The Black “Zombie” Athlete

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The Black athlete soldier, unlike his counterpart, mirrors his urban brother.  He, the Black male, yearns redemption through athletic.  His scarred palms, paint his predicament exactly: athletic drugs and fascination, do not exist.  His dreams die before sunrise.  The Black athlete lives and die repeatedly believing, “What If”?  redemptive imagination, no longer running hot, the dark clouds, strangle his oxygen.  His brief thoughts, sunken tightly in a bent brow, says, I am not this cause.  I am not this monster, although, one cannot read or think critically. My blame, lay among others, the others that paved my path to illiteracy.  The Black athlete is not alone in this exploration, yet, his urban warrior yearns his deliverance.  Coaches, teachers, and the hood drove darkness together, never checking the revere mirror. Not engaging the speeding car, analysts predicted dark clouds ahead, you may want to get off the road, and wait this out.  Fuck no, wait what out, its just rain, The Black athlete, arrogant and gloomy, presses the gas.

The invisible storm stirs, The Black athlete’ hell predicted, flushing poorly constructed thoughts is not a savior.  No more cheers, his alter ego, transform him into the urban or rural warrior, his dark skin cursed. The powerful strut, his athletic chest sunken, the invisibleness apparent.  Not yet to the Black Athlete…he doesn’t give a shit.  No acadphotoemic institution provided, “no, you can’t play ball, you cannot think and read critically”.  Nonetheless, he storms into the abyss, thinking to describe his death.  He stumbles breathing, as the dark smoke, strangles his Black ass to invented death.

His coded pillow, signal terror, and an unimaginable fate, the tears begin again, and again.  What community or society permits such an academic holocaust?  The Black Athlete’ salvation is imaginary, intoxicated dreams, yet, nightmares. He silently sings, his voice sickens the authentic student, she realizes he’s on academic death row.  His death secured, “take it like a man, and go back where you came from”. From where, shall I venture, for whom shall hear my sorrows?  To the whore’ blossom shall grant redemption, heroin numb feelings, I’m slowing into my place…everything fine now..I’ll sleep a bit. When the sky bleeds sunlight my spirit will awake. I’ll be different, momma, I’ll be nice…I’m scared momma: I don’t know how to read and write.  What will they do to me?

What will they do to me?

Boy stop your crying..you only got three years to serve.  Your sister say hey,  she miss you. Your son ask about you every day, I didn’t want to bring him, I don’t want him to see you like this.  What you reading in here…son you have to read, that’s only way you get somewhere.  How’s your cousin doing, what cellblock is he in…don’t they fight over there a lot.   Yea, momma, it’s lots of violence in here, the slightest thing can blow up..I wish, I would have listened and learn reading and writing.  None of that boy, you in here now so think about getting out.  There are no jobs out there…just don’t give up son.  Don’t die alive in prison.  I’m praying every day momma, every day.

The Invisible Dragon

 

The Death of A Crack Addict

By Robert A. Williams

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Jesse held his timid posture inside the project’s hallway, absorbing the rumbling sounds from the apartment.  The loud stench of urine did not drown out the violent voices as he listened silently.  His slender frame, as a ship on bumpy waters, rocked steadily as he decoded the languages.  These evidently hateful sounds came from the apartment as always after multiple day crack binges.  Nevertheless, under the influence of crack, hopelessness, and suicidal thoughts, Jesse with unbridled animosity ignited after hearing the scorning noises.  Pissed, he flushed his clenched fist down his mouth and screamed inaudibly.  While his character received rebuke from inside, he heard a voice say, “Jesse ain’t shit and never will be shit” pierced through the apartment’s peephole, and, as quickly as his rage had imploded; it halted.   The voice’s owner had never been among his naysayers but for this very first time he heard it clearly.  After recognizing the voice owner, his addicted frame collapsed upon the cement, as his emptiness filled him.  For the next two hours, inside the hallway, he furiously rubbed his convicted face, as he whispered again and again:

“I ain’t shit and never will be shit; I ain’t shit and never will be shit.” I ain’t shit and never will be shit.”

Later, in his deepened shallow voice, Jesse asked himself.  “What the fuck have I done?” He wondered had the addiction cost him his family’s hopes.  He snapped back! “I can’t stop, I’ve tried and not one person knows what I’ve been through.  How can they judge me?  What the fuck do they know; they have not walked in my shoes.”  Jesse invalid arguments from the past however were baseless again, but now because of that voice, he wondered was it true.  He mouth mumbled again, “I’ve never been shit” thus his final decree fell noiselessly onto the cement.  Jesse settled himself atop his size 12 feet; tucked his shirt neatly inside his dirty jeans and headed toward the building’s roof.  His mangled body for hours lay  unnoticed before the sunlight allowed the project spectators to recognized it.  The disfigured mesh of body and bones did not faze them; they’ve seen suicide by roof jumping before. “Cats can’t take it, and they jump the fuck off, it’s called ‘project sky rocket.’  The news reporter nervously listened to the hoodie wearing teen’s account, as yellow police tape restrained both; Jesse was a statistic now.

