Entitled: No Seat at the Table

by M. James Cooper

Eat your bread children.

And we do but sibling complains that she don't like the ends of freshly baked bread.

The slide-clank of the plate moving towards me, hitting my teacup; the ends now belongs to me- and a mothers silence so loud.

I wasn't hurt or mad, not really, I was mostly happy that I got to eat that day.

I would grow accustomed to people's lack of regard, their non-relevant treatment of me.

But it did not break my spirit; rather it was made strong.

In the song she says it all falls down, I say it doesn't have to.

I eat my bread, ends and all, not worrying about the so called victories that others feel bolstered by.

New excerpt: This story is about hope and the power of dreams. It is also the story of a family who feels that they have no desire to hope or dream as a result of some harsh realities. It is, in my opinion, a simple and brief tale, with a lot to say.

Somewhere Behind God's Back
by M.James Cooper

Crafted, purely out of moods. She had diamonds in her heart and thorns beneath her feet. Velvet skin, a deep plum-like color and teeth as fresh as goats milk. She was new. She was fine. She opened her eyes to the morning and fell in love with everything under its blanket. Forgetting to cover her mouth to yawn, when she did, specs of gold fluttered out and she thought nothing of it. A common occurrence, she wiped some spit and the remaining particles from her lips. Sitting up she watched the large birds, the spread span of their wings waking the dried leaves, feathers fell with every flap and the mouths, resembling flowers, opened to give sound for they too rejoiced in the gloriousness of dawn. Up from her resting place, she stood, leaving behind some of the velvet. Leaving it so she could go and greet the day.
Cursed. She decided, good things only happened when she dreamed of a home she'd never been to, of some sort of living death she might never go to. The girl was willing. The only effort put forth, the need to rest, the want to close her eyes and escape what was hard living. Wake up, said the already burning sun; creeping up from its hiding place to pull her out of her dreams. Diamonds, replaced by cold little pieces of ice, shocking her to the reality, frozen edges poking at her blooming chest, frightened and gave way to the blessing of a Good morning.               Already melting under the warm of the climbing sun, the cold water slid across her consciousness, I don't need it, dreams required heat nor water. Then the velvet was ripped from her: Woman standing over her, hands pulling what use to be the smooth cotton coverlet. Get up! Tidy dis room and wash yuh'self. Cold water, a harsh block of Lifebuoy soap, salt against teeth, scrubbing the white fresh, minus goats milk; hot sugar-less tea, two day old bake with butter, pulling comb, threatening to rip the scalp from her young tender head, the deep plum-like color, now covered in coconut oil would soon be dry and hard by days end, its richness replaced with gray. Off again, and out into a world she'd rather not be in. No sky-bound bird, just clucking fowl low to the ground, silly flightless thing, and a long dirt road leading somewhere, but she was behind God's back and away from paradise...

This excerpt from another short fiction piece is simply about a sisters' love for her brother. It can also be a tale about the need to move on and away from old norms that sometimes tie our hands, disallowing change and healing. Sometimes life is not about what we want, but what is forced upon us. The trick is figuring out what feeds our spirit and deciding when it is ok to do more than just simply survive.

Against the Dark of Yesterday's
by M.James Cooper
...Lincoln, the man she called half brother in her head, he was a down-floating feather, rays of light stretching, finger-like, eventually reaching her skin through the bedroom window in the morning, or a glimmer in her morning coffee. Not sadness just remembering. The brother that had come about as a result of her mothers affair with a man with no name and no face. Remembering a time when her parents were estranged and all within the house walked in fear, breathed in fear and cried silent tears. Who would leave and when? For some reason he stayed and she loved with rediscovered intensity. Waiting, mother was, for the so-called other shoe to drop, and it never did. Lincoln was accepted into the family, the son her husband thought he would never have. Love is mysterious pain, holding back with restrained effort; it is resentment and surrender, complacent and unsatisfied. A common thing that seems so strange and hope-filled, especially when it enters in the form of a prepubescent boy. Gangly arms and knotted hair populated with fibers and dirt. No combing, no washing maybe. An adulterous mother returning home with a more than unexpected thing. Carlene was hoping for a bag of jub-jub candy or a pack of animal biscuits upon her mothers return, instead, she got him. He was not like Paula the older sister; selfish, never sharing her toys or her snacks. He was new and adaptable and full of giggles. His boney chest filling out in time, his crooked and damaged teeth rearranged and healed, his wheezing at night during sleep passed and then forgotten. Life, and the complexities of it, overstated, like rattling noise for the ignorant ears of children, but living isn't...

This is a short story/fictional commentary about the reimagining of some known characters found on the street, neighbohood and in songs of Trinidad and Tobag.

One Hand Cyah Clap
By M. James Cooper

"Ay nut,nuts, nuts...," Is what he say, signaling your ears before your head turns, before your eyes want your belly to want and your mouth to taste what your nose has already savored. Just fifty cents in my uniform pocket, not enough to by a bag today. I watch him walk by me. Sometimes I see him out the window of the bus, too far to call, no use waving we will be moving soon. Sometimes he is close enough for me to touch his hand that holds two bags of salted or unsalted nuts on display, before the traffic starts moving again. He is made of cotton, brown paper bags and persistence, the Nuts-man, this Rastafarian. Days roll into years, he is a permanent fixture, a landmark of sorts, dependable, rain or shine. On the streets of Port-of-Spain or along the Easter Main Road. It is Friday, Town is busy, the people celebrate the weekend and anticipate Sunday lunch: callaloo, red beans, macaroni pie and stewed chicken. I am just happy to have caught the Nuts-man near the roundabout as I am to board the bus home from work. Standing in front of a speaker-blast of loud dub music, cassette tapes, newspapers and breads for sale, I tap him on the shoulder, hand him a dollar and he hands me a brown paper bag full of warm peanuts. He mouths a 'T'anks' and a 'Jah bless,' perhaps, but I do not hear the words. I nod and make my way, pulling the passage from my pocket to pay the conductor, more loud music, this bus is padded, studded, customized with speakers and sound that make the youth exited, but all I need is in the palm of my hand, leaving shattered pieces of red flaky skin on my fingertips. 'Ay, nuts, nuts, nuts!' He is the Nuts-man.

RANT.

I am without. 

Without purpose and am I significant in your world. 

You try to do to me what they have done to you. 

Genocide, holocosts, slavery, servitude, boxed up, imprisoned, control, hatred, mercilessness, ignorance.

I am isolated, the air is always moist, and I observe you now from a close by and far away place.

Am I cut off from the world or have I simply adjusted to this hellish evolution?

Come See What Heaven is Made Of

Come See What Heaven is Made Of
I am the thing made of light, born of darkness and purpose. I come and I go.
I enter the world through the process of birth and exit when they die. Not always, sometimes, I like to hang around. I stay to play like fire, I lay above a mountain peak or rest in the eyes of other living creatures. Like the wave I am thrown carelessly, but like energy I am never really gone. I am, spirit.

I am what they wonder about, what they question the existence of, what they don't want to believe in.
But I am without attachment to the thing they cling to.
I am forever and always will be.

I am truth untold and something to behold. I am he, she, it and forever always. I am held captive and born free; I am something you cannot see.
Don't blame the waters, don't blame the seas, the uncommon is common to me.
Forever and always, between and beneath, I come where you go and where you lead.
Purely impure and ordinarily splendid.
I will now take questions, but only if you are willing to hear the answers.

This narratives cerntral point of interests/examination stems from the act of Leaving or having somthing or someone taken away. Other themes are that of Awarness, the Past and many other questions about how we pay, or not pay attention to the things that can make our living easier. The story begins just before the emancipation of slaves in Trinidad & Tobago and jumps to the late '80's to tell the story of a man and a woman who leave or experience leaving, don't heed the past and are not always aware of themselves and the world around them.

In Vain
by M. James Cooper

Promise
The blessing was in their leaving. And with open mouths and exiting sound or quiet glee they gave praise. Praise for the change, for the guaranteed rising of the sun, and the loosening of the thing around their necks, the strain upon backs and for the people that no longer gave them suffering. But as they left living for another place, the remaining ones began to wonder how it would be, how things would change? Never mind, the just-familiar holding thing was no longer squeezing the necks or tying the hands or filling mouths making them unable to speak. It was gone. Think on it later was the resolve. For now just enjoy the freedom to be, the freedom to choose, the freedom to run, fast or slow. Lay down, no work, nothing to do. We are free! Blessed! But the grass grew and the other living things looked to them for guidance and answers and by the time they got up from that period of rest and negligence the houses were leaning and in need of care, the bush had taken over, the children wayward and loose and wanting, them. Had they forgotten what they learned, what the experience of bondage, in all its horrifying splendor was meat to teach them, show them, prepare them for? The Sick of it. The Hurt of it. The Unyielding hand of it had released its fingers, splayed palm now shooing them away. How could they have forgotten the past so quickly? It was their freedom, their day now. What should be done about it?
Service without pay or pride or rights, became service with pay, some pride and the privilege of leaving. There would be another to take care of what needed caring for but men and women had choice now, though the holding thing was dragging on the ground behind them, it existed somewhere between past and future, lightly tethered to the present day, kicking up dirt, turning small rocks over and onto another uneven side, a past needing to be remembered. Of epidemic proportions: the 'why should I care when no-one cares for me or sees value' leaving. Leaving without turning back, leaving and forgetting. Or trying to. Leaving by way of premature death, starving, beating, driving a sharp thing in, or jumping to it. Jumping so that they didn't have to remember, anything. Leaving. The eyes loose their flicker, tongues loose their pleasure, skin looses its luster and the sun receives no praise anymore. What happened to the generations that followed the dead and the children who became men? What happened?
One day I asked Sudden what happened and she just shrugged her shoulders. How could you forget Me? She, like most of them had no answers, they simply didn't know. Survival made them keep waking, keep pushing from knees to rise and stand, tie heads with cloth and place a hat upon it to keep the sweat and the heat at arms length. When the cane burned other scraps covered the nose and mouths, so that the sweet thick smoke that plagued the air allowed the chance to keep breathing. But all Sudden remembered was the sight of her mother exiting what just this morning used to be tall swaying stalks. The sweet things now lay sorrowfully against each other, to the right or to the left, depending on which way you stood, piled together less high now and on the hot ground where she sat and waited, or played, or drifted off to sleep after eating what was given to her hours before. She didn't know what happened but her mother would appear, always, and never too gone from her, wet with sweat and tired, but always smiling. The gentle woman who labored and had little to say smiled and stood there looking at the girl. Though her thin scrappy pieced together shoes let in so much heat she might as well be barefoot. Mother smiled at that new part of her, she was smiling at innocence. And Sudden would smile too. Together while Mother gulped water and daughter sucked cane juice from a once-standing stalk, they watched fire, then the burn, then the smoke; curling, twisting wanting recognition like the white clouds they wanted to be. I guess because they didn't want to be black smoke, be feared as they were born out of heat and fire. No one covered their nose and mouth against white clouds. The canefield workers, though they got up aching and twisted from the day before, they stood erect, looked to the sky, saw the clouds and breathed deep. Eyes closed or opened. Expectant, hoping. Clouds were fresh and clean. Smoke was dark and destructive; it alluded to the death of a thing. As with themselves the men and the women did not see the promise the smoke offered, the renewing cleansing release of it, didn't see what it created, what is promised. The sweet dark brown sugar that came as a result of the burning. The newness, the assurance of something else that had just as much purpose as the white clouds. Perhaps they could not see it because they could not see the promise in themselves, the worth and sweet and reason of their blackness or their children's blackness. Taught not to love their faces, hands, backs; shamed when thought of what was between the legs and how it was used and abused, the sinful feeling of joy it brings. As Mother and Sudden rested and shared the sweet, quenched the thirst and wiped the sweat from faces that belonged to them, faces few would love, little Sudden asked her mother, "Do I have a Daddy?" Mother said, "Yes, you had a Daddy." Daughter say, "Where, where he is?" Woman say, "Gone. Run off. Dead, maybe." She may not have known what happened but she knew her Mammy was here sitting with her and her Daddy was gone. She couldn't have known what happened. Couldn't remember a past not fully experienced. She didn't know where this new smiling man came from or why he was smiling at Mammy and barely looking at her face, maybe he didn't like it. She did know that Love was something Mother gave to the smiling man. They smiled so much at each-other it gave way to Mother swelling and sickness in between cutting cane, no rest, then screaming, and another black face fell from her. But would he be loved? And could he tell her what happened?

