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Day 203: L.atsha A.lcindor “MOMA” (2013)

I remember mornings on a bed, on the floor, cigarettes and coffee and her presence,
She alone, made me feel happy and healthy, oh the irony,
Some mornings, I’d awaken to her just staring at me, smiling, saying she loved the way I sleep,
Many mornings I’d wake up to a hot cup of coffee from our favorite coffee shop across the street,
Often we’d wake up and put music on, Slum Village, De La Soul, DJ Rob Swift or DJ Cam,
Not always loud, but always on,
We had little planned, just to make it through the day, to make it home to one another’s embrace,
Dinner was often from the taco shop, and I’d wash it down with The Champagne of Beers and laughter with friends who’d stop by just to say hi,
Once upon a time, I thought this was the life.
Now she’s my wife,
She takes good care of me,
We still laugh a lot, and that’s what’s most important to me.
Our babies laugh a lot too.
That’s divinity to me.
We couldn’t have made it this far, without laughter and prayers.
That’s the God honest truth.

Keith

He danced to beats that banged like bullets,
Electronic staccato and his Chucks barely touched the asphalt,
His feet floated like a helicopter above the fenced in terrace he called home,
The chains around his neck swang like hula hoops around waists of prepubescent girls in a land not too far away.
The sun set behind the terra cotta colored condos and kings palms,
Power lines where shoes dried for decades in the swift Santa Ana winds were the edges of his dance floor,
John Coltrane and J Dilla were his fathers,
His mama never loved him,
So he danced to keep his demons at bay…

Scratches, horns and high hats kept him coming back week after week,
After his homework was complete,
And his sisters he’d feed,
He’d go to compete,
Spinning uncontrollably, with the mastery of Alvin Haley, he hallucinated with homages to his ancestry,
His curls bounced to the beat and the tears on his cheeks were as real as those of the OGs who put hundreds on young Keith’s feat; young Keith’s feet kept him alive on those mean streets,
Now he’s on scholarship at Howard University.
Dance young brotha, dance.
~Ken10

It’s always easier when they say goodbye in late November,
There’s less tears than in July or January,
In fact, in late November they save the goodbyes,
They trade them for see-you-laters,
They trade turkey sandwiches for the thought of toys in a few weeks,
They trade tacos for tamales,
They trade fresh fruit for their auntie’s Hello Dolly bars,
They trade memories of the World Series for dreams of a fresh spring training,
They’ll trade trips to the beach for movies beneath the sheets,
They’re growing up, but never apart,
They’ll travel many miles, but stay in each other’s hearts,
They’re cousins and they love each other despite their differences,
Because that’s what families do.
-ken10

the dancer pt.II (b-boy documentary)

Scratches, horns and high hats kept him coming back week after week,
After his homework was complete,
And his sisters he’d feed,
He’d go to compete,
Spinning uncontrollably, with the mastery of Alvin Haley, he hallucinated with homages to his ancestry,
His curls bounced to the beat and the tears on his cheeks were as real as those of the OGs who put hundreds on young Keith’s feat; young Keith’s feet kept him alive on those mean streets,
Now he’s on scholarship at Howard University.
Dance young brotha, dance.

an ode to Charlottesville

-Today I saw a man at the San Diego Zoo with a Dave Mathews Band T-Shirt. It was simple.  It read, “DMB Charlottesville, Virginia”.  That’s all, nothing more.  It got me thinking, and in the back of mind, I became a bit nostalgic.  Hours later, this is what happened…

I love your evergreens,

I love the smell of your ivy leaves 

Covering the ground beside your simple lawns and old streets,

I love your bricks and The University, your IMPs and mysterious Zs,

I love your many generations of families,

So many colors, 

Black and white and everything in between,

Often times black when white is what the eyes perceive,

Such beauty.

I love your autumn leaves, 

Falling freely as football teams and cheerleaders take the field 

On Friday nights and Saturday afternoons,

Marching bands stepping with timeless tunes.

I love your crisp Turkey Days and the snowy white Christmases of my youth,

I miss the scent of spring rains with sweet aromas rising, lazily from the asphalt,

I miss my Grandparents and heart to heart talks most of all.

I especially miss those two.

Charlottesville, you hold a special place in my heart,

And I sure do miss you.

~a LOVEr sent home~

Kara LOVEs Heather

But they can’t be together,

By law anyway,

Heather appears to be ill,

Lover can’t be at bedside.

Doctor’s don’t know why,

They say that she may soon die,

Who’ll be at her bedside?

Kara and Heather apart,

A LOVE story gone so wrong.

A true love it was,

Regardless of their state’s law,

Who can define LOVE?

And hateful brother-in-laws,

Somehow feel that they have won.

Brother’s broken heart,

Cause’ his sister passed alone,

She was far from home,

And yet Heather died alone.

Her LOVEr was sent back home.

Reflective Thoughts

reflective thoughts
~by Ken Diez de Leon
I’ve never been to Ferguson Missouri and the truth is I’ll probably never go, but I do know what it’s like to be followed around a record store at nine years old.
No I’ve never been shot at by a police officer on patrol, but I do know what it’s like to have to bite my lip because a Prince William’s finest has his hand on his right hip hurrying us out of the Golden Arches after the Friday Night Lights.
No I’ve never lived in Selma, Alabama and no I don’t plan to go, but I do know what it’s like to be stopped and frisked at age 16 on a summer night waiting for a ride on Delaney Road.
I’ve also seen the war on drugs up close, not from too far away,
When the one behind the wheel with skin like the clouds,
Never had to explain anything to the cops except maybe why his bass was up so loud,
But the grass in the dash went unnoticed I suppose,
His future never endangered, his second senior semester never threatened to be put on hold nor the wait for his record to be expunged and thankfully never exposed…
But that’s “what you get” is what they’ll say,
Again and again until blue in the face.
(But that blue unlike the black, will shortly fade away)