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JASENSOUSA.NET
Humming Eternity
Other books by Jasen Sousa Life, Weather A Thought and a Tear for Every Day of the Year Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me Almost Forever A Mosaic of My Mind 17-24: Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa .........
Humming Eternity By Jasen Sousa
Introduction By Jeanne Barron
Editing Team Rene F. LaMorticelli, Ann Mento, Debbie Senesi, Rose Soccorso, Darlene Sousa, Jasen Sousa
Humming Eternity
copyright Š 2009 by Jasen Sousa copyright Š All Rights Reserved by J-Rock Publishing Edited by Rene F. LaMorticelli, Ann Mento, Debbie Senesi, Rose Soccorso, Darlene Sousa, Jasen Sousa Book Design by Dime Designz
J-Rock Publishing and Dime Designz In affiliation with Eudimeonia Entertainment and The United Front Company All rights reserved under international and Pan-American copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, electronic, mechanical, or by any other means, without written permission of the author. Address all inquiries to : J-Rock Publishing 45 Francesca Avenue Somerville, MA 02144 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data ISBN 978-0-9714926-6-2 Manufactured in The United States of America Printed in Somerville, Massachusetts
For Chris Ormond
Who is Jasen Sousa? I often ask that question to myself. I also wonder how one man’s soul is so driven to keep motivating himself and those around him? In this book he gives us pieces of his thoughts as well as his aspirations to stay positive in a negative environment. He is able to find light in the darkest places. It’s almost as if he inhales the problems of others and exhales solutions through his writing. I have met a lot of people and Jasen is by far one of the most thoughtful and understanding, you can see evidence of that scattered throughout his book as he gives life to people in society who are often overlooked and forgotten about. Documenting the stories of these people is what pushes him and keeps his mind going, they trigger thoughts and emotions which result in the amazing words that are carefully molded into stories throughout this collection of poems.
To me, that’s who Jasen Sousa is.
Jeanne Barron
CONTENTS
I THE DISHWASHER WHO TAUGHT ME ABOUT LIFE
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STREET MAGICIAN
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80 PROOF WATER
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DEALING
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BOYS WITH BATS
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617 625-8141
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BLISS
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THE LAUGH OF FLORA GONZALEZ
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RACHEL’S
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MAP OF THE BATTLEFIELD
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II HAWK EYES
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DISCOVERY
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ROXBURY CROSSING CONCERT
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GHOSTS OF THE PLAYGROUND
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PORTRAIT OF A PROSTITUTE
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THE LOW-PAID BEAUTIFUL
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AN ELDER’S TALE
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PROJECT HALLWAYS
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A VOICE FROM THE TOOLBOX
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DEATH OF A POET
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III A SHOVEL’S PULSE
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LIFE’S DUST
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MATTUCHIO’S SCRAP METAL
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MR. BUSINESSMAN
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AMERICAN FIEND
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MY MOTHER’S KEEPER
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A NIGHT UNDER THE STARS
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SITTING, ON THE CORNER
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REFLECTIVE MOVEMENT
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Humming Eternity
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The Dishwasher Who Taught Me about Life Whenever I see a plate sitting in a sink begging to be washed, I think of him. His large mustache, chubby cheeks, white checkered pants, and black apron. His name was Wilfredo. It was my first job. I was a teenager, he was in his 40’s. 8-hour shifts and 5-day weeks were rare. The overwhelming crowds at lunch and dinner we came to master and laugh about. During 15-minute breaks I sat with him on the loading dock on bread crates tipped upside down while he continued to fill an old tomato can with butts. He taught me about the girl tattooed on his arm and the son he got to see a few times a month. He taught me to always be on time and how not to call in sick because of a stuffy nose, headache, shriveled hands and sore back, because those were symptoms people like us had to live and work with everyday.
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Street Magician I pull my dream out of the sewer and mold it into a guitar case. The breath from the monster living under the city tries to blind me, I place it down on the corner. I stand by it for a good portion of my life, crowds walk through me. Black furry skin slowly drowns in change. I smile, money spills over onto the street, each night I go home and empty it out until I have enough to go to college. I go back to the corner, place my dream down and walk away. I hope someone finds it
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and shapes it into something that excites them. Years later, I come back, the only person watching a young boy perform. We make eye contact, I drop a nickel into nothingness. The next time I go and see the young man it costs me 50 bucks, he now performs under stars hovering above a stage. I still feel like I am the only person watching.