For Anyabwile
by M.James Cooper

How come everybody can't Love the way that you Love?
Selfless,
Warm,
Inviting Love.
I don't think you know what people see reflected back when they are looking at you.
Despite that ignorance you are without a doubt aware of so much more than just your brilliance.
You are here,
You are committed,
You are selfless,
You are blessed,
You are, Love.

This story is itself an introduction, so, it needs none.

Sweet Like Country Pepper, Hot Like Morning Dew
by M.James Cooper

If I were to tell you about this place I call home in one word, I'd say, Goodness. Home is where people move about as if they own it, not realizing it is on loan from God and the spirits  that came before them. See them walking, knock kneed, pigeon-toed, or straight like arrow, and, pushing with happy aggression, and, shoving, inviting play. Finding each other on corners or under sheds, and laughing, hot sweaty faces, heads tilted back, open mouths catching the sunlight, talking too loud, dancing a dance, taking a wine, knees bent, asses up, hands in the air. As they proceeded to live they shook the land and made the salted waters jump and wave and crash against the rich soils. But never mind the waters, no one ever falls over or capsizes into it unless they themselves jump in it. Limeing, beers and soft-drinks in hand, rum mixed with coconut water, loosening tongues, passions rising, rising to the top of something from somewhere that before lay dormant, under control; hot burnt sugar hands persuading you to take a dip, or a woman with seasoned hips, who might give yuh a taste. Like I said, never mind that, just enjoy yuh'self.
And so this is some of what it is, home, the sounds of good living cause good vibrations to be just that, good. From the feet of giants that send speaker-like thundering sensations, sometimes with sound, sometimes just felt underfoot, it travels from the center, boom after boom it wakes the dust up, then makes the trees happy, then the birds jump from their resting places to tell each other about it; eventually it reaches the things beneath and allover, spreading to the ocean, it is then the currents frighten the water causing it to jump and crash exposing frothy teeth that make the would-be-hot boys and girls scream then turn and run, naked exposed bottoms shaking, no shame, no guilt, no sins, yet, and no matter, they run, the children, they run, into the hot burnt sugar hands of their male elders or wrap their own skinny ones around the soft jiggling hips of their mothers....

This story, like most of what I write, is about awarness and humility and humanness. It took me by suprise, but I accept the outcome.

S.H.E
(Some Hell on Earth)
by M.James Cooper

...The ballast would no longer hold: The thing that carried a past so heavy, she dare not speak its name. Was she a girl, or a woman already? A happening. A somebody came and left a mark behind. Like all transgressions, it get covered up with new things and passing days. Still smell like rot to me. Burning like fire but not cleansing the evil that is there. Whatever do this thing to her leave back something permanent, like a parasite in your brain, like whip lashed skin, scared and marked for good. Memory. Heartbreak. Her past must be a scorching heat, tackling sulfured earth, bringing fire. They watched it spread and consume but did nothing. Everybody saw it burn and turned their backs on the situation, the wind picked up this new self and the smell that only she could smell long after he stopped touching her, and pelted the proof here for us to witness. Smell it? Smell like sin and decay to me...

A small piece of the pie.

From thy Getting...
When I write, I believe there is something all about that guides me.
I don't fully understand it;
Can barely grasp the fullness of it.
A sentence a word, an obligatory thought and beginning that I must craft from, a name and a face.
Some call it talent, ability, even skill.
It is the thing that floats above the waters and stands next to me, God essence.

This is a short narritive where truths and lies are as clear as murky waters. A man has experienced a loss he cannot get over, and jealousy clouds his perception and that of several townspeople we meet along the way, but you be the judge...

Let a Drunk Man Tell It
 by M.James Cooper

Harmon Lovejoy is a hard man, too rigid to be moved and too stubborn for convincing. I doh know why he so aggressive towards me. Hasty man with a short temper, an unbelievable stronghold on he wife and chil'ren like yuh can't believe. How he get a sweet woman like Bernadine tuh marry him, I will never know?  How'come surly man like Harmon get everyt'ing God give and dey don't know what to do wid it? And how'come woman like Bernadine Shaw give up she surname for good and never ask for it back? What meanin' dat have in it? I get sorrow from dat, but somebody else call it love. It call adherence too, since dem is catholic and don't believe it parting. Mrs. Bernadine Lovejoy might as well be one ah he own chil'ren seein' as how she does call him Daddy as well as husband. Man, I tell yuh, if he call she name, she runnin', if he tell she "Come, sit down," she pull up seat right next tuh him no matter what need doin'. She wasn't d'type of woman to crochet or read. On occasion she might sew a dress fuh she'self and comb she hair, no pressing comb, Harmon don't like it. One time, way back in '63, before d'last baby born, Harmon ask Bernadine to come cut he toenail. Well, she did leave boilin' pot on d'stove, and ice from Iceman don't put away yet, so heat from stove cause ice tuh melt. A begrudging 'Thank you' barely make it out he mout' before he could ask for some ice cold lime juice! "...and Bernadine, don't use dat dirty brown sugar, use d'white sugar. Ah buy dat not so you could keep it stored up..." Last time she try to strain out all d'dregs dat settle at d'bottom a'd'mug. Three times she run it through using cheesecloth to strain it, but Harmon still find fault, say he could see 'all kinda shit' in he glass. Debris. "There is debris in my glass Bernadine! This juice have shit in it!" So, she leave quiet like mouse and went next door by Ms. Rose to ask for some ice. House buildin' back then, young Ronald Browne helpin' haul away rubbish, fussin'' and fixin' and walls goin' up and d'electrician say not'ing will be on for at least two hours. Is Rose she'self tell meh 'bout it when it happen! Rose and she son Gregory been livin' next to d'Lovejoy's since dey married and did just move into dat oneroom house years ago. There is nobody more reliable than Rose Browne when it come to talk. "Let eyes see and tongues tell," is what she would say, "Your business is your business until is my business." Then she would laugh, raise up she hand, wave, turn around and walk off. In past days he done 'buse she for way less than juice mix wid brown sugar, so hot juice would only make it worse; d'only problem now was, wey she go'get more money from, since that ice was suposed to last until d'next time Iceman come 'round, and money doh stretch like rubber-band no time before or after today. Harmon Lovejoy is a hard man who count he money down tuh d'penny. Fat Maggie, Marcus lil sista tell meh how he is cheapskate and wouldn't spend no money on she when he did leave Bernadine fuh she durin' d'time Bertrand did have d'accident.

This story is a work in three parts. Each part overlaps ever so slightly, but can stand alone if need be. Love and folklore collide to tell about lovers who gamble and lose, or win, depending on perspective.

Never to Know, Never to Tell
by Mark James

Every letter informed a word, every word informed a thought, and every stick have he crook. Let me just get this out of the way now, my issue is colored black and I don't agree with her on all things, but she is the mother and he is the father, purveyor, determiner, my matters of contention. Some say it done, but I say, it just start. Although this place produces asphalt and babies daily, it is not a world of eavesdropping butterflies, grey gliding aunts with glittering decorative combs in their hair or muttering trees. With all due respect, this is a world where lonely widows make pact with the devil, men fall prey, and Africans fly. This is a love story. No matter how sad or farfetched it may seem, or how the people seem to sing though they are simply talking to you, lizards and hibiscus flowers are everywhere and the hummingbird always gets its nectar.

She had ribbons in her hair...
He left. And so she had nothing to do, no place to be, and no one to parade for. Never once had she imagined life without him. Unspoken gratitude, unanswered queries, unfinished quarrels equaled a love untold; a love that existed atop a hill, all the other loves looking up, hoping for, to be more like, them. But, the other loves got buried in the sand and shrouded in shade, no light or water reached them as they were outperformed by Unis and Algernon Grant. Silly that love could be so present one day and then gone the next. Unfair that change is in fact the beginning of one thing and the end of another. Without the current, there is no wave, no ocean, just salted water without form or mood. Dead, gone, tomorrow is d'man wake service. Lord fadda God almighty...
   
***

Like charcoal and chalk...

Many boys and a father, and a mother who brought a mother with her to share in the suffering. Yes, they came from there to here, in search of God knows what. A white Mister with a French name, funny talk and white skin; a Madame? with a French name, tacked onto an African name, black skin and white manners, arrived here many years ago (head high, nostrils flared, searching and silently critiquing this new place as if to say, "We could do much better, but, this will do"). Haughty, pretentious people who act like they better than you but don't have a pot to piss in. Yes, they were broke, thank God for what possessions and connections they were able to hold on to, as it gave a certain impression. The island people looked on, taking in and recording the arrival for a later retelling. This odd couple had others in tow, eight young men, all shorter but just as fat and wide as the leader, and two older dirty looking ones who carried bags and trunks and passed out water to the leader and his black woman. An older black woman balanced herself on the arm of one of the fat young boys and grimaced for no apparent reason; beside the grandmother-like figure there was a little girl and a little boy, they both had light brown skin and flyaway hair that looked like cornsilk. The girl clung to the old lady and the boy sucked his fingers. For the time this was unbelievable to witness. It was wrong, out of the norm, a betrayal even, too much to handle. Restoration was in order, this black "queen" had to know she wasn't in France anymore...

