Heres a story about a special girl. a lady cool like ice. nothing nice, her hair spiraled and swirled. A universal rep she held, cannot be sold,cannot be held. Can be imagined to fulfill, most mens fantasies. Still....she made moves synched with family and self. She looked within to find her wealth. Brought up well and street wise, too. In toned thighs she brandished secrets of Tsu dynasty of past mind. All material things she first digged, then undermined. Seeing from vision beneath her eyes or behind. Pretty soon they would all stand in line. she liked to hold out on the edge, like space heater on at night, window open. On the ledge. kept her hot and cool in a dialectic conversation. The dialogue was filled with Socratic mediation. Hold up! she gauged the temperature: thirty degrees fahrenheit. Time for Transcendental Meditation. Visualize in her eyes some california winter. 2012 came into her.
Twice the twelve to carbon date her back to 2009, its hard to understand, but it will b just fine, see, like handling the pan to make ends meet. learning to survive. she was young and strong, she had a heart, too, kept it in her back pocket. close to the seam and sometimes she wise to lock it. everyone just tryin to date her. like a song to dedicate her. when she asked for distance you know some would berate her. The heels worked well to stop some, she found. did not like the look of blood or sound of pain. yet it was her burden, a constant refrain. because she was wanted like diamonds behind bulletproof, hard like glass she made herself shatterproof. flying elbows all the time. if she did not light up some drama, well, unusual but that was fine. she could smile her way out with a bouncer for an escort. she knew her own limits, when tested, take them to court.
Nights she would alight at the club, rockin cosmos with pummelled lime. in the mandala of protection, streaming internet waves of crime. Her syndicate boyfriends had a whole different angle. running street proposition without the gritty tangle. She thought it was neat, but slightly inattentive. and she loved the gritty streets, had not the heart to tell them. she watched how it played it, her life in smoky leather corners. of italian private dining rooms with precision tablecloth corners. Despite the display, it ended the same-- like the sunset, the end of every day. a different style or rhythm perhaps, but the train rolling in the same grooves, over same tracks. Right out the windows, or through the cracks, down the sills did they fall! right after they caught the fever of her, fell in chills. Sad as it was, it gave her thrill. All that superficial, official, attempts to rise above like some whipped cream over the masses. So she skipped too many classes. She could not feel like they did. Thank God!
Her people, like eskimos on ice floes. or some other such scene. the hardness of life. hard knocks and street fights. west side chicago. thats where she lived...for a while, you know, but in a holographic way. in her soul. her spirit tugged and roamed, carried her image all across the usa. the image reflected her reality tested. drug infested neighborhood in which she was raised. Just west of the flat iron building at one point, the wicker park bling bling circa 1998, when the projects made the under-rate seedy scene they knew as Lake street. barely tied and locked down by the urban centrality. the loop was a lasso to settle street mentality. this was way back, maybe retro, like Kanye West without GPS rollin round in the metro, probably pimpin ho or pickin toe back then you know, or maybe just dreaming of his overdue sensation. she loved Kanyes music. despite a rough delivery, he struck right through shit. she predated his escalade up the chart, giving anyone who listens just a sample of his heart. Tossin round his tracks, cooked up on amateur tape decks. Common Sense (as they knew him) probably threw them out the window of his Lex about that time, when she was droppin the lime in her cosmo, 24 years old, settled in her own groove. alone but not cold. her boyfriend dropping dime to keep her entertained. even drove the fast lane. illegally. she got him doing things he never did. got his boil raised all the way up- to level eyelid. high like her heels. spinning like his wheels. you know how it feels? like fallin in love - again the corresponding dialectic -- falling and rising. the love just had them lifted. above the dim reality of life in west side chicago,nothing nice. falling rocks and burning cars, latin kings displaying scars. self-inflicted addictions, but
She shielded you from the truth of it. this was her gift. if you went with it, her natural, down the river side by side. togetherness, compassion, the sound of old record between plays. her beauty held forth so you could travel lightly north with her. take a timeout. tongue kiss. caress and redress. dress down. turn your frown upside down. back up to the thigh, honey, but not so high. we barely even know eachother, look in my eyes, just try. she meditated softly through gentle tones of love making. for those who showed integrity and lack of artifice or faking. the front it was okay, expected anyway. she gave a lot and took a little. down blankets wrapped in warmth of words. smiles light the aisles of Music Box Theatre. or whatsoever you want to make of it. anything to slow the time. this is what they say in presence of divine.