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80 Proof Water He approached as I waited for the train, he stood, but his eyes were barely open. Extending his hand telling me his name, skinny shoulders, seriously sloping. Skull tattoos covered his trembling arms, his ghostly gray goatee moved as he spoke. Told me tales of his time in Vietnam and how he had just finished smoking dope. Close to the tracks, he began to wobble, he spoke to me, “Please don’t let me fall in.� Offered vodka from a water bottle, time seemed to stall as I recall my grin. The train finally came, we both boarded. A man distorted, a man recorded.
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Dealing When I was younger I watched them hang on corners next to payphones and mom and pop shops. When I was a little older they recruited me and taught me the ways of the drug trade, but I always wanted to start a business where I could inspire customers instead of destroying them. I learned to package my product, break it down into it’s purest form and sell it to the same audiences who have something missing in their lives. OG’s explained to me how powerful drugs were. Told me I could have all the money and girls I could ever want, but they never taught me about another product I could give to people more powerful than addiction. My words.
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Boys with Bats They don’t understand our obsession with bats. We scavenge through city streets, look for our weapons of choice. We scour through garbage, leave barrels lying on their sides, high-five upon their demise. We raid abandoned buildings and throw rocks through small square panels of muck covered glass for practice. We find hockey sticks, lead pipes and tree limbs to go along with brooms we swiped from our parents. Grinning young craftsmen sawing down sticks to our liking. We blow away dust and tape both ends, leave plenty of room to choke up. We bring spray paint to make sure everyone knows their way home. We enter the park, cigarette smoke and foul language follows us. Sagging fences surround, we splash through puddles and crush lonely grass that grows from cracks in the concrete. We dress in our specific street colors and wait to see if any other neighborhood kids are up for a challenge. Maybe it’s true what everyone says about us being hoodlums and thugs. With our bats, backwards caps, socks up to our knees, beaters showing off our tats and crucifixes dangling around our skinny necks. But today, we are baseball players.
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617 625-8141
This morning I called my grandmother. There was no answer. She must have went for a walk to Davis Square with her elderly neighbor friend to pick up milk and bread, or maybe she was down on her hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom floor restoring grout to its original shine, or maybe she had the mixer on blending ingredients to a delicious cake, or maybe she was in the cellar putting clothes in the dryer, gently as she put muffins in the oven. I call her every morning knowing there won’t be an answer.
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Bliss How can the poor open their ears to me when they live in shacks half-clothed and hungry? How can captives listen when chains strangle their spirits? How can the blind see vivid images I speak of? Oppression and the struggle to change your train of thought to believe you are relevant. Change surrounds us, and located inside of change, is fear. Fear that friends who inspire us will become strangers. Fear, that allows us to look more closely into a world which has been forgotten by those who do not fear anything. Powerful spirits cannot keep still for long, change allows hope to move into places where it is needed. Hope exists in that which is present
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and it also exists in that which is missing and it pulsates inside special people who are able to build strength and courage in those who do not have the energy to listen, so they can one day speak and be heard.
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The Laugh of Flora Gonzalez
Flora’s spray painted graffiti gray hair, her intricate colorful maze sweaters. Florescent lights and her jewelry’s glare. The graceful way she draws her letters. Nothing compares to the sound and the way it bounces off the confined classroom walls. Bellowing laugh, Cuban missile astray, debris from the explosion slowly falls, blending embers, her smile surrenders. A sound a student couldn’t help but remember.