***
...and the flying African...
...No yellow brick road, but wooden sign did say Golden Lane, it lean to d'side, it propped up by a red dew-soaked Chaconia bush since d'ground did loose from all dat rain d'night before. Quiet neat wooden shacks, painted white, stood up ahead of her as she reached the top of a small hill. Here she wasn't alone. Here had people wearing long dresses with cushioned heads where pails and pots balanced; here had people casting fishing nets and fixing boats; here had chil'ren that point and then pull on cotton skirts to distract mothers from what was doing, one screamin' for some ungodly reason. It was Gang Gang Sara dey did see come up d'road, naked, and smellin' like somewhere in Nigeria. Woman drop she pot and cover boy eyes and push little girl inside, man drop net and let boat slip out he hand causin' damage to the other man that was helpin' him tuh carry it, even d'birds stop fly and d'waves stop reach out fuh sand, but Gang Gang Sara keep walkin' not even botherin' to cover-up this new nakedness....

Maven is an excerpt from a flash fiction piece that I plan to submit for publication, fingers crossed.

Maven!
by Mark James
Kicking, screaming, throwing blows, (cussing if she could), is how she come into dis place. But just-born baby doh talk. Even though Dr. say how Nurse tell he dat baby say it hungry and to bring it back to d'room for Mother to see 'bout. Doh look at me, I just telling yuh what ah hear. Fists balled up like she looking for the culprit who responsible for this chaos. She stay so for days, barely sleepin', cryin' every five seconds, as she should, eyes wide, searching for who, for what? I don't know. After the waters fell she tumbled out not too long after, covered in red-grey contents but she black like night sky with a head full of hair and an expression on she face as if she was a whole person already. Mama say she go'be trouble, but I say she exactly what trouble need. Ah could barely tun'corner wid'out meh asshole twitchin'.
Is just so she did get up and start to walk. No stage-like progression; one day she was creepin', d'next day she get up from d'ground and walk in a straight line, is like not'ing I never see before in my life, God strike meh down if ah lyin'. Dem swear dey hear she suck she teeth, even though she ain't have none in she mouth: put she in stroller, she jump out, give she plastic toy, she look at it as if to say, "What I s'posed to do wid dat?, cover she wid baby blanket, she kick it off, teething ring, she fling it 'way. Nothing satisfy this baby girl except she mother and good fruit from d'stall 'round d'corner: mashed paw-paw, mango, oranges, and pomerac. That was d'only time she did quiet. Belly full-up and so she drop-asleep good, eat up all d'fruit she gums could handle, yes. Mother take ten minutes to wash and clean house and fix Daddy lunch fuh him because she know is just a matter of time before Maven up lookin' fuh breast milk, and then is rebellion and teeth suckin', wid she no-teeth self...

A Letter in Fiction

A Letter in Fiction
By Mark James
Fell asleep locked in arms and awakened with only two. A morning, shaded gray, greets and hangs outside the bay window. The sun is on vacation, and so is he. A yawn, a stretch, pain from too much sleep on the left. One foot hangs off the bed, scrubbing its side. Birds argue outside and ideas begin to enter his thoughts. Alone. No. Characters half formed fall about him, heavy like wet leaves. There is a nervous excitement a dread that only he knows and only the pages can answer, who are these people? what do they want? a love story; he is trying to write a love story. No happy endings here. That much is known. The how is what matters, the doing must be done. 10:03 and he is still in bed looking out of the grey window.

Rising from a shelved mattress, the groaning wood becomes alarm to the grey tabby beneath. She follows behind her benefactor. Out from the blue and into the yellow, no sun just colored walls that watch quietly. A scoop, a pushed button and dark matter spills into a green mug. Hot. The aroma peels away the remaining haze left behind by sleep. Sugar, cream, and nothing in between. Slurp, gulp, swallow, a brief moment of happiness tinged with pleasure then he leans down to pet the grey, what do I do today? Unis and Algernon call from an unfinished manuscript: "Yuh forget about we, or what?" No, never, he answers. Reaching for his tools. Review time. Slurp, gulp, swallow.

Any progress is progress when writing. The day belongs to them. Time spent with her and him proves rewarding. They speak and move and make the papers billow with breath, fingers march across the keyboard like marching ants in heat; Thoughts on Paper will welcome the contribution. Feed my soul, put me to bed and wake me again in the morning.
Another grey day.
In the belly of the beast below, the washing tumbles, digesting, breaking down and churning. The cool air of the day plays with his toes, it enters through the windows and scrubs the blue. Matters of fact are colored black, I can't lie about that; today is the day of addressing the change of Unis Grant (yesterday she made pact with the devil) yes, this is still a love story, unorthodox, but love is many things...

Names. I have no names for the next two characters. As of now they are malformed. For me names are key ingredients to giving them form and face. Place and time is no matter this time around, the snapshots I have in my mind only allows me to see them from behind. The male sits facing the water (singing sirens and faces in fire hang about him), no name. The female is falling from a high place (her yellow dress only tells me half of what she knows). The cool air still plays with my toes. Above the beneath, the floorboards groan. It's time to write.

Windows, flowers and the sounds of the outside, breath in and out as I move too and fro. Words fall from thin air, this is easy, this is peace perfect. He has good news and I share in it. These are the little things that make life worth living. Money is short and I still wait for the payoff but I am here, and he has good news.

On my way, on my way somewhere and I am not sure how to get there. The grey follows me into today and it's rain washes me, covers me, then holds. I will not worry about tomorrow, the grey will do just fine, I position myself and await inspiration.


And again, and again the sky tore and the rains came, but the living things do not complain, they lap the waster and bathe in it and sink deeper. Tap, tap, drip splatter drain. Those who cannot play in it sleep. Nothing is better than this deep deep craving for summer but anticipation makes for appreciation of the thing to come. No title, and still no names for the man with his back to me or the woman in a yellow dress; I continue to wonder about them and imagine the twisted fate their loves will bring, the grey is gone, the black of night surrounds me like a cave, but I call out in the hopes that the unnamed will speak the rest, hear me and turn to face the page.

Wordlessly

Only now
Trapped in our fear
And wanting to love effectively
We will exchange words that fall
From sharpened toungue.
Careful never to draw blood,
Never wanting to inflict pain
Or cause harm.
Charging, sometimes cautiously,
Approaching this thing called love
As if it were the edge of a cliff
Or an ex-somebody both know too well.
One day
We will be in a place of comfort.
One day the laughter we enjoy will
Take the place of the fear
And drown-out  the readied words that sound like
'I know but...'
'This is what I know for sure...'
An imagined leaving before it takes place
Can sieze the heart
And worry the mind.
Yes we are atop a cliff.
But how far down?
One of us see possibility,
The other can only imagine falling.
Over there, on future,
Hands hold and toungues are dull
And eyes only see a world
With us in it; our strides match and we are together
And apart from a past that teaches
But does not condemn or flare up
Like a rash, in reminding, how scared, how immature, 'How could I be so...'
In future, we offer a knowing look from across the table that communicates
Purposefully,
Like a thirty-second tv commercial
Dangling between us,
Convinced,
It is the sureness of a thing
Promising a return after these messages,
The opportunity to conclude,
A chance to laugh again.
In the meantime,
I motion to you that 'wipe the food from your face' motion...
No words, only love.

My Being of Hurt

Some people wear their despair.
Others, cloaked in fear.
Some people cry, kick and scream
For release;
Others drink it away and smoke it in, and
Release it back into the atmosphere for others to consume.
Some choke their arms and wait for that liquid boom.
Some laugh and sweep it away, recycling the pain.
Not without guilt, I dress and layer my hurt with store bought
Band-aids made of cotton, wool and cashmere.
I go to church seeking shelter from it.
Under pride, it hides sometimes; polluted with knowledge soaked vocabulary and cliched sayings like:
What will be, will be.
The masks can sometimes be too heavy.

The Bottom

Dirt and skin
Beneath my feet,
Way down there.
In the bottom,
Between my teeth,
Where I sleep.
The ancestor:
They trod footprints
Above the place
Beneath.
The weight is now ours to bear.

S. C.

I returned
To find him there.
Stared
But could not recognize a man I had known all my life.

I returned
Just in time.
He fought
Because I was near.
Tears,
 I cried,
As the sobs racked my body,
Felt my entire being go numb.
The attempt to be strong for him and others
Proved to be futile.
Denying my need to grieve,
Confused,
Drowning in my sorrow,
Losing touch with reality.
Relationships with the living suffered.
It was at that moment
That I understood the power of prayer.
It became my personal psychologist,
Giving me the strenth to go on...

One year and counting.
A lot has happened since then.
Looking for one more person to love;
A replacement, became my focus.
Learning to love myself all over again,
Continuing my journey,
Here
On this earth.
No longer are you part of my physical world,
But, I will always remember you.

Secret Untold

Why bother keeping this secret.
Holding onto this life
When the truth offends only me
And becomes too much to carry.

I hold my lips tight together
Wishing there was some other means to keep it that way, except by hand.
Plus I look stupid anyway, standing here, with people walking around me wondering:
What is up with that dude?
Lips cold and gray-blue.
Been this way for 28 years now.
Starting to loose feeling all over my body now.
But you don't notice me giving you the silent treatment.
Less words are spoken now.

Thank God I can breath through my nose
Or else I'd be long dead.

For the next 28 years
I'll take a different course.

I will build.
Soon there will be one final brick to lay,
The one that will seal my fate and box me in for good.
But it was never about me.
Bought these bricks and cement to protect them...

Wiemo lala (Talking song)

The word, the given glory of speach
Has evolved, changed its shape,
Reformatted its meaning
To become the talking song.
Wiemo lala.

If left alone it stands alone.
Brought to life only by the readers imagination;
In a speakeasy the authors components are made accessible
To all who will share in his heartfelt innermost thoughts.
Put to song it can make us swing,
Uplift the senses,
Making the ordinary adorned,
The plain more recognizable.
Wiemo lala.

A chant, a song, a prayer,
Sustaining us through time,
Giving us a place, a name;
Saving us from ourselves.

It is the Fear that Drives Them

i see it in their eyes,
blue, green, eyes.
European, caucasian eyes.
they wonder if such tall tales are true:
are they great decedents/are they better than i am?
truth be known
the fear is real
and so they kill and scream
and remind us that we are no greater than dirt.
so we cry freedom!
and raise hell
and die...
...well.
it is about that time,
look over your shoulders,
the sun is on its way down.

