Last Thursday was the continuation of this 3 part tribute, which today focuses on 'her Sun.' Every man is a sun - being splendid as the eye of heaven and being the affect of effect. And, while this focus is on black men, every man is luminous in this way.
And, so - 'the religion of beautiful' ...

(listen to La's Poetic Prose: 'Chocolate Dipped' by entering author comment link on sidebar)

Fathers & Sons

destiny set me up, and some days it's lovely, most days it’s humbling. but, respectfully, my pops is a gangsta. he’s a gangsta in his voice, loud and aggitated. he's a gangsta in his clothes, from flawlessly pimped to i jus don't give a shit. my pops is a gangsta in his hair and in his walk. it's not an act - he's gangsta at the crib and on the block. he's a gangsta from his faith it'll never happen to his hope gotta play my numbers. he knows his seeds are the substance of legacies. and, not that it is intentional, but pops will spread his seeds freely. you can look at me and see the power of society because 'they' keep saying my pops can't. but my pops keeps trying not to show i might c'aint. pops spent his life in sacrifice to make sure that before i speak you don't suspect me. and if not that, to make sure i know that before i speak you gone suspect me. and if not that, then maybe, just maybe, this will be the time things play out right. pop, your words come few. but your moves are like whoo, bringing out the survivor in me. teaching me a man can carry the family tree with nothing more than dignity. my appreciation is more than being son of an original solider. it is knowing when the time comes, i’ll be a man, a strong one because you faced the situation - regardless if it meant being here or being gone

NOTE: blue letter(s) = him & pink letter(s) = her

He’s hurt, hurt bad. Who he is I can’t place. I know his face. I know his hurt. I know he’s been here before. I smiled at him, once. I remember he smiled back. It seems so unlikely. I smile at him today, he looks spitted on. No matter how clean my smile, how gentle, soothing my voice. No matter the calm of my words. I can’t understand how I got this from him. He’s hurt, and with his hurt he’s hurt me. Maybe that’s the problem. I put it in him. I know where I am, but where am I going. He knows he has a purpose. But what. Why another man soiled. Am I his strength.

Me and my man never quite agree on our woe. Before we can even agree to be enemies here come this man taking his place. Knocking, hard and long. My man hears him. He’s tried to answer the knock. I watched. He tried to answer the knock last time and couldn’t get the door unlocked. He went to answer it again. This time I begged. ‘Don’t go, no, don’t.’ I want to answer it. Truth is, neither of us is prepared. Not to provide this man with what he’s come for. Peace. Piece for self. Piece for spirit. A living soul at reachable quest. It’s in his hand but his fingers don’t know how to hold on. me thinks my grip is better.

I am wanting, and in my brokenness I want to fix him. He is my tool, not made to specs. On loan. His tool don’t quite fit in my broken spot. Us women. We’ll make a feast from crumbs. Surely I can make a forklift from a hunk of metal on a stick. Indiscretion. Can’t fix myself. Thinks I can fix him. I hated what she wanted to do to herself. she doesn’t understand how much I love her. I don’t want her to. There was a time my body was rotting. Then I got her and my pain was forgotten. Forgotten into her. Cast from my body to her, making the simple act of not breathing to live but breathing in life nothing more than a chore.

He slept, my bed good nurse to his soul's innocence, my soul, watching his from the cradle of a delicious drowsiness, took flight, once again, we embraced for the first of 1 of many 1'sts, Honesty blinding my sight. The light. Follow it? It pulled me. And, so. I realized where my feet 'posed to be

. . . in journey of more than what my heart allows me

I came to her a man and selfishly handled her with the hands of a child. Our battle is our own. ‘cept somebody who looks like me is over, back of him on his battlefield. I’m stranded with friendly fire hailing on me from elevated flank. It is a spectacular battle, a Black man warring with himself. I try to be his sweat cloth and find myself his sweat stain. Never a win or a loss, just suffering. Suffering cutting the flesh out of intention. The outcome is always a triumph. He’s been looking for work . . .