The funeral was uneventful, as most, concerning project residents. The family had to take donations, it’s a norm, no big deal.  A few friends stood with his siblings wondering why Jesse became a ‘project sky rocket’.  Hell, his sister let him stay with her, but they still wondered.  Sure she got on him about his addiction, “Jesse they going to put me out if they catch drugs in here, don’t bring that shit in here,”  But you know what, after each binge, she opened the door.  Jesse often listened outside her door as she would railed preparing for work, “His good for nothing Black ass”.  Nevertheless, she loved his ‘Black skinny ass’, like most siblings in those situations do.  Yea, she let him come back each time and this is why his suicide hurt her most.  Because, she promised to care for her oldest brother and she failed.  As foul-smelling and cracked out, she took him in, blitzed off some new drug shit, she took him in, fucked up on liquor; she took him in.  The morning of Jesse’ suicide however was different, the voice were different.  The voice convinced him he failed at life and disappointed everyone.  He heard that voice and it made him tired and apathetic.  No more fight in him, he was tired, so he jumped.

After several months, project’s natives produced a theory as they always do.  That early morning, a few residents saw Jesse outside his sister’s door before 4am as she undressed him on the other side.  Jesse and his sister kept their business in the street, like all residents of these prisons.  Nevertheless, most residents, like his sister, wondered aloud; why did he jump?  Well, as theory has it, that morning as Jesse crept up the project’s hallway, he was fine. But, as he gathered himself to enter his sister’s apartment, that one voice came from inside and into his head; thus, he freaked out.   Frightened and confused, he bugged out, as they say.  As such, he was whispering as he walked to the roof a few hours later.  His fellow addicts however warned him: Your mother has been dead ten years.

Monday’s Poem: Numb by Will J. Hobbs

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“Eyes wide open with my mind wide shut. Heart still beating with the blood flow ceased. Arms outstretched but my hands can’t feel. In the midst of a storm stark naked begging for the refreshing coolness of the rain the ease the burning of my ignorance. Pouring the water on my tongue hoping that it will quench this insatiable thirst to feel what so many others seem to experience.

Staring glazed over into a mirror hoping to become enlightened in my own self worth and existence. Searching for my way around a dark room feeling nothing but hoping to find a way out. Peeling away at my own flesh hoping to develop a new layer of sensation. Unaware of the concept of pain and incapable of understanding the affection of emotion.

Eyes wide open with my mind wide shut. Heart still beating but the blood flow has ceased. Arms outstretched but my hands can’t feel.

I am numb…”

By Will J. Hobbs

purple dragon

The Invisible Dragon

The Traveler’s Gift, Christian Book Review

Reading and reviewing books has become a past time. A few friends have joined in partnership to exchange text for examination. We have dissimilar religious and spiritual affiliations, they being Christians and the blogger a pious orphan. Taoism is the nearest philosophy among my external counsel.  However religious and philosophical membership aside, reading wisdom-based fiction is cool. Discovering new and useful information among text is the purpose anyhow.

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“The Traveler’s Gift” by Andy Andrews speaks about the fictional life of David Ponder. Mr. Ponders experience a midlife crisis and finds himself traveling back through time. He encounters several individuals who will provide him with values for personal success, seven total. Hence, however, these persons are making crucial decisions as David crashes into their bookspast.

In fact, Harry S. Truman found time to speak with David as he decided the fate of Japan. The past realities and David’s life come together to forge a new mental framework for guidance to success. Overall these seven principles are foundational attributes through a Christian writer’s lens.

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Personal Observation: Christian’ books (my personal book reviews) consistently promote “when my ship comes in” paradigms. The Traveler’s Gift in step presents a map to obtain future happiness and rewards. As such Mr. Andrews illustrate that present moments are only platforms for things to come.

The Traveler’s Gift, pp..88-89 My hopes, my passion, my vision for the future are my existenceI am passionate about my vision for the future. My course has been charted. My destiny is assuredI have a decided heart.”…pp 166,I will persist without exception. I focus on results. To achieve the results I desire, it is not necessary that I enjoy the process. It is only important that I continue the process with my eyes on the outcome…my light, my harbor, my future is within sight.”

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Sadly, we do not control the future with our works; however the author seems to suggest otherwise. In fact, he points out that until goals, ambitions, or expectations become reality happiness may remain dormant. This book in my opinion is a pep rally, a motivational dialogue woven into a brilliant story.

Nevertheless, disowning the present moment while concentrating exclusively on expectations will create pain for many.  Because obsessions with future or past events may create emotional trauma.  In addition, what happens when our plans do not work out? Do we blame God? On the other hand, do we condemn ourselves for a lack of faith?

In closing, adhere to the present in my humble opinion.  Because happiness is a state of being available anytime; your choice and free of charge.

Miles Davis

The Invisible Dragon

A Helpful Affair, The Video

Picture by Robert A. Williams