Emancipation is a story that talks about the lingering complications and residual effects of slavery, servitude and how people, set in opposition to each other by politics and put-upon hatred, react, live, and communicate. Whether it is taught, implied, self inflicted: It is this truth that we are born into. It is a truth that is with us today. Again, in my observation of the time spent in Trinidad, where racial tension is both mild and hot, this story tells of how we continue to be reflections of our past while fighting to create a new self with a past to match.

Emancipation
by Mark James
 
Once there was a place and a people and a time, when black slaves were emancipated and indian indentured servants made to replace them. Story say, when they get there, some white people make them look in a mirror, as if to see what they saw; one by one, as feet touched new land and noses swallowed new world air, they were confronted by just how ugly they were. Behind that image was a face and a story and truth, behind that, were trees that looked like the trees before they were captured by the looking glass, behind all of that was India, so, their unattractiveness must be real. A hand mirror with a gilded frame, a thing that dirt dared to settle on and non-white fingers dreamed of being in affiliation with, daring. Acknowledgment of that crafted fact would serve to set them apart from beauty they would never posses, denial would only make living hard and truth difficult to swallow. Some say it is well to know your place; danger becomes friend to unreasonable requests when mans mind discovers that the new world, though unknown, is soiled with old things like Christianity, held hostage in the wrong hands, wielded like a sword, and handled like a whip or a cutlass ready to ruin the skin and scar the brain, like disease, demanding to infect and consume the uncontaminated, lording over the unsaved savage waiting to be lifted out of the dark by a good and beautiful white hand. Hands that held power, hands that look like white Jesus's, hands that came to India to explore and discover spices and jute, hands that steer boats and left other people to ponder servitude.
The Cedula of Population law had encouraged those hands, those ways of life, replacing old meaning with new. Replacing choice with cotton, cocoa tasted better with new dominance, coffee replaced deciding and cane was everything and freedom held captive. Yes, they replaced niggers with coolies because the work had to go on despite the half recognized ugliness of African slave trading; hands that did not do the work but used appendage to count coin and stroke wealth: rich textiles and curly bannisters leading to grand home; these hands, belonging to those people needed four years of apprenticeship to help bridge the gap. Something that wanted to be freedom came in 1833, attempting to make up for lost time, lost information and grief turned dance, song, and instrument into culture, some of which the African did bring with them here. But like hand me down clothes that masters no longer wanted, they picked it up and turned it inside out so that by 1834 scraps and throw aways did become new thing with new fit and high bottoms to push the fabric out and make it sit so, feeling free to reposition itself, free to come undone at the seems and be mended, free to rediscover and recreate a wealth so long left behind. About 17, 439 black bottoms that had legs and feet and torso, head and face and brain, a way all theirs, though feet had no clear path to walk this freedom. Canboulay come and man and woman make costumes and danced in portrayal, a mockery of their oppressors; singing, sticks and tattered flags, bottle against spoon made noise in segregated celebration. Before jack spaniard could build he-self a new nest, white master, from far and near, start dust off Mirror and put it in he sack; he did getting ready for new arrival, be we didn't know that. Some went and some stay. Black bottoms give white man they ass to kiss and went about they business hoping to make a way, taking land in Belmont or Lavantille, planting crops, establishing trade. Others stayed and bended their knees and hunched their backs and continued to work the field and cut the cane, or be domestic maid and wipe up shit and vomit and take abuse. I can't say which way was better and for who, but years passed and shit went down and white man get his way regardless. By 1845 he reach in he bag and pull out Mirror and wave it in front the newcomers like it was flag or gift or money. She face shine and flicker against the sun and some of them blocked eyes or looked away in shame, some admired her beauty. From India they brought family and friends and wives with children. Naked and wanting, they came but not running to or from, not really. Skinny and odd they looked and sounded but were not so black as predecessor. Everything they had and wanted to bring came with them, packed away in their heads and stored in their ways and being. After long journey, Nelson island was home and hospital, sores, dysentery and other illnesses cured, rest and then short travel again to Trinidad. Contracts were given, but not before Mirror showed off her gold and gave them comparison and degradation to hold. A white hand directed and mouth gave instruction, outlined contract: the new cane cutters had arrived. Between 1845 and 1917 many made a similar arrival. Between 1839 and 1866 and the start of the 20th century, French and German laborers, free American blacks, Africans from Sierra Leone and St. Helena, Chinese, Portuguese, Lebanese and Syrians, all came. Adding nearly 12,000 that made up the 143, 949 laboring bottoms to make this swizzle-stick-mix-up-callaloo-nation. Everybody didn't get Mirror pushing up in face since willingness escort them here, and unlike the Carib and Arawak nations and the blacks who replaced them, only to become homeless, aimless creatures without law and say-so, these new arrivals knew when their time would be up, contract tell them when to put the cutlass down and stop chop cane that make sugar that wasn't for them. Newcomers were not to have a flag or money but gift of land was given and handed down for generations to come; what would become theirs would be theirs or they could turn around and go back, behind, and away from Mirror, home. Choice is what they had. Black Trinidadians had to make do, had to pack up and move when white hands clapped and pointed out a new direction. Sometimes on the way to the new place they had to pass by the others, pausing to look at Mirror, seeing in her a new image, an anger, displaced yet again, and behind themselves in the looking glass they saw others who had what they didn't, their faces met and Mirror straitened herself up to introduce them, making awareness and comparison and ugliness, seeping in like curry to sada roti, like brown sugar bubbling in oil ready to make stew chicken. No dipping and scooping, no stirring spoon, just hands holding a new version of themselves.

Quarrel

Can't wait to love you more.
I care not about the flaws.
In an imperfect world it would be stupid of me to have such high expectations.
Now this don't mean I'm 'bout to settle for less partner, but, I'll settle for you.
So come as you are; I can only pray that this world takes me as I am.
Will you?

I Want You Too

Love missunderstands me.
At times we have a failure to communicate effectively.
I'd like to apologize for that, Love.
Thought I knew what it was but I'm finding out that I'm still learning about life and who I am.
Thought I knew what I wanted to leave behind and run to.
Now I knw that what I had is what I wanred despite the confusion and hurt you sometimes bring.
I share that responcibility with you Love.
I do.

Many will know. Few will unerstand.

Life given to me by the one,
Fostered by many
And plagued by the possible evil of millions.
I know the game.
Livin' in this life, I perpetuate the truest of lies.
Knowing and living true to Gods law, (as best I can) I pray for clarity and eventual salvation.
Amen.

To: Biutiful

How Biutiful is the world
When we think of this life as a gift given freely?
Are we ever prepared to return it in kind to the giver?
Never wanting.
Never requesting anything in return.
Never blaming Him or Her/ asking God why?
How Biutiful is a shower of much needed rain on a humid day?
I do not feel like crying
When life is revealed to me as being just a momentary world wind tour
Filled with the faces and sounds, mostly of things that I love.
Biutiful things,
Sad things,
Tremendous amounts of energy
Producing that which I cannot.
How Biutiful.
How Biutiful?
How good it is.

( Inspired by the film "Biutiful")

On a Rush Hour Train

Summer time.

The AC is blaring.

My armpits, damp with the evenings sweat.

As I look around, as I listen,

I see them:

the overworked, the underpaid, the shoppers, the students

and the privileged few, blessed with a day of nothing to do

and nothing to care for.

Words and sounds of The Roots blast into my ears,

a song about love, creative supremacy and life lessons.

I watch each stop pass me by only to remain,

seated, permanent in my ways.

The darkness in the near window absorbs my mind and I am happy

in this short lived solitary state.

(Should I write about the moment

or let it be another undocumented, thing?)

I recognize a familiar, but no words did we speak. 

A slight nod of the head was all.

What a rush of inactivity.

I ascend the stairs to continue my lonely journey.

A Witness to Infidelity

They went to find him.
He left.
He left them behind.
Days and weeks had gone,
but they found him.
Was it too late?
He had focussed his attention elsewhere,
taken up with somebody else.
A "her", out there.
A strange photo, familiar only to the boy, lay against the corner of a framed mirror.
He had seen her before, the boys eyes did.
Now she brings memory, and pain to a mothers face, and tears.
Tears that rise from her eyes and roll down her cheeks.
The sister, and daughter, was not there.
His boots, his scent, his clothes, it was all there.
She would take him back.
She loved him much more than he did her.
They made love in the bed that at first both mother and son had occupied.
Pretending to be asleep, he hoped that they'd keep
The hurried promises made;
if not for themselves
then surely for his sake.

New excerpt from The 6... This story is based off the book of Genisis and concerns the topic of angels and mans relationship to them. Again, set in the caribbean and Trinidad, primarily, it's a tale about the incompleteness of man and the works that are needful and continues to be done in the name of the one we call, God.

The 6...
by Mark James

...y trajo alegría con él.
From Cuba he did travel, having errand there too. Broad nose and beard covered his face, and on his head, a straw boater hat. A happiest one and always a smile etched across his face. Like a skipping stone, over green and blue water that had many moods, he hopped and jumped and landed. One to the other and down the chain of archipelagos: Dominican Rebublic, St. Croix, Barbuda, Grenadines, Tobago and settled in Brasso Seco Paria. He slept awhile and ate and swam at Church Rock and practiced his speech. Acclimation. Five miles, he journeyed from Pointe L’eglise, to Turtle Rock and onto Blanchisseuse. Greetings and smiles more, he received them warm and with hellos, patois in sound. After a night of drinking babaash and eating oil-down a smiling woman named MaeMae gave him a parcel of more food and drink and a change of clothes; saying "Ba-bye," she threw him a kiss and sent him on his way. Arima, thought he, and was named Anghel.




Peace and blessing bredren, sistren...good morning...and so long.
Of me, of pleasantness. The world was changing and the elders did not know what to do or say about the youth. Grandmothers and grandfathers had done the best they could. No more community. What was mine was mine and what was yours, keep to yourself. If neighbor saw child misbehaving in the street she no longer disciplined, but shook her head and turned his back and kept lips pressed tight together. Of smile, and greeting, instilling a way, then falling short. Generation that followed did not allow them say or input in their lives, despite the mess that lay about young feet like wind-strewn garbage and the foolishness that clutter thoughts: a glare, and a sharp tongue lashed like whip and made the body shudder.
He heard them be disrespectful, and mean it.
"Shut up! I look like lil gurl to you. I is big 'oman!" A young Natalie, or Candace, or Alecia, once so sweet and not so rude.
And Mama and Papa knew that innocence was gone and a new torture did start.
Of humility, of grace and mercy, do not be afraid...Anghel did not meet many smiles and warm hearts in Arima. Heavy drinking, void of joy, and black boys on corners and not in school. Imitation and ignorance was the new ambition. Jail, and dub-song spewing profanity and disunion accepted now. Outcry from the innocent and lawmakers and government officials alike, asked for a heavy handed approach and solution. None came. Violence spread to schools once great now run-a-mock with barbarity. Neighborhood once safe for child to play in the street make parent come outside, beckoning them inside as the sun hid her face behind the moon. They did not listen to Anghel, "What d'hell you so happy 'bout?" They questioned, not caring for response. A boy wanted to stay out and play but parent pulled and rung his ear as a result of his disobedience. As the boys' cries made way for whimpers and snorts, Anghel tried to remember the people on the north coast from where he had come. Drinking and dancing and percussion gave song to the air, alegria, alegria. Then news came.

