and so he enjoyed signing on and logging into the various sites where his fingers had championed user names and passwords. He jingled his digital keys not before fiddling them in his hands knowing which door each opened. Gmail. Facebook. Twitter. Blogger. YouTube. Who’d be there? Maybe someone would have replied to a message or wall posting, or commented on one of his videos, or the drawing of the girl and the flag. Most often there was none of these. Realizing and expecting this much, he spent a second being sad about it, and then reminded himself that he enjoyed being the most underrated over dog, and commenced to log in.

Gmail. Username: MyklHanna. Password: *********. Inbox: Jennifer(me) unread!? STOP! HAULT! PAUSE! DISINGAGE! SIGN OUT! His sunken stomach found its way out of his cargo shorts, and once his vision came back into focus and feeling came back into his fingers a chuckle filled the chamber of his mouth, and rolled off his tongue. What could she possibly have to say?! Why would she send him a message after all that was said in the last!? Was he really that surprised that she emailed him still!? Was he already overreacting to what was probably nothing close to being as serious as he was making it!? Then the chuckle returned. Suddenly he felt like a pale faced Keanu Reeves sitting on the olive seats in the desert of the real while the black man’s booming voice spoke humorous revelations too simple not to understand.

Twitter. Username: MyklHanna. Password: ********. “Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.” Tweet. Sign Out. He inhaled deep and quiet, and continued his log in rituals. But after retrieving what information he needed elsewhere, he returned to the inbox where the unread unexpected message awaited his reply.

And reply he did. Swiftly, and punctually, addressing each concern and query she posed to him there. There was a poignant tone in both of their texts. Very practical. And yet he’d read into what wasn’t said. Her words and requests in and of themselves spoke that she still thought fondly of him, or had some need of his help, urgent or otherwise. That this was proof that even if only a tear drop in a vile or a flasks worth of experimental data, there was a longing that existed somewhere in her being for him. And this much made him smile. But of course he could not afford to indulge in such foolish assumptions or over analyzations any longer than the time his face had already stolen. Yet no sooner did he send what he believed to be the perfect reply did moments later she’d appear like the lyric from his song still ripe in the air from being composed not two days past. His cargo shorts weren’t interested in company at that time, so his stomach just fizzed a little. Neither did his eyes nor his fingers wait for his mind to make some cold insensitive judgment call, and without delay double clicked her username next to the green circle indicating she was signed into her account as he was.

He began the dialogue in disbelief, asking if she was indeed available to chat, anticipating her signing off without reply, or in fact stating that she was not interested in a conversation with him. But it seemed she was. These anxieties did not have but a moment to fester before her small talk took him over.

They typed back and forth about the content of the email she’d just received from him, and she told him of her new musical explorations and those that assisted her. The banter slowly became more friendly and a might bit flirtatious as they inquired about and suggested attractive counterparts for each other. Yet as sex entered the dialect, he found himself apologizing for excessive questioning, as she searched, looking for more telling responses. Tipping on tightropes no lies were told, yet how much truth was revealed neither of them could truly feel. But that this was felt was the truth unspoken. The yet lingering mistrust and disgust she felt for him salivated the guilt that arose on the same tongue he skewered her with. The same hungry tongue that hadn’t yet tasted redemption.

Before he was rushed off the computer and out of the café back around the corner and down the hill, what found him is the same that woke with him today. The same that sat with him and poured into a fanciful scene he’d illustrate of he and her. One that he could picture as vividly as the green circle next to her username on yesterday. Perhaps this was his opportunity to reenact what he wished would’ve happened, or what he thought he should’ve said before he left their dialogue. Before he’d realized that the conversation became his testimony that he’d realized she’d said nothing in response to. No interruptive exclamations. No affirmations or even any comments of disdain; just a farewell. An empty and ever interpretive goodbye that cued the playback of his heart vomit.

“Don’t kid yourself for a moment…I’m still very much in love with, and without you.”