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Rachel’s I walk up Highland Avenue from the train station. I spot a large woman sitting on a porch. “Young man, young man. Can you go to the corner store and buy me soda and paper towels?” She asked. She hands me money, feels like a wet sock. Back to her house, she’s gone, the front door is open. I tiptoe towards the threshold, hear heavy breathing echoing throughout the eerie environment. “Hello?” “Over here, over here.” “I’m on the couch,” she huffed. I give her the bag, she thanks me. “One more thing young man,
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in my basement, there’s an air conditioner. It’s so hot, can you please install it for me?” I turn the doorknob, it falls off on first touch. Cobwebs stick to my face, it sits on a crate. I lift, carry it up narrow stairs, brute weight carves into my forearms. I install it. She thanks me again. “One more thing please. The sun is so bright. See those green drapes on the floor? Can you please hang them for me?’ I balance myself on an old chair, sun blinds my vision, I hang her drapes. “Thank you! Thank you! One more thing I promise. I’m going to start a business in my house, can you make a sign for me? It’s really too hot for me to do anything.” I place fresh marker tips on cardboard, carefully curve my letters. I finish the sign and place it in the window. I leave her house, look at the air conditioner, green drapes and the sign that reads,
Rachel’s Psychic Readings 16
Map of the Battlefield Her skirt bounced, she trudged up subway stairs, barricaded by her weight and bags she held. At the back of her legs, I was forced to stare at calves and ankles which were permanently swelled. Fluorescent rivers flowed through aged skin, faded scars of stitches, zippers that will never open. Unshaved stubble, lost in the rubble, hundreds of surviving brave men. The glare of the battle scene soaked in sweat and lotion. Bombs exploded, left large holes, hitting hard enough to bruise and dig trenches, but not deep enough to bleed. Shade covered parts of her legs from mountainous moles, as she stumbled, I heard the spirits of fallen soldiers trying to breathe. Gun shot wounds, blisters bulged over the back of her heel, a telling tale of this woman’s personal plight. A battle which has left wounds that will never heal. A map of the battlefield, a forgotten war and an unknown soldier’s fight.
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Hawk Eyes Three remain, I serve with no name, the only diner still open. A lonely man silently weeps, a couple dreams of love, hoping. All of their coffee is ice cold, apologizing for hours. A hand she does not want to hold, she will not accept his flowers. I listen to the friends argue, the bright lights flicker when they swear. Their anger towards each other grows, sense the end of their bond is near. My back aches from standing all day, the dishwater has aged my hands. “It is time to be on your way.� Finally, everybody stands.
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Discovery In 1965 my father left all he knew. 11-years-old, on a journey to reunite with his father who had left years earlier to build a new life in America. Fascinated with the anticipation of flight, he left the island of Saint Miguel on a small plane, watching grazing cows diminish in size by the second. Before America, there was the island of Santa Maria and the hotel Pencao Batista where my father became enamored by a tiny switch in the bedroom. Summoning light on command was magical for a young boy who had never experienced electricity. A larger plane took him across unfamiliar waters until he was welcomed by intimidating buildings of New York. He didn’t understand the way people spoke, looked or acted. Like cattle, he and the others on the plane where pushed, poked, and pointed towards Boston where his father waited to introduce wonders of a new world. He watched television for a few minutes before telling his father to turn it off so the battery wouldn’t die. 45 years vanished before my father went back to Portugal to see the house he grew up in and familiar faces from his neighborhood. He experienced the same feeling as when he first arrived in America.
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Roxbury Crossing Concert It crawls into Roxbury Crossing, horn blows at rowdy crowds. Kids fresh out of school pile on. An older man escapes the closing doors. Dresses like he is still in the 80’s, tongues on his Nike’s lick halfway up his neon green sweat pants. Kango covers his eyes, boom box at the base of his feet. The train begins to move, he bends down, gold rope dusts the floor. He presses play, beats level the train. He begins to dance, clap and stomp his feet and kids from bad neighborhoods who aren’t supposed to be able to get along, let down their guard and begin to groove in perfect harmony.
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Ghosts of the Playground Remaining leaves try to crawl over basketball court fences, I walk past the park, step over bones scattered on asphalt. I see Earl “The Goat” Manigault stand on a ladder and thread a net through iron tassels on a rusty rim. I see Richard “Pee Wee” Kirkland with a broom, he sweeps dirt and sand towards the sidelines. I see James “Fly” Williams with a paint brush, he touches up the key and makes it glow once again. I see Lewis “Black Magic” Lloyd with a tape measure, he makes sure the rim is 10-feet-tall. I see Herman “Helicopter” Knowings wipe dust off the top of backboards. I see Curtis “CJ” Jones throw away broken beer bottles and syringes. I see Joe “The Destroyer” Hammond slam down thunderous jams, “Seems fine to me.” People walking by bump into me and point out how much the baskets shake from the wind. Now I know who prepares the courts for nice weather.
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Portrait of a Prostitute Not the pimp, and not the participant, only the painter who captured a scene of a girl wondering where her life went, a profession that began at fifteen. Not trying to add, but remove color, erasing the bruises around her eyes from different men who told her they love her, and the shadowy tears from when she cries. Swollen feet, twenty-four hours on heels, layers of makeup to cover her pain. Exposes parts, true beauty not revealed, deep in my heart her image will remain. My portrait of a prostitute I knew, the most somber picture I ever drew.