Wear something red, was the popular cry
And like pavements and streets
They were filled with envy
Because by morning light
They were covered with our blood
I tell you, not one soul here escaped the frenzy
You know sometimes you're a gambling king
And wild is the joker
And sometimes the sight of the moon
Just riles up the lost, the hungry, the mad
These are troubled times
That we have down in Trinidad... (Hoosay, David Rudder)

Signs were present. Anghel saw into the coming day and days, discerning the tearing down and the pulling apart and the hatred that would bring it about. He did come to bear joy and peace but now knew that he was sure, on task, and ready. Sweet T&T, God bless your waters and your sands. It was 27th, July 1990 when the news did come and many were shocked and mouths held agape for long and many minutes all over the land. Spreading like wildfire, televisions reflected images of men of Jamaat al Muslimeen, and Yasin Abu Bakr had word for every staring eye, every listening ear: calm, he said, and do not loot. No heed. Fade to black. Screens unwilling to tell the news and radios in no mood to broadcast. A coup d'état is what it was and the Red House, seat of Parliament, bled a second time since 1903 first brought protest and fire. Sixteen dead. Forty-two injured. This time around, those held hostage ran and shielded their heads from falling glass and lash and held arms up like shield to block shouts and demands and enemy fire. Having seen destruction before, the House braced and warned each corner stone, column, entablature and wedgwood, but the men inside did not heed. God bless the waters and the sands, (Twenty-four dead?). Bless the children of men, them that do not understand each other and choose to go unconscious. Together we despise, Together we abandon, was the new national motto. Devotion had a new face.

...Above the bloody asphalt
Strange dogs were barking, deep in the night
Under the crescent moon
I say the drums were silent
But somehow the rhythm continued
Oh what a sight... (Hoosay, David Rudder)

And memory did confess and pavements and alleys heard, and remembered, and then condemned it too. A past, catching up, and sacrificing for erstwhile misdeeds. Some called it Curse. Some called it Restitution or Reciprocity, come to get what she was promised. 6 days, and it was over, this illegal seizure and attempt to overthrow government had backfired, leading to surrender. Port-of-Spain appeared war-zone. The vandalism apparent and penetrating on site. Anghel had journeyed the length of the east-west corridor, now on Abercomby Street standing in front of the House and what was left of it, made him feel like singing, and he did, and people wondered about him: Must be madman or drunk. Melody: "Don't despair, do not be afraid, I come to give guidance and carry you out..." He sang, the man who before had a smile traded it for song and put himself on full display. "Oh sweet, sweet Trinbago, bless your waters and your sands. Who hears you, who feels you, who sees you naked now, no judgment..."
Stray and mange dogs howled from a distance, as if in response to Anghels' vocalized cry. Coming to see what all the fuss was about, villagers from Petit Valley, Maraval to El Socorro and San Juan, poked their heads out from doors and windows; shifting eyes filled with question and concern appeared through drapes of curtains to see if it was safe. The curfew would stand. In time, civilians gathered in Town to see if this thing really did happen. Anghel still sang, and after they wondered about the man, they wondered about the military men with big guns that walked every corner and fenced every building worth protecting with their bodies. This war seemed over and the bane would lift. Set in motion, the repair did start and the man who sang in the streets appeared on newspaper fronts. People far away wondered, but those who knew of him understood what their minds would let them understand. Smiles in repair and mouths upturned.
Headline: Singing Man Helps Restore a Nation.

This excerpt, from Tell d'Truth and Shame d'Devil, is a story about men and women and how they are influenced by past circumstances, as well as how they affect one another. The story is very loosely based on my father, the rest is pure fiction come to life. Enjoy.

Tell d'Truth and Shame d'Devil
by Mark James

Livingston was a man without means, not a pot to piss in, not'ing was really his to have. Well, maybe d'clothes on he back, nobody wanted those, they were worn and out of style. He was a nice lookin' man; if you ever get the chance to really look at him, do so. I'is not no liar. But who would notice him, dark skin, thick beard, groomed himself as best he could, using a comb, and a pair of scissors to shape and trim the hair on he head and face in the bathroom weekly. Smellin' like Old Spice and Magic shave powder. But. Woman was goin' for dougla-boys these days, man who mix wid creole, white or indian blood, anyt'ing but one hundred percent black was better. He was stuck in a past that preferred him, '68 -'72 was good years for him. He had it good, workin' for Texaco allowed him to make good money and see more dan just Trinidadian people. For a time he believed it, life in d'palm a'yuh hand and all dat shit-talk people wid money does feed yuh. '72 might as well be remembered as a good year, according to how he mind recollect, I not sure. See, the problem was not so much his appearance, he had a stubborn mind, the mind of an impaled dreamer, the type of man that had been admired, thought himself good and smart and maybe easy on the eyes to many of the women he did meet in and around Port-of-Spain. All t'ings considered, I knew in some ways that perception of himself was as true as it was a lie, but it was no longer 1972...
Ms. T'ing one, two and three find they'self fallin' in and out he bed, or he outa she bed. All the while he longed for a life that consisted of much more than waking up, after a night of drinkin' and gamblin', reaching for a cigarette, or some marijuana, goin' to d'pool-hall to spen'up what little money he had to he name. Returning home empty handed and drunk, or if he was lucky, Livingston sometimes had plenty money to go gallary he'self about Town and showoff with, and Ms.T'ing was ready and willin' to pull she panty down for him providing she get to walk away with some of what he did win; never mind he too black and d'hair up on he head too knotty. Yuh see, men didn't teach each other not'ing. Boys will be boys' and all that misunderstood nonsense fallin' out people mout' for too long now. A bunch'a regurgitated unfounded doctrine if yuh ask me. Most men Livingston's age didn't know dey ass from dey asshole; they had looks, big-talk and sex as indicators, and women who informed them or further contributed to their confusion. I know plenty more man just like he, just look at dem, Johnny, Blake, Dudeman, and Aldwyn, always in d'damn pool-hall. Not sure what dey hoping to find in there, but is d'same Devil haunting dem. "How come you not married yet wid'a good woman by yuh'side?" One woman after the other would inquire, fool talk for quick money. Livingston had the same response for all-a-dem: "I doh want no woman and chil'ren tiein' up my hands." He winnings from d'card table wouldn't allow him tuh see straight, much less how he bein' played for fool by d'woman dem. It was enough to make she settle for bein' Ms. T'ing number four, five or six. The routine was set, the pace, erratic, the reality, chosen. Livingston and men like him continued to secretly hope for more, but Pride, Ego, Ignorance, and occasionally, Dudeman, would keep them bolted to their conditions: a dormant mental state that set them revolving back to the pool-hall on George Street.






Come home and see 'bout meh nah...?
I know how to take care a'meh man...
Is your baby dat is, yes...
Oh God, why yuh do meh like dis Livingston!...

Awakened from a dream, the dream that was stalking him like a mad dog ready to rush and bite him. A year now with no let up in sight. Four, always four woman in d'dream, like sirens, each evoking a desire, each: selfish, craving, wantin' what he could not give of his own free will. Livingston rolled over onto he side to reach for he pack of Du Maurier cigarettes knockin' over a half finished bottle of Stag beer. The pain in he head from last nights carryin' on make him t'ink twice about tryin' to catch it from rollin' off the edge of the bedside table. Clanking to the floor, the bottle spilled its contents, adding to the collection of carpet stains and sour odors within the room. Protesting the noise it would make, and the annoying dream, a sound barely makin' it past his evenly measured lips, instead, he decided to hold his head between his hands and groan. Pain subsiding, he opened his eyes only to be ridiculed by the four walls that kept his secrets, sometimes even from him, seeing as he wasn't ready to deal in truth. Women and rum keep him from reality, and for now it was what he wanted. Laying there at half past eleven in the morning, his black rigid body naked from head to toe, decidin' wether or not to continue lookin' for he cigarettes or what number to play as a result of the dream with four woman in it, Livingston's thoughts were interrupted by the flush of his toilet. Surprised by the sudden sound but not confused as to the source, he sat up and prepared for her entrance.
Dinah turned the corner, exiting the bathroom. A sight she was and unlike any of the women Livingston usually entertained. Dark, graceful, tall with close-cropped hair and curved swaying hips. Like the man in the bed, she too was naked and in search of a morning cigarette. Observin' him without bein' obvious, he was flat and muscular all over, she comparin' him to her Mister; they were the same age, yet her husband had a belly and a ass that was in steady competition. Not speaking, he sat up while she retrieved a lighter. Strike, flame to tip, inhaled, exhaled, head to the ceilin'. Dinah passed the lit tobacco to the man beside her and reached to the floor to retrieve her green and white striped wrap-dress from off the floor. Make-up in place, she was soon ready to return to the life she left behind just so she could have one more night with Livingston.
If yuh must know, Dinah leave she two chil'ren and she husband up in Arouca. She say she go'be gone a few days since she have tuh look in on she 'Tanty Margaret, who sick, or she two eye not good no more. Not sure which story tellin'. Is so dem young girl is nowadays; they get a good man what love them and want tuh take care a'dem, what dey do wid him? Lie and connive an'go lay down wid man like Livingston Baker. Tying d'belt on her dress, she turn 'round readyin' she'self to leave him. Smoke runnin' from he lips, sweat bead up on he chest and hung on the coils of his hair, and he manhood jump up from he body, hard and with purpose. Dinah see everything but him. She see he eyes talking to she without he mouth and tongue forming words she could understand. "Whey yuh in a'hurry goin' to?" Finally she could concentrate. "Baker, you know better dan tuh ask me a t'ing like dat, ah was here d'last three days, is Tuesday and I have chil'ren and a husband to go see 'bout." Avoiding his eyes, she set her mind on responsibility. So much for beers, fetes and good times with Livingston. Dinah make up she mind to leave this man where he was and go back home before somt'ing go bad. "No kiss?" He askin'. She kiss he, and he kiss she back and changed she mind at the same time. She closed the door putting Livingston behind it, but it was clear that she had bitten off more that she could chew.

This is an old journal entry of mine. Although I feel that it reflects a past self, a viewpoint that I had about "things". I feel pretty much that way now. Call it truth or a slow growth, it is a truth committed to paper at that time, and I'd like to share it with you.