So as keeps getting repeated, life was hard in hard Chicago. la la la and hip hooray. hard like south side is today. or eggs turned over and pressed down upon. every other block feels not so okay. sunny side broken glass lights the way. see this was something of which she knew. grew up in the fifties - south side. thats where she grew. a flower from concrete. where she grew tired, she rested her feet. aspirations kept on her breath, down low like ego , to keep at bay jealousies and threats of death. paranoia kept her love locked down. love for self. love for health. love for future wealth. present love for knowledge of future self.
She managed to forgive her father through it all, dumb as rocks, six feet tall. mom kicked him out and changed the locks. he caught the night train, and rarely saw the break of day. but broke half his bones when he walked in front of that taxi from Bombay. a sad sad thing, no bones about it. mom took the kids to near south side. where the mexicans made their stand. twenty years later they would rule this land. chinese restaurants kept latin kitchens. burrito places on every corner. paleterias everywhere, carnicerias too. had to know some spanish to get by in chitown 92. So boo grew up and made the most of it, what she had of bread, well she toasted it, hitting marshall fields to get the highest fashions. the water tower close by to put out the burn and crashing of her early young love relationships, when she was just a shorty.
half the men had fallen out over her catching them with forties. St Ides could play on video, but did not translate over. This girl would stare right back at him, keep him looking over shoulder. Because she did not fuck around. She dropped an ex-priest (whose exness she may have inspired) when she related him to R Kelly fires. he had went along with the thing to do in south side ministries at the time. reports of underage meddling brought judgment to a climax. 'to save young virgin girls' was how they tried to grind ax. Tool and die was cast in different light, affirming Rkellys right. Maybe it was the parties he threw with generous weight of R&B proportion, like he took Motown for extortion. Maybe it was his good looks. Lets face it, he was king of bump and grind, and sold out shows. He kept the trunks rocking, and the party knocking. and chicagos hard knock streets got a soft spot for him. His music flooded every players den; sexual healing all over again. The priests they tried to run fear up. burned the music like bookburners of yore. judged him to the core.
This was where her core resided. with the people, in the music. mostly with authority she and her people collided. she saw it all and knew. she saw it coming too. this priest had seemed her future, to be with him seemed best. But then she knew, beginning to end, and then she knew the rest: Her priest was guilty by association. So she did what she naturally had to do. gracefully detached and flowed back to center. like lake michigan after a storm. she calmed and smoothed her dress around the edges. she cried and swore and left her emotions in the gutter. Then shot him down, his proposition. Wait! Hold up! he said, Listen! Im doing this for underage girls! Like yourself, you remember, when you wore curls? Poor thing, still caught up on justifying some detail he kept denying. Trying and trying.
She was already a block away. Rememberin what her mama say;' if they cant relate to where youve been, then they aint fit to be kin. ' Pour out some liquor and move on, she decided, let it die dont hold it or hide it. no more biblical explanations of right and wrong. the streets tell a more exact truth. she carved him out and moved on. her life got bigger. his got biggie smalls. he died without ever taking a wife. the ex could be extracted from the priest condition, neatly judged and labeled in holy partition. she prayed for him still, but not every night. she had R&B house parties calling....she reminisced about her falling....(for someone back then).
Time went on, yet timeless she seemed. her image cut sharp against the shadows, glistening yet malleable soft, like some rare silver butter knife. like her moms silver had been stolen out from under them. Her selfsame manner spread wide round chicago and emanated out the city limits. she was embraced. looped in and out and laced. tight like new kicks. jumping rope, taking licks. fending for herself. loving the larger family, her community. feeling oh so feeling the unity against it all. spring winter summer and fall. this was how she worked, like sky, no limits could contain her. morality could not touch her. society could not blame her. she was toned, def and street wise, she looked hard but came off with priceless ease -- surprise! she continued to rise. this was the girl of 2012, in 2009 she was 2012. because she is was and will be made of future mind times, when streets sweep apart and clasp together again, like vines. life of urban element. whispering water in her veins. whispering country winds and city trains. ahead of her it all unfolded like opening lanes, tracks, veins, you name it, whatever to be opened like flowers at dawn that remains. opening to the firmament. for she who ruled all element, she was surely 'heaven sent'.
No comments:
Post a Comment