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The Low-Paid Beautiful Arthur is the worst smelling man you will ever meet. Screaming and yelling at one another, his children in and out of the bathroom all morning, he has already left for work. Nine people live in his three room apartment, two of them are not family. The moment his shift starts he can’t wait to go home. Arthur’s young boys and their ashy skin, lay on what used to be a hardwood floor stretching down a narrow hallway. Balancing their snack filled stomachs, playing videogames, they have everything in the world they could ever want. The one lonely table in the center of the kitchen. The chairs are missing and the only light comes from the aqua clock blinking on the microwave. Mattresses get in the way of opening the fridge, the kids never have to travel far to eat. Arthur carries a blade in his blue gym bag in case old beefs resurface. The little he has
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makes it even tougher to lose. What’s left of the pay stub goes to his wife Diane, the rest goes to his girl MaryJane. Cash to keep love, cash to get lifted. No bank account, no raises in sight, no promotion in this lifetime. Gets to work earlier than his boss, Arthur realizes waking up is a miracle. His overgrown belly, salt and pepper beard and the way he coughs after inhaling from his asthma pump. Arthur limps when he walks, the shoelaces on his boots are always untied and flailing. Yeah, he is his family’s hero.
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An Elder’s Tale I am an elderly man, the last remaining solider of the Israelite army. I once believed in convenient worship and desired to remain on familiar grounds. For who wants to live, better yet, who wants to die in an unknown land and be buried by strangers? We wished Moses would have let us be as comfort greatly outweighs truth. None of us believed what this prophet promised about a strange protection we knew nothing of. It is hard to believe in things you can’t see, but then we seen as a powerful wind turned water into land and we were allowed to cross. The Egyptians followed, but they were pursued by a sea that was not as kind to them. Submerged, still chariot wheels were the last we saw of them and the sound of dead Egyptian soldiers being swallowed by the Red Sea was drowned out and replaced by tambourines and trumpets which began playing inside of me on this day and have not stopped since‌
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Project Hallways The wall’s paint, same color as people’s hope. Getting buzzed in, lost in clouds of smoke. Permanent as graffiti and urine lakes hovering inside project gates it stays in the air, continues to float. Empty Heineken bottles grow out of staircases. Walking up the steps, eyes stare out of cracked opened doors. Never to see their faces. A baby’s cries echoes through the hallway skies. Magic marker memorials of everyone in the projects who dies. Outside the broken window, worn out sneakers hanging from cable wires by their laces. A single mother off at work, her two children sit in a dark corner and blaze. Trying her hardest to get out, but gets stuck in society’s economic maze. Walking through the hallways are family, friends, foes. The flickering bulb finally blows. Those long never ending project hallways.
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A Voice from the Toolbox Grass burns. Lights bulbs flicker. Paint peels. Trash overflows. Faces are not recognized. Uneducated logo-bearers painted with blue collars, underpaid, overworked and unappreciated by men whose sense and compassion are strangled by bowties. Compensation? I hope they factor in bad backs, strains and stress which were received at the end of every week with our pay stubs. We are offered numbers. We are numbers. All we desire is respect and truth. The scuffs from our work boots are forever imbedded into a campus that struggles with what type of saving
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they stand for. Sweat stitched into the brim of my hat will always remind me of snowstorms, furniture in and out of basements and maintenance to keep a place functioning. Our lockers will be stuffed with new items, our chairs will carry the burdens of other men. “How many people does it take to change a light bulb?� Not as many as it takes to disrupt ones livelihood.
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Death of a Poet Last night I killed a poet. Before I let him take his last breath I tortured him like only another poet could. My mentor let me into his house as usual. We said hello, he staggered to quiet the tea pot. As he handed me a cup and saucer, shaking, I punched him in the face, sending the poet to the ground, out cold. I unzipped my backpack and took out tape and rope, I placed them on his couch. I picked up his limp body, snuggled him into the chair in the living room near the fireplace. While his shoulder held his head, I duct taped his mouth and tied his hands
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and feet with rope. I went into his bedroom where he kept his notebooks full of poems and great first lines. The elderly man did not store anything electronically, I proceeded demonically. He taught me how poetry was supposed to look, how great poets used form and meter in their books. He constrained my freedom as a writer, as a human being. His gray hair moved in front of the fire like a solar eclipse. There was nothing to say. I threw his manuscripts, some whole notebooks, some page by page, into the flames as I watched canals develop inside immodest wrinkles.