How it all Comes Together

He said I was too quick to love. I can't help it that my heart took me there. He said I miscalculated, misquoted, misunderstood.
Another will say I'm too concerned with self. Concerned only with that which concerns me.
They say that I think I'm better than they are, that I want too much and that my standards are too high. Unattainable even.
"...remember who you are, what you are..." Black, a nigger: they will never accept you, value you or love you, not like we can.

How do you think that makes me feel? Truth is some of this is factual, though addressed with ill intention, provoking an ignorance I do not embrace. I love too fast, I'm all too preoccupied with aesthetics. appearance and image. Though I've tried to keep that aspect of my personality hidden from view. And yes, at the back of my mind, Belief  lays dormant, half awake and half asleep. he rises just long enough to remind me that to them I'm just another jungle bunny. The clothes I wear, the intensity and intelligence of my stare nor the type of language I speak won't change what they see when they look at me. The ever present superiority of the white mind will forever be exercised and validated by society. No, he said, they weren't concerned with me. Not interested in my buried history or my peoples long forgotten royalty. For them it remains a myth, an idea, a fantasy like that of a Black Jesus or the poetic genius of the late Tupac Shakur. Nonsense, all of it.
So what does that make me?
Some non-intelligent nobody?

They have had their moment to speak. But the right response to all of this does not come all at once. bits and pieces of a possible reply come to me at random moments. Most of it does not make it past my lips. Instead, knowledge and understanding bobs to the surface, assisted by dreams, various conversations and quiet introspective moments when I am alone and away from the world.
Much like a magic wand, pencil comes to paper, thoughts take form, questions get answered, frustrations and tensions release; topics of interest are addressed.
The headaches subside, the clenching of teeth decreases dramatically, and again I feel that I have taken my first breath of fresh air. In that moment, I am beyond peace and without regret for what was expressed. I will not apologize. My feelings have been hurt too.

Let them say what they want to say. My truth is worth more to me than gold. So what if most of what I mean to say can only be articulated by the use of this unforgiving journal format.
My gospel will release me.
Tomorrow is my heaven.
I lay my head and rest, for what is to be will be.

Africa Me

Here's a penny.

Here, take what's mine and all I own.

Here, take this diamond,

Here, you take this gold.

Strip my people of everything.

Fuck them right!

They don't deserve to be happy,

sheltered or given opportunity to elevate.

Africa is the land I come from.

It is the land of my people.

Every time you take from her, you steal from me.

Anytime you voluntarily spread disease, you infect me. 

When you pretend she does not exist, you dismiss, me.

The All-seeing Blind

Disturb me not.
I am busy.
Busy with life and the endlesss pursuit of love.
Too busy to see you.
Do not call me by my name. I no longer respond to it.
Nor do I you.
Understand me friend,
Busy is what I am.
Busy maintaining my composure.
Busy yourself while I cover  my pain.


Art of life

...sadness you own me.
sweet melancholy needs be.
some things seem to have no meaning until they begin to get you down.
being alive is poetic.

The Color of Colour

A blanket that covers the day,
Shadow going my way, dark and warm, my protection against all.
A captured, enduring whips and chains,
withstanding the pain, the burn; making a place for itself in a colorless world?
This colour never goes away, it never fades.
Solid, dominant, and forever.
Not persuaded, it never blends in, it cannot go away.
Color is a deep, and much set in stain.
Evolution has rendered it great.
Time will/may not ease its pain.
But never, never again will it
stock the basements of your ships.
Forward, forward and back to greatness. 

#poetry

(Hand-me-down)

To be haunted by possibility, choice, and

circumstance is a wretched thing,

Damaging to the mind, body and spirit.

Once a promised potential fruit of the blessed tree

I live another day regretting, trying to forget the burden,

while at the same time re-adjusting the weight upon my shoulders.

It is not right to feel this way. Such pity.

Such lingering bitterness

With an aftertaste of jealousy. Which way is it supposed to be?

I don't know.

The matters of fact remain

And I dare not make vocal the complaint.

So I commit it to paper and ink.

I give my burdens to you.

This excerpt, from Miss Tourist, is a story filled with caribbean folklore & images of village life common to most islanders. Although some details are born out of real memories, the story is all imagined...enjoy.

 Miss Tourist

by Mark James

Looking at the ordeal Mercy was frightened and curious all at the same time. There was so much blood. Octavia was born at sunrise the next mornin’. She never make a sound or cried for three days. Everybody looked at the baby girl believin’ that somethin’ was wrong. Every time she opened her mouth to breath, or yawn, all-ah-dem suck the air from the room and open dey eye like owl, bracing for what they hoped was natural. We called her Redd for short and Mercy was never more happy to be called sister. Poor Ms. Antoinette was never the same after that. Lawd know that woman was way too weak-bodied to have any more chil'ren. A woman need more than just a husband and some chil'ren’ to keep. She need a strong mind, support and understanding too. She ain’t no horse or dog to be breedin’ babies like that. Octavia was born in September. By November, Antoinette was pregnant again. Daddy wanted a big family and Mother wanted to please him. Ask me how I know all that...

...Well by now ah hope yuh know d’story. Antoinette: kickin‘, cussin’, screamin’, takin' the Lord name in vain. Mayor: outside d‘house drunk, talkin‘ ‘bout, “ah not takin‘ mey wife down dey fuh dem people tuh kill she!” Junior, he best friend and gamblin‘ partner tryin‘ to reason wid him. “Okay, okay ah rest meh case...”, Junior was tired of arguin’. After Redd, Daddy wanted a son. One year later, Criest, the one and only brother was born. “She say she happy but ah go hear ‘bout she and dat man and dem chilren she keep givin‘ crazy name to.” Cleva was busy waggin‘ she tongue in Sunday
morning market. “Gimme some cassava and pig tail please. Aftah dat meh money done.” She was talkin‘ to Mavis but everybody ‘roun‘ she could hear plain what she was sayin’. Miss Mavis lookin‘ nervous because she know dey lookin‘ at she as if she supposed to make Cleva hush she mout’. “ Ah mean, who does name dey chile aftah Jesus! What kinda crazy shit is dat? All I know is it wrong, somebody should tell she ‘bout she self. And Old Lady Dr. encouragin‘ stupidness, furthermore ah ain’t goin‘ ova dey to help she again. Ah wash meh hands a’dem people.” She shakin‘ she head left and right. She two lip push out. Dey leavin’ d‘market. She all d’way wrong for spreadin’ talk and she need to mind she business sometimes, even if some of it is fact. To tell yuh d’truth, aftah Criest come people start to murmur about the Norwood house and the people in it. They didn’t start acting like complete jackass right away, yuh know. Good God fearing Christians don’t operate like that. Daddy could care less, he was havin’ more chil'ren to be proud of. It solidify he manhood. Mother, on d’other hand was slipping gradually into a strange kinda sadness. Old Lady Doctor give she something to calm she nerves but ah not sure if it go work. It didn’t help dat people was spreading rumor ‘bout how Mayor traipsing ‘roun’ wid loose woman down by d’tavern aftah work. Every week he had less and less money to buy food and mine he chilren. “Any man who can’t take care of he seed is worthless in my opinion, ah don’t care how good lookin’ he is, jus speakin’ meh mind,” said Cleva
as she passed by the Norwood house. She and Ms. Mavis had come down d’road to go ‘cross d’ravine to buy eggs, so dey start up dat chat. Antoinette sweeping d’veranda so she was doin’ all dat loud talkin’ out of spitefulness. “Good Mornin’, neighbor,” Say Cleva. “Mornin’,” Say Antoinette, pausin’ long enough to adjust a headscarf coverin’ her hair. “Ah goin’ ‘cross by Mr. Braithwait to get eggs for in d’mornin’. How yuh keepin’?”  Cleva inquired. “ Ah good, can’t complain. How Junior?” Cleva was thinking other thoughts but out loud she say, “He good, he home listen’ to a cricket match on d’radio. Yuh know dem man and dey sports.” Then the air get silent. “Well anyway ah go talk to yuh latah gurl, ah have a pot on d’stove,” say d’head wrapped woman. “Okay den.” Cleva stood at the Norwood’s gate to look Antoinette up and down before she walk away. Then, under her breathe she say: some people have no shame. She walkin’ back way she come from. Look like she forget she was going to buy eggs. Ms. Mavis follow behind she like she stray dog lookin’ fuh scraps.
The Trinidad Guardian and dey reporter man was watchin’ Doctor Eric Williams at his house on Mary Street. Apparently, he was makin’ plans behind the backs of the other Ministers in he cabinet. Hundreds ah kilometers away on Red Hill, people didn’t need no newspaper to bring news; they had Cleva.
Cleva, Ms. Patsy and Ms. Wendy standin’ on d’corner. Hands on hips, knee slappin’: They gossipin’. Cleva talkin’, “...if ah lyin’ God strike meh down! Yes gurl, Antoinette pregnant again but that is old news.” Wisperin’ and leanin’ close she take a look ‘roun’ creatin’ anticipation. “I hear dat dem Creole people who own dat land that Mr. Braithwait been squattin’ on, gurrrrl, dey sen’ him notice to get off dey property, Mmmhmm.” So then Ms. Patsy chime in, “Oh Lawd, dey really comin’?” Cleva say, “Yes gurl.” “My goodness,” Ms. Wendy shakin’ she head left and right, “Bacchanal in d’village.” Well, doh say ah didnt tell yuh, dis was bound tuh happen eventually. Commess comin’ down on we head, unexpected like bird-shit from above. Well, Mr. Braithwait say he not movin’. "D’powers dat be go have to kill meh. This is my land! Mine! Leh dem come fuh meh..." He cuss and carry-on talkin’ to himself, waving a cutlass dat he forever sharpenin’. So d’steel glistenin’. He ready for war. Some of what he sayin’ in Patois so Mercy don’t understand what he rantin’ and ravin’ about. Only old people does talk that talk. She walkin’ home from school. She fumblin’ to open the front gate to her parents house but she turn ‘roun’ just in time to see him goin’ back ‘cross d’ravine. Still cussin’ dem Creole an’dem. A fortnight later, Mr. Johnny Winston Braithwait would go missing.
The people did come. About a dozen or so come drivin’ down the hill in two fancy car. They look white but dey not white. Dey have good hair and dey talkin’ good French talk. Dey don’t ask
anybody nothin’. All dey say to Mother and Daddy was “Good Morning.” At least they have manners. Dey walk near the ravine and start pointin’ and talkin’ to one another. For a week dey come, dey talk fancy talk and take measurements, and dig up d’land. Dey knock down Mr. Braithwait wood house but keep he chicken. To this day, nobody know where Mr. Braithwait gone to. Regardless, the men went to work, and the women did what women do. The chil'ren stayed in dey place did what dey were told and only spoke when dey was spoken to.
Mayor and he wife was arguin’ more and more everyday. He stay gone last night, come home d’next mornin’, change he clothes and walk out d’door and didn’t say a word to anybody. Antoinette was eight and a half months pregnant now. Old lady Dr. say she have to stay in bed because she not well enough to move ’roun’ like dat. By the time the baby start to come the woman was delirious and talkin’ nonsense. Mercy was helpin’ bring water to the old woman when she notice her face frown up. “Go and get Father Cummings fuh meh chile, please.” By d’time Mercy come back with the priest, Mother was dead. The baby was squealin’. Daddy was nowhere to be found. We name her Evelyn Ann Norwood.
Mayor get up one mornin’ talkin’ ‘bout  the people ova’dey by ‘cross the ravine makin’ too much noise fuh he to sit down and read he newspaper in peace. But that was just another excuse for he to walk out and leave the chil'ren so he could go out and do he business. It been a year now since dem people come and start to build. Now that Antoinette dead and bury in d’groun’ everybody in Red Hill say dey comin’ to see how Mayor doin’. Especially all  dem unmarried, man-hungry, fast-ass woman. Some say dey comin’ to visit Old Lady Dr., since she only one house over from the Norwoods. Liars. Look at dem: “All yuh cook today? Ah bring some fry bake and shark.” Next one come, “Mayor, yuh know if yuh need meh tuh come and help wid d‘chilren is ok wid me.” Or, “Ah was just passin’ through to get some ointment from d‘good Dr.” But is not dat, dey jostlin’ for position, makin’ dey’self available just incase Mayor get lonely and want to slip up under dey dress for a night, maybe more.
Today, dey cuttin’ ‘way all that bush on the other side’a d’ravine. So people comin’ to see d‘unveilin'. Since none-a-dem kya talk fancy french talk dey figure as long as dey eye-witnessin', it be d’next best thing. That house was like ten house put together. D’kind dey does call mansion or estate. Old Lady Dr. say it look like slave house minus d’slave to wok in it and the cane fields in d’back of it. Plenty goin’ on ova dey. Bridge buildin’ ova the ravine now so dey goin’ and comin’ just like dat; deliverin’ materials and garden plantin’ and chandelier climbin’ to the ceilin’. But nobody livin’ in it yet. It was such a big distraction. People walkin’ past here before they go to church, just to see what else put up and paint up, lord forgive dem. Mercy was big girl now. She was nine; lookin’ like Antoinette look in that black and white picture where she makin’ first communion or somethin’. Evelyn is the only one who don't seem to care ‘bout who that is in d’frame. Mercy, Redd, Criest, and Evelyn takin’ dey cues from Daddy. He don’t even mention Mother. he just work, eat ,shit, sleep and drink. So everyday for the last year, Mercy stay focused on keepin’ a tidy house and seein’ to all who in it. Then she walk up d’road and do the same for Old Lady Dr. The routine was set. Uninterrupted. Mercy over by the old lady helpin’ she kneed flour to make dumpling. The elder, peeling provision and soakin’ pig-tails so dey could make soup. Is Monday. Just like dat, Old Lady Dr. gettin’ bad feelin’ in she body. She stop what she doin’ open d’Bible flat on the table and smoke out d’house to ward off bad spirit. Dey leavin’ to go take some soup ova for Daddy, is lunch time now. Talk been goin’ ‘roun’ ‘bout Antoinette sudden passin’. Some say is Mayor who break she heart and kill she, some say is natural that she body just couldn’t take all dat jammin’ from makin’ baby all d’time. Another mouth say is d’twin babies dat come back an’kill she.
Six o’clock d’next evening, the same two fancy car pull up outside. Old Lady Dr. drinkin’ she coffee. Mayor eyes heavy wid sleep from working early mornin’ construction job. D’chil'ren playin’ in d’yard. Hear dem talkin’ in foreign. A man wearin’ a white shirt-jack and blue pants step out from d’back seat of d’second car. He a white man, or at least he look like one. He walk ‘roun’ to d’left side of d’car, dat facing we front yard, and open d’door. Is a woman, we can’t see what colour she is; she have on too much clothes for d’heat, black, boots, long sleeve blouse, leadin’ to lace gloves on she hand and long skirt for ballroom dancin’, or funeral, down to she ankle. Big wide-brimmed hat on she head and a long veil that go past her shoulders. Dey start walking toward d’new bridge. That is when Old Lady Dr. drop ,and break, she teacup and saucer.

