Broken Mirrors

Throughout my entire life I have dreamed of a world that hears. I have dreamed of a world that listens rather than dismisses me and my feelings, as if we’re both debris frolicking in any evenings gust of wild winds. But my world? My reality? It has been overwhelming yet beautifully grafted so that I can persevere and overcome any obstacle in my path. Well, I’m lying. My life, it has been—in a phrase—going down shits creek. No one knows my name and I have one uniquely unrecognizable face but as for my energy? It either draws one near or repels. So, what am I? Better yet, who am I? I’m a loner, that’s for sure. But am I lonely or have I yet to secure my tribe and place out in the free world? And it’s obvious that no one knows what’s to come but God. I just wish that I was more like who I am to be in my dreams instead of living this life of monotony in these pothole and shard glass ridden streets.

           I went to see my man’s earlier. Some will call this a grocer or corner market but me and my people from around the way? It’s a corner store which in some way, believe it or not, meets all of your needs. I just hate that it always stinks and has strays running in and out of there. I hadn’t been in days and I’m dying of thirst and even more so starving like Marvin—then I saw it, my meal ticket! Finally my prayers had been answered and those tears that I shed every night can finally be one magical river to dry itself out.

                       “What’s goin’ on, B? What’s that poster in the window about?” I say entering Amir’s store which smells like Curry powder and an overpowering scent of “medicinal” herbal medicine. I am struck with bursts of not only curiosity but motivation accompanied by second-hand smoke.

                       “Bo Didley, Jr., my boy! I hadn’t seen you days, man? How you feelin’? You good, you chillin’?” He responds with his usual eagerness and jabs of common folk humor.

                       “Yeah, you funny—and funny looking. Now answer my question. What’s this poster about and why is it at the West?”

                       “Well baby boy, it’s like this…” he pauses to sip on this mysterious drink from a clear solo cup with several ice cubes in it, “you slide through and perform in order to win the cash prize at the bottom. Its ten dollaz but I think them people running scams. Real rap!”

           Confused as to why it may be a scam but still, curious and my sudden hunger begins to fade though my ribs feel as if they’re fighting over last night’s imaginary dinner.

                       “Nobody goin’ for this. Ten dollaz and you perfrom any art of your choosing and what, you get a deal? Exposure itself isn’t enough. With all these cameras and thieves out here, I don’t trust anybody with my IP. Hell nah, son. Selling pipe dreams to folks, we out here trying to build or rebuild what’s been destroyed. Why the hell is that here, in this city particularly? Why not the outskirts?” He finishes his rant steaming with undissolved anger and denied ambition, surely in route to breaking something as he slams a case of glass bottled beer on the ground, intentionally.

           In the midst of his torment due to his inconsistent past and unfulfilled dreams, I believe that I can change his mind. I also feel as if I can comfort him. But damn, two bands sounds better than gold right now! I hope those sandwiches are fresh, too.

I respond with limited excitement but sincerity, “well I hear you, fam. I do. But hey, had you listened to the tape that I gave you some weeks ago?” Still fuming and taking larger than life size pulls from his loose cigarette, Amir nods and begins to uncover himself for the human being that he is despite being a man who prides himself on linear thoughts and scientific enthusiasm.

                       “Yeah, I listened to it,” as he turns and stares deep into my dark brown eyes as I’m doing the same to his, only he is searching for the same sense of self-determination that he once had and I am timidly searching for comfort and support in his; “Caesar, I mean, Blaque Jean, since that’s your French stage name—if you believe in everything that you said on record, though it seems illegitimate, go for it. I’ll gladly front you the money.”

           The weight lifted from my chest and shoulders has now come back thousand fold, for reasons that I cannot explain. When I am nervous, I stutter. When I am upset, I stutter and cry—but no one knows this. I have this severe fear of public speaking and this man is going to send me off to die, in front of thousands of people? He doesn’t love me. He obviously hates me and wants to see me fail. These silent thoughts continually play tricks on me. Amir reaches into his front pocket and pulls out two fives, though my heart is still pumping and stomach fluttering, I am unsure if this is genuine support or someone who wishes to see light finally shine in a city that remains ominous and cursed.