How pathetically poetic he typed these words without thinking, showing himself in a way which was of course already supremely visible. How recklessly romantic he lowered his shield to the swing of his own sword. How cheaply chivalrous was the accuracy in his profession. A prince and a pauper all in the same.

Forgetting whatever words that followed before her farewell, likely in a similar fashion as the ones that haunted him home, he found his focus enough to enjoy a meal and the laughter and good company of his beautiful companion. He dismissed her from his thoughts, and felt encouraged to continue on as if to have passed through a revolving door maybe too long before exited through to the other side. Although she’d find him in all the same places, he’d gotten accustomed to telling himself he allowed her to. And so that evening it wasn’t as difficult to sleep as one would think it’d be for our heart stricken LoverThinker. But when he woke up on today…

Holiday

"American Woman! Stay away from me! American Woman! Mama let me be!"

Next Day the Same

These are strange but familiar walls.

Invite me in after I've been cordial & proper in my introductions.

I enter to feel the comfort from the color that falls on me. Changing

as if in a mood ring wrapped around me. Tight on my reach.

I take off running down hallways.

Pausing to notice my pace,

and then picking it up where I left it at the door where I entered.

Did I rush to proceed is not the question I ask myself.

I thought it patience that allowed me passage.

Yet just as politely, I'd press on,

with no payment.

As follows the path of the nomad wordsong painter.

Perhaps forgiven as a pirate on pillage

but I never found the booty.

So I slumbered, hailed

God, and set sail

into the afternoon soon.

The parades & drums are for the bride

not the groom.

First A Man

Thumbnail to the farthest outreach of little finger. Lefty. Hefty.

Under Sunlight exposing them all.

In fours counted them over in threes.

Scent of the seas on the breeze, and I know each of their funk by name.

Counted them in 2's.

Counted as their eyes mounted.

But I am not the pope, nor his successor.

Crowned in dreams bridged to dreams of Me 1 of 3. My tree.

Seed needs fertile soils and untilted fields to grow.

Till then I was there to plow and shovel snow,

and now here I sow the message.

Aim for their necks, sides backs.

"Peace on her back lain."

Do you to the front intimidate by brown skin alone?

Seven mile and Livernois in your pupils glare fire?

Silent insanity on deck in case they don't get it. You don't forget it.

Sorted out in strong words on long lines,

but what when times bring them at you like scenes you've studied? Here alone?

There's the throne. They will charge. On gaurd soldier stay there.

Don't expect they will play fair.

Swifter, I am. Stick shifter, am used to driving

since 15, 14 watching.

Lessons in life upon me now,

drips from my brow the confusion and immediate confrontation of culture unknown.

But not that much.

Counted them each in 4's & 3's. Seven I sees.

Aim for their knees. Move. Point to prove.

Precious life. I can't lose.

But I am not the rope nor the bull caught in the lasso.

Right over strong arm still.

Wrist gleam, mug mean. Charm set to kill.

But she is not mine, and days yet weeks left undefined.

Portraits of power in mind,

Father help this inclined young anxious soul to know his role.

Protected I'd appear to have been keeping who?

For I am not a dope, & my position cannot be neglected, nor suggested.

"I Can't Wait Until Tomorrow Comes!": Song & Story

We’d been playing Spice Street for about a month. When we first started we played every Thursday and Friday. This was my first steady gig, and I was on the set with cats who’d been dealing with this music much more intimately. That’s how it felt anyways. Every night I was tryna keep up. Even after we’d gotten a solid repoirtoire together, and I knew what I was doing a little bit, the rush of anxiety from just missing that turn around, or almost nailing that lyric kept me hungry. It was like finding and chasing a brand new high, and I never wanted to run out of supply.