Quite simply, this is a story about, feeling alone despite your surroundings. It is also about point of views, and understandings...this excerpt is from the following: A Perspective

A Perspective

by Mark James

Marlene:
Santa Cruz, who does leave Belmont an’go live up in d’bush in Santa Cruz? Marlene was hot as a coal-pot iron. She slammed chairs into floors and doors into walls, she lost one side of her good gold earrings as a result of her antics that afternoon. She cursed Granny and Daddy for letting chi'ren who thought they was grown woman run game in she house. Threats were hurled at the two remaining girls. Afterwards, she prayed for patience and understanding, she asked God why? What had she done to deserve such ungrateful children. Granny and Daddy looked at each other then she went back to reading her Psalms and he, to his Daily News. People had always disappointed her. Her own father, Daddy Sanchez, left her, her mother and her brothers behind to pick up with God knows who else. He say how he just kya be bothered wid woman an' chi'ren. Marlene don't even remember what he face look like sometimes. Her first husband left, though no fault of his own, gone nonetheless. Her daughters and her son, all disappointments, all almost gone. No peace, why couldn't Marlene discover peace, she was forty-five years old and still, uncertain as to how she might get a bit of it.
Childhood was out of the question. It was beat out, weakness and tears forbidden. The flame reduced to less than a flicker. Women hated and scorned, men waited their turn for an opportunity, that only little Marlene was unaware of. What becomes of a child deprived of knowledge? She morphs into an adult with nothing to offer, except rules, unexplained directions, and a readied hand to punish; she is left with the remembered sting of the hand, or the belt, left with questions she dare not ask, unrealized answers, immobilizing fear. The why, unanswered. The "how comes?", neglected. The burdens held close like a suckling baby who knows nothing but the urge to do so.
It was a bondage like no other, her father had come to the island via Venezuela looking for work. "Hear-Say" gone and tell everybody in Trinidad how he run from the law and hole up in Nariva near d'swamp; that is why he so mean spirited, because he was never able to have the life he truly wanted.
What make bad matters worse is when he went and marry the Carib girl with long pretty jet black hair. Is like she was so in opposition to he character that he was hoping some of the goodness would rub off on he too. But God help him. It didn't serve to make he no more happy than he was before. Within a month she was pregnant, then here come little Marlene, red-hot and burning like flames.
To Mr. Eliseo Sanchez life was never fair, or good, happiness was meant for fools to consider, and he was no fool, and so happiness went away for good. Jhoka felt like life could get no better. She had a man to call her own, he had given her a baby and his name. The year was 1925, the end of Crown Colony rule; nobody, not a soul could care less about what was happening elsewhere if it wasn't impacting a he, a she or a them. Like the British empire, Eliseo's presence was, apparently, less and less, yet the psychological noose tugged and tightened against Jhoka' s sun stained neck. Her idealized view was augmented when Daddy Sanchez came home drunk one too many times threatening to kill the baby if she didn't put it away somewhere. Refusal to do so resulted in a hot slap to the face and a knock in the head, Jhoka's body slamming into a wall, the baby girl crying and screaming on the floor and Eliseo planting himself and his source into the recipient of his passion and rage, resulting in the creation of Te'Amo, the first born son. Crown rulership was of no consequence but plans to get from under Eliseo's hand were starting to form in the mind of Jhoka De Luna.
Who needs to feel worth in Nariva? It was a valid question, with respect to these circumstances.
Almost always, desirability, usefulness and value are brought into question, mostly from the people around you. Community, parents, could make or break a young child. Jhoka had none, she felt that she had no merit. And so Marlene got very little self-assurance from her mother. Too many lashes absorbed, too many daydreams interrupted, too many 'hush yuh mout' gurl an' do what ah say!" It was to the point that Marlene began looking in the mirror more and more, seeing less and less of the person she thought she was meant to be. Reflected back, she saw Jhoka, her mother instead. Education too, had no worth but for some reason, unknown to man, Jhoka let Marlene go to convent school. Somehow she felt the need to address the why not/what could be worse than this life? Silently. Prodded by moral sense or God. With no fuss or talking she took Marlene all the way to St. Joseph, and left her there.
Daddy Sanchez beat Jhoka when she returned to Nariva after dropping Marlene off. For one, it took too long for her to get back in time to receive him at home, two, she had no permission from him to do so, three, the fact that she was smart enough to know where St. Joseph was let alone get to and from it made him angry and scared. He knew she must have heard of the school through the nuns work on the island, never in a million days did he think she would leave this place if it weren't with him leading the way.    Six ways from Sunday, like the plague he tortured her. He rested on the seventh, just in time to pray, Hail Mary and Our Father his sins into vapor. Returning home four years later, Marlene discovered what was left of her mother, Daddy Sanchez gone, his last wicked words left dangling in the air like a clothesline, too far to reach, mocking you. Jhoka was almost unrecognizable, except for her hair, all natural beauty had vanished along with the once held hope in her eyes. Somehow Eliseo had them now, maybe in his pockets or under his feet, who knows. Marlene had been known to those in her life by the names given to her, affording her an identity, a place, a categorizing of the life she'd have. She went from a young Ms. Sanchez to Mrs. Robert St. Claire, then to Mrs. Walcott. She wished she knew who she was before having a name, maybe then the interpretation would have less residual effects on her guilt riddled mind, body, and soul. Presently, thirty years later, she is sitting alone on the side of the bed that she and Llelwyn Walcott share, wondering where the match to her earring was, the question, still unanswered, what had she done to deserve this outcome? The silence of her mother and her husband brought about feelings of remorse and more questions. How much of her father did she have in her? With everything she had done to prove she was not in his likeness, she ended up here, feeling less like the abused and more like the culprit. Looking up from her hands that held one gold stud earring, Marlene prepared to tidy herself in the mirrored bureau only to see in it her fathers face. From the living room where Granny and Daddy sat, they could not hear the soft tap, tap, tap, of the other earring falling to the bedroom floor.

Written with racial tensions as a core element, this story tells so much about the way I see my homeland. Religion, superstition, class, gender roles and history are all major topics of interest. Tomorrow, Please God, an excerpt.

