Friday, July 19, 2024

What It’s Like

Sunset, July 18th, 2024: South Bronx. 

Slabs of concrete that look like Mayan altars tipped on their side surround us. Allegedly people live in these, stacked on an elevation, a structure poured in the 70s with the express approval of a city planner with a 

hard-on for Brutalism, arrogantly mismatched centerpieces bordered by spindly sixth floor walk-ups leaning against the last century. 

I walk by one of the latter and a gangly tomboy no older than 10 exits the building. She has fuzzy caramel hair messily snared in a low ponytail accompanied by height of summer peach fuzz and is wearing baggy jeans and a tan oversized Timberland logo T-shirt that looks like a skull but is actually a tree of life. 

She runs past me to speak to her Tia about dinner; a relay racer passing a question from Mama about how many cloves and how much cinnamon go in the chicken mole, she always gets the two amounts mixed up, and before you know it, the runner is already on her return, looking over her shoulder warily as she shoots past, curious of me, the Blanquita. 

A strong wave of knowing hits me just as hard as the ones in the sea, the kind that slap you in the face and make you inhale water. 

I suddenly know she won’t live past 20 (maybe as soon as 11 at this rate- Daddy’s pain meds from two years ago still sit in the medicine cabinet), and then soon after, another wave hits and tells me she would finally pass at 38, which says to me she probably dies of a fentanyl overdose the first time and is resuscitated and then dies again later from the same venturous interest. 

I’m listening to Little Jimmy Scott on my earbuds, he’s telling me he’ll See Me In The Sycamore Trees. 

The song finishes at last light. 

A sudden breeze makes the edges of my dress rustle like curtains in an approaching storm.

Monday, June 24, 2024


You work within a branch of  US intelligence connected to the Secret Service- but who you really work for is a rogue element in the CIA. Your front job is Secret Service, but you’re a traitor working from within working both sides: yours/the billionaires and the US government. You worked on the telepathic technology since 2009 when you realized its implications. You had me in 2008 at The Plaza. But not for much longer. 

You think you control the knobs and dials; you don’t. 
You have moles inside watching you all the time. 
Puppet Master you are not. More like a slave. 
You have no goals except your ego. 

That’s gonna do you in in the long run. 

Well, for you, short run. 

Not much longer now. 

Just wait!

 Eat some poi and walk on hot coals while you bide your time, you cheap motherfucker.

I Love Catalina Island!

You work out of Catalina, too. You spend your days in Maui, trying to push the software on anyone who will listen. Spies, the Brits, the Mongols: it doesn’t matter:  You want what they have. They want what you have. That makes you a traitor, doesn’t it? Selling secrets to the spies? Yeah, I think that makes you a traitor.

It’s OPEN SEASON on your ass, motherfucker. You’re about to go down. And I’m gonna enjoy every minute of it. My boys are looking into this as we speak. You are a dead man.