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A Shovel’s Pulse Every August 17th I go to the hardware store and buy a shovel. I leave my car in the lot, put the shovel over my shoulder and march to the same patch of grass. I begin at hell and go deeper. Shadows mock me, I dig for answers. I reach the casket and lie on top of it, my breath creates a fog on the dirt-covered wood. I carve his initials and watch them disappear. I speak and hope one of these times, my friend will hear.
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Life’s Dust First, there is uncertainty you will make it, but it’s a path you must take if you wish to stay. Even with little chance, it’s a trip you must take. Look down, close your eyes and follow the way. Second, you are now in position. Others fear you have made it this far. They watch you closely, they look and listen. Look up and observe the glow of the one true falling star. Third, you are almost home. Dig your feet in the dirt, be ready to run. This is something you must do on your own underneath a fluorescent sun. Life’s dust, spirits who live on the diamond of life.
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Mattuchio’s Scrap Metal My grandfather walks the streets of Somerville and collects materials the rest of the city considers trash and brings them back to his underground factory. He piles screens, doors, handles, lead, everything but the, oh, wait, there is a kitchen sink too. On a Saturday we load the back of the truck, grunts, bangs. We drive as partners, businessmen, to Chelsea, MA and arrive at Mattuchio’s Scrap Metal. We unload the truck into two laundry bins, separate copper and lead from aluminum and wheel them into what looks like a former airplane hanger. The Italian man covered in dirt and dust weighs
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the aluminum, the copper and the lead. He pulls out a wad of 20’s and gives my grandfather three hundred bucks. We get into the truck and ride back to Somerville. He talks on the way home, anxious to show my Grandmother the killing he made off other people’s junk.
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Mr. Businessman Mr. Businessman I see you often, you walk briskly by me every morning as I’m changing the trash that is rotten. You wait for the elevator, yawning. We cross paths, but never make eye contact, I would like to introduce who I am. I’m the one who keeps your office intact, yes sir, I am that invisible man. Your desk shines because of my elbow grease, your windows are spotless because of me. If something goes missing, I am the thief, hot justice for those without a degree. It’s this man’s business to ignore my life. I clean and dream to be seen in plain sight.
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American Fiend A mother begins to consume, her child develops inside of a premature tomb. That which will free her. That which will enslave her seed. A baby is born, a baby cries because it feels the need to feed. A heritage of needles and syringes, rehab and relapse. Chemicals fade our genes as we count veins on the bark of a rotting family tree. General injections create her addictive complexion, hanging on an Art Deco corner, Miss Wrecked Whacko. An addict’s faith, sniffing broken down clouds off a crucifix for the ultimate high.
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My Mother’s Keeper A song is the only way this child can remember my mother, Brenda, I appreciate the way you tried to defend her. As a kid I had a dumpster for a crib, I crawled out of trash, I decided I wanted to live. At that time my mom didn’t know, but just like you tried to show, from nothing, I was able to grow. Didn’t know much about my dad, and my grandfather couldn’t hug me because he had needles sticking out of his arms, rubber bands in his teeth and syringes in his palms. My mother was a prostitute who was found slain, I appreciate the young man who gave her a name.
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A Night under the Stars My favorite drug addict friend returns to Somerville from a rehab stay in Miami. Not allowed home because of countless times he ripped off his family, can’t chill with old friends because he wants to stay clean. We eat bagels and drink OJ on benches at two in the morning, watch fiends come in and out of the 24-hour store. We watch pigeons parade on top of streetlights, the sun peeks out. A night to stay awake. A night to stay alive.
