cabman #4

“hello?”

“st. clair?”

“uh-huh.”

“that you?”

“who is this?”

“it’s the Doktor. listen. i need…”

“a lobotomy?”

“no.”

“a cock in your mouth?”

“no. i need…”

“you don’t want one?”

“no man, listen…”

“no cock in your mouth? come on. i’m not falling for this. without a cock in your mouth, there is no way this is the Doktor.”

“WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR ONE SINGLE, SOLITARY SECOND?”

i hung up on him. i don’t deserve to be talked to like that. and neither do you people. stand up for yourself. have some self-respect. choke a motherfucker.

the Doktor rang my phone again.

“yello.”

“are you going to be serious for one…”

“who is this?”

“what are you doing?”

“nothin’ man. i’m down at the Hilton, waiting on Preemo.”

“who?”

“Preemo.”

“awww for Christsakes…i thought that’s what you said. what are you waiting on him for?”

“i can’t really go into that right now.”

“why not?”

“it’s business.”

“business? with him?”

“not with him…for him…i don’t know. i’m driving for him.”

“you’re driving for him?”

“pretty much.”

“wonderful.”

“i don’t wanna get into it right now.”

“good. i don’t want you to. look, the reason i’m calling…”

“what is the reason you’re calling?”

“you’re an ape, you know that?”

“uh huh.”

“you’re an animal. there’s no talking to you. i call to ask one…”

“what’s up?”

“you still have that limo?”

“yeah.”

“think you can pick me and [deleted] up?”

“for what?”

“hey....that’s my business.”

“yeah sure.”

“great.”

“can i call her the Nurse?”

“why the fuck would you do that?”

“well, since you’re the Doktor, i just thought that…”

“try not to crash into anything on the way over. see ya around 8?”

“better make it 8:30. give me some time to wash up and take a bath because i’m kinda dirty.”

uncle sid drops by

...and i don't think he's leaving anytime soon...

on the record #10

state radio - us against the crown

you know, someone told me that a record can be about more than just movin' asses. and i could tell you that this record is unknown and unappreciated, that it's like sublime with a conscience, bob marley, and rage all rolled into one baseball spliff. i could say that it speaks politics in a very human and beautiful way. i could even tell you how much better it would be if they dropped "rushian" and put "the legacy of margaret brown" in its place.

but instead, i think i'll tell you about my time in the youth home.

you see, one afternoon, we noticed that there was more to the place than the grease-gray walls whose cracks i'd trace with splayed fingers in moonless midnight. two of us had found the secret the staff had inadvertently revealed. the work they'd left unfinished - the recessed lights in the ceiling - told us that there was something above. i was overjoyed and paralyzed with fear when my friend pushed through the hole and went up into the attic somewhere beyond that white light, in the rafters. i could only imagine what else would be up there and what we could find. but man, i had to leave him there alone and i don't really need to close my eyes to remember the look on his face when i told him that we'd get caught.

so i had to leave him there even though he'd never see me without disdain again. it was near suppertime anyway, and i could hear the others in the courtyard. wood and corrugated tin rafters lined three sides around the perimeter. underneath, in the shade, were splintered wood benches with gray peeling paint. some of us were there sitting or standing noisily in tattered white dirty dress shirts and khakis, frayed bottoms and no shoes. it was dusty there and grass grew in splotches around the courtyard, burned by the sun or shaded in the shadows of scattered cinder blocks. at the front of the courtyard - apart, on the left - she sat, sweet and sad with her eyes cast down and a red scarf about her head.

she was older and out of her teens. sat at the picnic table alone to cut vegetables for all our dinner all day long. she brought that knife down with a rhythmic precision, concentrating bitterly with each press. i could feel the bone crunch when that blade bit greedily into her fingers. i still get sick to remember the red mix with the orange and hear the yelps of the crowd, but most of all i remember her eyes and that no one went to help her.

least of all not the headmaster. he, too, came from the front of the courtyard, but from the right this time. he was carrying the gallows. a ritual at best, a symbol to remind us. but the bastards put it up all the time nonetheless. didn't seem to matter when - what i mean is, there was no schedule for the gallows. it wasn't something like halloween or christmas or the 4th of july. not even necessarily a monthly thing. they seemed to just haul it out whenever they felt like it was needed. no one was getting hanged - at least not since we'd been there - but there was talk. you know how people can be. the headmaster was shouldering most of the burden, but he did allow the front to rest on this kid. a little kid, much smaller than the rest of us. almost still a child. the boy - shaved head, unbuttoned shirt - walked with the wood on his shoulders and two frail arms wrapped at the wrists around the wood. his mouth was open.

when they got it to the spot, the headmaster began to raise it to its frightful position but his grip slipped and the full weight of all the wood fell on that little kid who never saw it coming. he went down like a sack full of ashes and didn't move.

and nobody else did either.

it'd be nice to think that there are songs to sing right then and there. songs to get you to rise. to get shit straight again. to break the walls down even. and you know what'd be even nicer? those songs would be the same you could sing on the outside in the sun, in the field, in love.

most definitely

"then how do people get better? (Hmmmm...) Well, from my understanding, people get better when they start to understand that they are valuable And they not valuable because they got a whole lot of money or 'cause somebody think they sexy but they valuable 'cause they been created by God and God makes you valuable And whether or not you recognize that value is one thing You got a lot of societies and governments tryin' to be God, wishin' that they were God They wanna create satellites and cameras everywhere and make you think they got the all-seein eye Eh...I guess The Last Poets wasn't too far off when they said that certain people got a God Complex I believe it's true I don't get phased out by none of that, none of that helicopters, the TV screens, the newscasters, the...satellite dishes...they just, wishin' They can't never really do that When they tell me to fear they law When they tell me to try to have some fear in my heart behind the things that they do This is what I think in my mind And this is what I say to them And this is what I'm sayin' to you: All over the world hearts pound with the rhythm Fear not of men because men must die Mind over matter and soul before flesh Angels for the pain keep a record in time which is passin' and runnin' like a caravan freighter The world is overrun with the wealthy and the wicked But God is sufficient in disposin' of affairs Gunmen and stockholders try to merit my fear But God is sufficient over plans they prepared Mos Def in the flesh, where you at, right here on this place called Earth, holdin' down my square"