                       “Look, I love you like my own brother and I’m an only child. But I need you to understand this so listen carefully: just because we’re from around the way, that doesn’t mean that we don’t have ambitions or outlandish dreams to reach great heights in life. Your words are imperative to these times, especially Chocolate Rhythm and Man in the window. I listened to those tracks several times! You nice with yours and it’s time to show the world.” I nod, fighting back tears because ever since my uncle and grandfather died, the only person to suggest that they believe in me and what I do is Amir. But I hadn’t let anyone read let alone hear my poems outside of my mother and sister, so there’s gotta be something more, right?

                       “Go win you some money, that’s two bands to fund your business or whatever else you have going on. And here,” he hands some type of card, its gold with writing all over it, “I hope and pray this brings you more blessings than it ever has for me—because when I went out for the contest? The judges cheated me out of money and stole my work.” He says shaking his head and placing all of my items in a black bag also waving off my attempt to pay.

           I hadn’t known Amir to do or say anything surrounding his path to making music or even telling jokes. He may seem lighthearted to those who know him but his rough exterior is based on all of the burned bridges that have set his heart ablaze and closed off his mind to other opportunities which limit his ability to feel.

I am now shaken yet bound and backed by love and an overloaded sense of self-confidence! Shooting back to the crib so I can get in the lab and slight waves of electricity begin to glide down my back and cause the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. I’ve never been this excited before. I’ve never been this scared before either, what if I stutter or pass out on stage? That wouldn’t be good. That wouldn’t be good at all! I can’t wait for Friday, two thousand dollaz, gzz? Let’s go.

Bursting in the house and see my mother and sister sitting at the table, I light up with joy and attempt to tell them my great news. Well, I was until—“Boy, what’s your problem? Bussin’ in my door like you the police. Damn near knocked it off the hinges and if it was broken, were you going to fix it?” My mother exclaims as she continues to blow off steam from possibly her fourth cup of green tea for the day. Like a dog with his tail tucked behind his hind legs, I bow my head whilst turning to close and lock the door. “My fault, ma. I’m just excited, that’s all. And I can’t wait to tell y’all.”

Seeming to be at a lost by my statement and my smile and eager entrance which has been in some ways vacant for the better part of six months, both women look towards each other with similar thoughts in mind.

           “You either just had sex or you finally have a girlfriend and want to bring her home to meet us, which is it and don’t lie.” My mother says with a blank expression on her face as she continues to sip out of her mug that I got her for Christmas three years ago. I am unaware as to how I should answer this question especially with my sister cackling like we’re act some comedy show. Moms’ voice is normally sweet and inviting but today? She might be triggered by more than this situation.

           “Don’t laugh Robin, that’s not funny,” I scream recognizing the thickness in the room and nonchalant attitude given by my not so charismatic sister who recognizes my joy but dismisses it, burying her nose back into any social media apps orbit all while I still have yet to answer an uncomfortable question.

           “Well spit it out, Cease. Hurry up and tell me. I have other things to do and I want to get them done before work.” Mommy says as both await what it is that needs to be said but, just as my feelings are hurt and dismissed, I decide to say something unrelated, however, more important.

Without hesitation, “I just love you two. That’s why I rushed home. That’s what I wanted to say.” Robin scoffs and walks toward the bathroom leaving her phone to rest for the first time in forever, you’d think her palms would have the Apple logo embedded into them.

Mommy smiles as she turns to the sink pouring out the rest of her tea, “well, I love you too, baby! You’re my oldest child and only son but please, be mindful when opening the door. It’s older than you and I put together.” She says as she walks over to kiss me on the forehead before exiting the kitchen. “And sit up straight, you too young for back problems!”

As I do, my inspiration and yet to be honed skills and talent always seem to pique during times of inner turmoil and limited expression of one’s true feeling which is so big that containment hurts. Like on the verge of tears hurts. I cannot talk to anyone. My visuals mirror what I’m feeling on the inside and yet no one recognizes it or even cares. This world is foolish and I’ll show them, just wait till Friday, damnit!

Slight strides down to my lair, I realize that I live in a country where free speech is celebrated but how is one to participate in drinking wine and dancing under confetti if he has yet to fully experience or even enjoy this act in his own home? So I do what I know best, and what I know to be comfortable—listen to music—allowing these notes to caress my soul and wash my pain away. I’m tired of pretending. I just want somebody to hear me. Acknowledge me. Know that I am a whole human being not some halfway produced robot which is nothing but scrap metal that someone pulled out of their ass!

“Today’s Tuesday, so let’s begin our journey to making it do what it does,” I think aloud as I grab my headphones and turn on several of my favorite albums by Gil-Scot Heron. He is my image of what I’m destined to be yet from another time period and one of my biggest influences.