She was coming into town Friday morning of that holiday weekend. I wanted her to be there when I sang it with the band. The day after I wrote it, I played and sang it to her in the Chicago afternoon sunlight of my humble Hyde Park apartment. She rescued me then, and so I fumbled through on the keyboard trying to give her an idea of what I heard in my head, but it was still too fresh. She loved it. I didn’t do it justice. So I got excited to perform for her. Make up for some missed effort. I wrote out a chart for the band and planned to save it for her for Friday.

Maybe management knew I had to stay true to the lyric. Early that week we’d been moved to Wednesdays and Thursdays. Instead of music while you’d dine, they had a belly dancer. She told me she took a class at the YMCA or something. I think her name was Amy.

Discouraged as I was that she’d miss it, I was determined to deliver it to her, in spirit at least and or somehow. I handed each of the guys a chart, and the rest is on youtube. My own song and it felt like I was writing it in the performance. There was a brief discussion of form and feel before we played but that was all dealt with on the inside. Each of us all listening singing reading playing losing finding our way back. Rewarded with the claps from the few girls that sat in front of us, not knowing we were blind to them, seeing only the music. Me seeing only her.

‘…here every Wednesday and Thursday from 6:30 to 9:30, and we’re gonna be working in some new tunes for y’all real soon.’ I said after introducing the band. Not realizing I hadn’t introduced the song.

History preserved courtesy of JC’s iphone. He sent me the raw audio, and I forwarded it to her email before she came. I wonder what she thinks of it now…

Txt2Squizzle

...i close my eyes an see you in that sun dress from labor day. You walk into my fantasy big hoops danglin from your ears, sun touched brown bare shoulders, purple pump strut over to me with sex in your stare. Vortex sux us to nowhere but here and the air takes my hands up your legs, big hands grasp perk cheeks, no panties. You knew what you were doing, too late for me to pull back from heart pace increase. Lift. Slip. Fingers by squizzle just to slide across my upper lip. Wiff. Lick. Left arm strong pull you into my kisses. Your neck screams misses and forget me not wishes. Lips feel the distance close in an instance. Passion grimaces from behind us. so far beyond and above it we climb till time calls me to take you, make you mine. Enter park bench, bar stool drool, library silent steal you in the philosophy stacks. Pelvis and pussy slaps from the back. Shes talking to me now. Crowds gaze and ears amaze at the music made. Soulful moanin' on the radio plays in the maze of our scenic love songs. You be the keys and strings and snares and I'll be any player you dare. The microphones there, and waiting for you to share your directors commentary. Keep the climax a secret, ill tell you when it comes...but you'll knw. Makers Mark the imagination. She told me "baby, sip slow" and so...

Purple Pumps

Where others stumbled, she's stood.

When others stuttered, she spoke fullness to the mission.

Every scene is her runway to take off from expectation of failure.

She is truth child of the tribe, sharing with them the profit from the pains and gains of the people. Her people. Your people. Our People.

With peace power in her heart, she is a reluctant fighter, but a brilliant and bold warrior when battle befalls.

Her arrival hails the departure of evil, and she is always leaving to land.

The glare of Earth in its eternity is in her stare.

Her eyes are like a pure poison of passion and promise, peering into your souls intent.

She is heaven bent on bringing out from that which love bored, and poured down into me, and You!

In this whole world, she is woman, girl, prophet, pearl,

sitting and fitting into the palm of the divine.

The flats of her feet are firm with fertility.

Each nail and toe separate and sow the soil beneath and between her every half step scaling up the strength of her stems. Squizzle her scarlet petals dew drop color down the thornless vines. The winds that sweep around the cosmic bends of time whisk stardust through her hair, and on the breathe of her every word.

Something like a fallenangelshepheard, or a masterteacherpartner.

She wields a prowess in her purpose unmatched by her opponents.

Her love is strong enough to tear books into, yet fragile and fair,

like the inhale of coast mountain air.

She dares to conduct introductions between the real, the mind, and the sublime.

And in her kiss lies the healing of a world lost then reassured with faith and constellation.

She is a pioneer.

She is a rebel and a rougue.

She is a symbol. She is iconic.

She is my heroine.