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Sitting, on the Corner Her daughter and I listen carefully for the door to open, cartoons play in the background. Trying to color inside the lines, the aroma of a chicken nugget dinner creeps through the apartment. Weeks of dishes sit in the sink. I scrub, she chews, and before she swallows, she tugs on my shirt wanting to play hide and go seek. Slowly counting, my fingers like tweezers plucking soggy roaches from the tub. Continuing the search, trying to stand milk and soda on sloping shelves while picking clothes off the floor and shoving them into drawers filled with old LifeStyles. “I can’t fit in there silly,” she yelled! The loser has to give a piggyback ride. Bouncing off my back from side to side, as much love as I could have for a little girl who is not my own. Her eyelids begin to stutter, I tuck her in gluing sheets to her chin. Hours later the door slams, the blind falls like it always does. Heels explode on the floor, dress parachutes to the carpet, I stare at a figure that was once
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only touched by my hands. Her mom stares back, but I never say much. Somewhere in our teens I stopped telling her things would change. I walk towards and open the door, hang the blind and shut it softly. I put on my headphones and walk home listening to my favorite song as it skips.
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Reflective Movement Dusting off the past wondering what to carry into the future. The weights of what I once bared lightened by a stroll to the dumpster. Boxed memories re-visited, what I needed once, what I don’t have use for anymore. Change exists in the draft you feel over your shoulder which turns into a wind and forces you out of the comfort of home, into the uncertainty of what is yet unknown and the journey to collect new objects which will inspire tomorrow’s mission begins.
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Humming Eternity
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Humming Eternity Notes 1 The Dishwasher Who Taught Me About Life: Tribute to my friend Wilfredo. A man I worked with in a kitchen in Harvard Square. Street Magician: About an unknown street performer who I would listen to while waiting for the train at Downtown Crossing. 80 Proof Water: About an unknown man who stumbled into my life in Chinatown. Dealing: About older kids who grew up around me in Somerville, MA. Boys with Bats: About me and my friends and our journey to find stickball bats when we were younger. 617 625-8141: Tribute to my Grandmother, Rose Soccorso. Bliss: Tribute to my good friend Arrington Chambliss, a powerful woman who has had a great impact on my life. The Laugh of Flora Gonzalez: About my Latin American literature teacher from Emerson College and her unique laugh. Rachel’s: For Rachel, the mysterious woman who was able to get me to perform multiple tasks for her. Map of the Battlefield: For the large woman who happened to be in my way while walking up stairs in the Forrest Hills T Station in Jamaica Plain. 2 Hawk Eyes: Tribute to Edward Hopper. A painter who I first came across at a Museum of Science art exhibit and thought his art was a lot like my writing. Discovery: Tribute to my father Edmund Sousa and his journey as a young child from Portugal to America. Roxbury Crossing Concert: For the unknown man who rocked the Orange Line in the Roxbury area.
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Ghosts of the Playground: A tribute to some of my favorite street basketball players. Hope this poem does you guys some justice. Portrait of a Prostitute: For a girl who I am not going to name. Seeing and feeling your pain was one of the reasons I began to write. The Low-Paid Beautiful: Tribute to my main man Arthur Watkins, one of my favorite people I have ever met in my life. An Elder’s Tale: A poem about Moses and the parting of the Red Sea I did for Stephanie Spellers and her Hip-Hop Easter vigil mass. Project Hallways: A Poem depicting projects in Jamaica Plain. A Voice from the Toolbox: Tribute to the Buildings and Grounds department and all the great people who were a part of it such as Authur Roberson, Arthur Watkins, Tom Senesi, Tim Dubois, Peter Stinchfield, Juan Ramos, John Morrisey and Bill Chu. Death of a Poet: For an unnamed old poet who I often fantasize about killing. Only Playing… 3 A Shovel’s Pulse: Tribute to my man Chris Ormond. Hey man, I’m trying to keep your memory alive through my writing. Life’s Dust: Thought of this poem while watching a baseball game at Trum Field in Somerville, MA. Mattuchio’s Scrap Metal: Tribute to my grandfather Alfred Soccorso. The person in my family who I am most alike. Mr. Businessman: For an unknown man and his desk I would clean every night at a part-time job in Harvard Square. American Fiend: Not a specific poem about anyone in particular, but more of a general observation about people living around me. My Mother’s Keeper: Tribute to my favorite artist of all time, Tupac Shakur. He inspires me to do what I do. A Night Under the Stars: For my homie who grew up a few houses down from me on Lexington Avenue. I hope I have been able to get you through some difficult times. Sitting, on the Corner: For an unnamed girl who occupies a good portion of my heart. Reflective Movement: A poem inspired by Bishop Stephen Charleston as we had a conversation about life while throwing stuff into a dumpster.
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Trying to give life to that which is presumed dead.
J.S.
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