The first three poems that I attempted to write were complete trash like literal butt cheeks and then it finally hit me, “Get Reel,” it provided so much clarity and even more so illustrates my truest thoughts and feelings and maybe I am depressed. Maybe I am lonely, or maybe I’m just an artist trying to bridge the gap between seven or eight billion people.

Long days even shorter nights

Night sweats

Somebody’s calling but no one’s coming

Mere thoughts of sacrifice

If I died tonight chasing lights

My soul wouldn’t suffice

I’m consumed by struggle and strife

In life I know it’s only patience

Which wears thin

Separating us from them

My ideology comes from dire apologies

From one aggressive anthology

If you knew pen work

Then you knew how men work

We have no perks

Writtens become hidden

Love becomes division

People are now dismissive

Emotions confused from what’s real versus what you feel

Maybe I need to chill—

Night sweats and terrors

Every illness doesn’t come with coughs

I know it’s rough

I know it’s tough

And sometimes

Brothers just need hugs and more love

Just like you…

As I wipe the tears from my eyes I begin to hear this faint sound, almost like a school bell and its repetitive. I remove the headphones and begin my search of chasing some imaginary sound. I feel as if it’s nothing and curiosity may have killed the cat but this is my private area and there shouldn’t be any odd noises. In my boyhood investigative acts, checking under the couches, the coat closet, behind the TV, and laundry room—it indeed, is nothing, but I no longer feel safe. I rush up the stairs and call out to the other occupants of this small yet spacious home just to receive no answer. Both bedroom doors are closed with no one in them, “assholes, could’ve told me that they were leaving,” I muster the courage to say this silently because I wouldn’t dare say it aloud, they could be outside at the picnic table and left the window open. Peeking through the blinds, no one’s there, “women, bro, you might love them unconditionally but they’re annoying,” letting out this deep belly laugh at my own joke for this unnecessary reality it occurs, again.

           “Where the hell is that sound coming from?! I can’t even enjoy my sammich in peace!” I think to myself wondering if I’ve finally gone mad and now need to seek professional help. I know I checked everything and there’s nothing on or nobody here, I even checked the iron and then—

“For if I cannot reach you in your sleep, then we will commune in the streets!”

And then something else had struck me as if it were a bolt of lightning within my own home. Maybe that was the voice of God and He’s been trying to reach me or tell me that He’s sending someone or something my way, letting me know that He’s been listening and hadn’t forgotten about what we talked about. Just as the Small talk at 125 & Lenox album comes to an end, an issue that has plagued my mind since I was twelve had finally put itself into words leading to my environment fading to black.

You left when I needed you

You left because you felt it was right

All I know is pain

All I have is rage

All I smell is rain

Neither sun nor shine

No smiles or grins

All tears and more fears

You left

When I needed you

Where am I to go

What am I to do, now?

Pleading to God, asking him to give me another chance at life rather than just existing, coming and going—that’s not real—that’s not life. And that’s definitely not love so if I am to be lost in the wilderness of my dreams which have yet to be tangible objects, is my name really Caesar? Is my art work really worth more than money can buy? I begin to pray. That’s the only time I feel as if I am heard though no one talks back.

‘I’ve died several deaths of men whom I have yet to meet and will eventually emulate, however, as Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. would say “keep the faith, baby!” And that’s pretty hard when you’ve been ignored your whole life, nothing about you stands out but hey, I’m a man—I don’t have to beg for attention and men don’t cry, so why am I in shambles right now? Why can you hear the echoes of my pain as if I am speaking when all I did was enter a room? Tell me, what am I? Who am I? I have no identity and everyone suggests that I do. They wish to hear me but rarely invite me to speak; they claim to love me but have yet to hug me! Nothing is real. Everything is fake! If I were to perish on my own terms, would they then, care about how I’ve felt all these years? Maybe. Maybe not. But this comfortable cubicle is all I have ever known and possibly all I will know, until Friday at 7. Two bands on the line and if You are to be my pilot, I will win. But what of great men who suppress their emotions due to their environment which eventually kills them on the inside? I am tired of living that life. God, help me! I need you. Living life like throw pillows and blankets is not what I had in mind, sometimes I, too wish to be on the receiving ends of comfort and tall tales of “come on, don’t cry, it’s going to get better. I promise!” But just as my feelings have faded into the pit of night to be unseen by the masses, I continuously pray and ask that you have mercy on my soul! Amen.’