Tomorrow, Please God
By M. James Cooper

I had a dream the other night. One in which life as we know it took a turn for the worse. The next morning, as always, things seemed as it should; except for the clouds. The villagers went on with their day: oblivious to my dream of course. I mean, it was rainy season. Ms, Mary was rubbing her leg in anticipation; the local weather vane she was. "Mornin' neighbor!", she said "Right'o Mother Mary, mornin'!" I responded to the old woman, and moved on. Head to the sky looking for God knows what, my mind was attempting to find the missing pieces of the dream. That is, until Mayan started looking all up in my face. Lupe was standing right behind him, adjusting her hemline and such. "What happen to you boy?" I stared blankly in his direction, then back to Lupe, still primping. She decided her hair was better let down instead of pinned up. Looking at me she said: " Ah want to be free. From all restraints." Answering my unasked question with a slight smirk on her face. The girl knew what she was doing. I hear Mayan talking to meh but, clearly I was not giving him all my attention. I was transfixed by Lupe's beauty. She knew her power. She was the only one who could get into my head and push my dream sideways like a sliding glass door. Keen, she knew, that going to work at the factory required less, not more. Long flowing hair and a peasant skirt was hardly proper attire or even safe. "Boy come before we n'up late!" My friend, curiosity spread across his face. "Yeah man, ah comin'. Leh meh just full up this canteen first." The two walking ahead of me, slowly, steady looking back at me as if they thought I would disappear from existence, if they went too far too fast. At the standpipe, I filled my canteen with cold early morning water. Reluctantly, I allowed my dreams to enter my head again. The day went on as usual.
Work was work, long, monotonous and filled with dread. Talk about lay offs and how them damn coolies taking ova the place continued to fill the space around me. Things was changing and like most men I felt hopeless. "Mr. Boss-man say 'not to worry' wid he lyin ass! Ah doh believe that shit! All they want to do is placate my ass wid ch'upid talk." The other men nodded, some disagreed, some were unsure. "But Larry wuh we go do? Strike? Hope the union go back we up? If they don't want we here no more I say we take the money and leave the wok!" One of the men said. Larry looked at Mayan and nodded. Mr. Boss-man was turning the corner wid he crew. Here he come with that stupid grin on he face. As if to say we were to trust him or something. "Ay, fellas. What good today?" Nobody say nothin' to him. Every man head down in he lunch pail or sippin' from a thermos. Only Mayan and Larry eyeballin' him. "Oh, ok. I see how it is. When all yuh ready to talk come see meh nah..." The bell to return to work sounded. Backs turned, feet shuffled and lunch pails snapped shut. Mr. Boss Man' s voice and presence were no longer a concern to any of the men, it seemed.
That evening I returned home having made a decision. I was going to quit the factory, and take the package offer with partial pension. Sylvia, would never know why. I myself wasn't a hundred percent sure. Motivated by fear and superstition I put extra money in her hands, hoping to assuage my wife with the purchase of new curtains and church clothes for Easter. Sylvia and I never had any children, the house was ours and we both had skills to bring in money aside from my job. But we both knew this was less about us and more about everyone else. How would the town survive the inevitable. Racial tension was on the rise. "They" were taking our place. Government was on their side. Or was it that blacks had lost focus. Either way, Mayan and Larry were planning to retaliate against the threat of change.

On  01/xx/2003

I felt cold that day.
The day I got the news.
No one ever wants to be
Reminded about things
Of which they have no control of : ( you should'a known better).
Mortality and disease and evil politicians
And airplanes that suddenly
Crash into buildings.
But that day as I sat in an orange armchair,
Located in a small rectangular room,
I was reminded
That none of us have our hands on the final draft of the script
Or even the permission, nor the authority, to rewrite it.
Is it fair?
Or is it simply a matter of
Free will,
Choice,
Cause,
And effect.

This was recently found in a journal. Not sure why I wrote it but it sounds good to me. No title, but I think I just found one...

Equality

Those singular yet dependent
Components will aid in acquiring
The desired attention;
Making others recognize me, that I was standing here, all along.
They will open their eyes and ears,
Lift their heads and know,
My skin black,
My eyes brown,
My soul lifted, my heart light,
My future, right.

This excerpt from "I Not Mad At'all" came about as a result of my observation of women in Trinidad during my younger years. I spent a lot of time taking in scenes and listening. This is just a small, reimagined picture of locals and their day to day lives.

I Not Mad At’all

by Mark James 

Nobody wanted what I had anymore. People find they’self going down in Town, not to buy cloth from Jimmy Aboud or Patrick’s. They wanted brand new fashion styles that look like what they see on American TV. Marcel sayin’ how I get too high and mighty now and how I chargin’ too much just tuh make a jacket fuh he wedding next month. D’man much rather have somet’ing that look like what everybody else wearin’ than have a custom tailor-made original in he closet. I still goin’ and buy my fabric and do what I know how to do to d’best of my ability. Ah mean, after all I didn’t go to Ms. Mary’s  Sewing School for Tailors and Seamstresses for nothing.
Maybe she think I is some kinda asshole or something. Please excuse my language. But ah does get so mad when people think meh stupid. How I go give this woman the dress I make fuh she; she want me to give it tuh she fuh a party coming up tomorrow night because she don’t have nothing else good tuh wear, and not get paid for all the fabric and time and effort I put into it. “Ah mean, is just $65.00! Come nah, ah go pay yuh nex’week.” Brenda Pierre must think she slick, same one who take d’last outfit I make an’go wine-up and skin-up and drop she ass down on d’foor in some fete then come back with it ripped to complain ‘bout how it wasn’t made properly. Ha! These people really know how tuh cross me.
I put my business together on my own. After Fredrick leave me because he say ah’ barren and kya make no baby for he to be proud of. He call he’self leavin’ me as if I’go shrivel up and dead just because he take’way what between he leg and go two avenues over to where I know he wanted to be in d’first place. A woman have to stand she ground. My mother didn't raise me to beg no man tuh stay when he not wantin’ to be kept. My mother, God rest she soul, left this house to me so when he look me in my face and threaten to walk out, I sit my behind down in this chair, in front of my sewing machine, push meh skirt between meh legs, reach over and turn up d’radio and start workin’ on finishin’ touches for d‘bridesmaids dresses I was working on at the time. I hear him say somt’ing or another, probably cussin’ me out good, I don’t give a damn, eventually he leave. My shop set-up right where d’front gallery used to be. Extension put onto the front’a d’house and glass window add on with a new sign and price list to let people know how much things cost. Mr. David do a nice job fuh me, yes. Although I think he was a’lil sweet on meh and was hoping to pick up where Fredrick leave off. I was very proud, of d’buildin’ ah mean, and also for not givin’ into weakness. Man doh have shit with dem. That was ten years ago. I keep up my place nice, as best I could. Do everyt’ing myself after David help get it started. I decide tuh just put all d’things that people doh come for in d’window. It go’sell! My work speaks for it’self.
Aileen say she comin’ tuh see me today. I like her just fine but she never have not’ing but bad news to talk. Sometimes ah does get sick a’dem t’ing. Last time she leave here I was so depressed. “Dickson mother dead, yuh know...How dem chilren bad so, ah go hear bout dem, by next year either dey dead, or in jail, mark my words...Yuh know Susan big daughter Natalie, she pregnant! No man to marry she, is a shame...” Just thinkin’ about she comin’ here to run she mout’ and ah gettin’ a headache. Once in a while she does gim’meh good information. Ah know she was outside long before ah stop sewing to answer d’door. Always draggin‘ she two foot on d‘pavement, too much in a hurry to stop and put on proper shoes so she have on what supposed to be house slippers. Latch on meh gate bangin’, foot scraping d’road and she mout‘ goin‘. “Eh, heh is so? Watch yuh’self wid dem t’ing all that glitters is not potential gold baby, yuh betta pay attention.” She was talkin‘ tuh my next door neighbor Rose. Aileen live three streets over from me, yuh would t’ink Crescent Avenue was where she house was, seein‘ as how she know everybody and all a’what does go on behind dey closed doors. She knockin’ on d’storefront door, she big ample hips steady jigglin’ since she can’t stop quiet for twistin‘ and turnin’. As always she bring bad news and some good news, not much’a d’good though, she tellin’ me how Hazel done put out Fredrick from she house. “Why you tellin’ me ‘bout he? I doh want tuh hear ‘bout that man and d’woman he done lef’ meh for!” I was heated. So mad ah gone and mess up d’stitch on some pants ah was makin’. “Girl hush, ah not trying to upset yuh, I know yuh doh want he again.” Aileen put she jaw and she two lips together and let out long sh’tupes as if to say she wasn’t considerin’ me and my feelin’s ‘bout Fredrick anyway. So I let it go and decide to laugh when she start to describe how after hearin’ loud noise and cussin comin’ from inside d’house, Hazel and Fredrick come stumblin’ out the front door into d’yard; she on-top a’he wailin’ on he ass good, she even manage to damage he face up, all dem nice gold rings he buy for she wid my money en’up as weapon. Boone had to come drag she off him. Some sayin’ they never see Hazel so, she was mad like hell. Always more tuh d’story, especially where dat man is concerned. But, he no-longer my problem. Say what yuh want ‘bout Aileen, she is a good friend, d’only one a’have.
Three years now since I had a man to call mine. In between Fredrick I had some suiters here and there. Nobody to talk ‘bout just somt’ing to do tuh pass d’time. I was no slouch in d’looks department, had a shape on me dat make man mout’ water. Most of d’time dey call meh stuck up or lesbian because I doh give dem no sex. More and more I thinkin’ about Fredrick since I hear the talk from Aileen last week. Where he is and who he wid, as hard as it was to know he was leavin’ me and why, it was somet’ing about knowin’ he was goin’ to be taken care of dat put meh mind at ease. It crazy, I know what yuh thinkin’. Life not always d’easiest t’ing tuh make sense of. Next time Aileen come over, I let she in and listened to bad news, some had sequels some had sad ending. I was thinkin’ up a happy endin’ to a story I done conceive on meh own when I ask her this: “So yuh hear anymore concernin’ Freddy and Hazel?” Aileen raise up she voice, “Oh is ‘Freddy’ now, ah t’ought he name was ‘good-for-nothing son-of-a bitch!'" “Ah just askin‘ a question, so much for makin‘ conversation...” I wasn’t sure I believe meh own self much less if ah did convince Aileen how little interest I had in a man that left me for another a long time ago. “Anyway girl here yuh two piece-a-curtain fuh d’kitchen, just gimme $25.00 and call it done. Aileen pay me and start to lift she big ass from off d’bench that was pushed up against the wall where all my pattern cutouts hung from. Before she leave she say, “Don’t make me a liar, Sandra. You is d’only girlfriend I have that ah does blab to everybody ‘bout how smart yuh is when it come tuh man and who could run she own store without help from nobody else. If he was here, none-a-this would be standin’.” She waivin’ her hand around and pointin’ to the four walls of the Ms. Sandy’s Dress-Shop. After she gone ah thinkin’ hard and lookin’ around d’room at all the years of hard work and sacrifice in front-a-meh face.