2002-05-05 - 11:21 PM
A Jersey Keepsake
I have a whole crapload of new writings in my miniature notebook, which I wrote mostly today at the side of the basketball courts, which I shall also crap onto the whole unexpecting lot of you. SO TAKE THIS, YOU FEWELS!
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"I'll take the little guy." I guess you had to be there to laugh.
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The winds are getting colder. I hear the applause of the leaves, while sitting under this great tree. Somebody else must have sat here before - hearing the same thing.
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The disease on my legs is making me itch. I cant' seem to keep still - and still, I can't keep.
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Fate has taken my manhood from me. I'm a boy, who had no father to throw the ball around with.
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I want to hold your heart as a keepsake, for the sake of keeping; keeping it safe for safekeeping.
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The silences in our speech are like the spaces between my words. It's become so constant, so regular - I rarely ever notice it's there.
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Like some hellbent mathematician, I'm going crazy dealing with abstracts. Damn Love, Fate, and Hope - things that make me Wish or Dream. The thought of you, thinking of me as an abstract, hurts me because I long to be your reality. I'm sure you could do the math.
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I don't want to be another fart in the wind. I don't want to disappear, be nothing - not get noticed.
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Everybody has gone home.
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I wrote this rhyme kinda quickly - it's really crap. I've fallen off over the years, but here it goes:
Basketball bonding, men at the courts...sneakers and shorts, an outcome's as weak as your force - you speak in the sport, the sweat comes as hard as you push...so you better come hard, 'cause once you let down your guard, it's a SWOOSH!!! Grind your teeth, man - it's part of the look...and you'll be lookin' the part, once somebody took it to heart...And I'm taking it there, one moment and I'm skating in air, ready to dunk, you've never seen as heavy a funk, as the way that I jam...Sue me, it's the way that I am, faking an ignorance is the way that I scam...I'm displaying a man, capable of a quake, takes the Earth for a shake, stop the turning like the tables will make...and I'm able to fake...run, stop, and pivot - I'll jumpstart the finish, making your end come in three minutes - so don't ask for a match if you can't take the steam with it - you're kiddin'? I think your tired ass could use a sittin', I'm the center of attention, greater than Britain...So the sun has come down, and now, the lights have come out...I've put on the crown and recorded the sound...It was nice to finally beat you, time to split with a pound.
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Here's something I wrote a few days ago in Newark. It's pretty short, and I wasn't really focused at all, but eh. Here it is:
In A Newark Barber Shop
Biggie on the radio - Malcolm on the wall - laughter in the air. There's about five others, all ranging through different ages, aside from me and Don. The cadence of the on-and-off buzzing meshing with the Notorious, meshing with the squeaking of one of the barber chairs, as an elderly man lazily turns back and forth. He stops, then blankly stares out of the window, and through the gold thin-framed spectacles, marches back in time, to remember where all the time went.
"Scarface, man. He told the truth, boy." The same man kept chanting "my mind's playing tricks on me".
They talk about Fat Albert, imitating the voice. We laugh - good, hearty laughs that sound so great, so majestic. The unfakeable jests. Another belts out: "Damn! Cat's tired."
"Too tired to get up and get a job?!", the elderly man snaps back, breaking away from his time-traveling trance. He starts to sing along with Usher, all under his fading breaths.
The bells on the door chime as somebody waltzes in for a cut. I look at Don, with his eyes peacefully closed, as the barber works in the sections, squinting his eyes just a tad, as any artist would do when dealing with detail. He combs downward and cuts upward, again and again, as the fade starts to slow on in, like black magic out of nowhere.
Another, begins sweeping up the loose hair on the floor. I lift up my feet for him, he says I'm alright. As he smiles, he chuckles out, "You do your homework, man. Get smart. Be the next commissioner. You never know when I might need a favor, when I get locked up or something. Haha!"
Heh, too bad I wasn't thinking about school. I was thinking about becoming a barber.
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^Well, that's all for now. The still unfinished Newark piece I spoke about before, is as previously said. So that'll have to wait until I'm done with it. As for the things I was supposed to talk about in this entry, I'll say I'll do it next entry, but knowing me (which I do), probably not. We'll see though. Never can tell. Shit, man - what do I think I am? A writer? HA! I'm out like a beer belly. WOO WOO WOO!!! Ta ta.