FICA can’t tax his hustle. He talked to the people about getting in school . . . textbooks don’t teach like life do. He’s trying to settle down . . . she want him to change but keep throwing the past in his face. Or. He working overtime and another job, what he got to show for it after child support, taxes . . . He in school, how he gone concentrate with all the bullshit . . . He with one woman now, she worse as the three he had . . . It’s like I see him fighting himself and no matter what I do I am only smearing dirt across my chin from the sleeve of a beautiful gown, unable to run for myself. So, I make him abandon his grief to fuss about getting me out of mine.

He can’t understand how I dirtied such a pretty fabric. He can’t understand why the pattern Is perfect for today. It would be a labored time before I knew the dirt was even there. Too busy making ill use of my skills of internal turmoil. Instead of wielding and forward stepping, I’m looking. Just looking, witnessing, half recording. The inept survivor. Support cast to him and his self-bred devout nemesis. He's addressing me like I paid for the battle. Christened me to philosophize my theory on how the battle will progress. Pacifying me because he’s convinced of how the battle started. I’ll never know the reality, brutality, catastrophe of his battle. I’m not a carnal participant. Uninvolved is anything but me. He and I hate me for allowing this of myself. How convenient to have my body wrapped in the finest linen as he fits and cuss, the dirt soiling my garb, in which I seek solace, only to dirty myself. It is a suffering I can’t end. If I was a member of either fleet, I might.

my size thirteens done stepped good and bad

they done tried to kill folks, including my stepdads

people trying to take my smile, make me sad

yeah, it’s true. my thirteens, they do some good

i help people, and not jus’ from my hood

my hood is over my head,

while running from damn police,

while running from child support,

while running from taxes, mr. bills

my hood is over my head,

while i’m running from responsibilities

- you know, the beast

the beast follows me during and after life

and if not after, it follows the fam, & wife

my wife, my thirteens never gave her a wedding

or her a honeymoon - to make things almost right

when i die make sure my thirteens is on my feet
cause, in heaven you don’t need shoes,

but i’m concerned about the heart

I’m on my way. On my way to a day where I can look at my scars and smile glad that something in me is determined to heal. If he could tell me. Just once. I swear I wouldn’t forget. He doesn’t answer. I feel so filthy. I’m just witnessing, actively. The carnage of angels falls around me. He, the Black man, is an angel – ignorant of seeking sainthood. I watch the living bridge to my biblical roots being destroyed. Yelling the whole time ‘Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go answer the door because the person knocking is hurt. And, you not quite ready to provide yourself what it is you knocking for.’

I begged him not to interact. Not to interact. He is the act, how can he not enter his fate. Destiny. I must remain positive. Positive. How can I remain positive. ‘You so use to being shitted on, you think I’m shitting on you no matter what I do. You are not the victim, not now. You can’t always be the victim because I am standing next to you, and I am your easy prey. Your pain ain’t all yours.’

Both try to tend to each other’s wounds, and can’t help to hate each other, and themselves. I talk to my brother, praying my sister hears. He went anyway. The Black man did. Curious. Part wanting to know, part wanting the peace. The peace that’s promised for knowing. He answered the door just as himself opened it. Him inviting himself in, himself coming in uninvited. Black men – not african, not african american, not colored – black men go through this battle. A sight of wake crushing misery over wake of fresh-churned legacy. Only the Black man can hook horns with the greatest warrior, and that warrior turn out to be he himself. This is about the worship of faltered flight.

No other creature challenges me - not with the sincerity that U do

Working my body like it’s an industry; Instinctively teaching my mind, only 2 blindly tempt my mental weaponry; Begging me 2 never hide why, verbally, U do not ever want it with me

U
a special brew
my own special hush blend
especially since I realize U R my bridge 2 triumph + shame

It is your attention that must've weeped life on the seed of indigenous; Guided the Natives 2 ink the brand of Manitto – An incredible cup 4 cup creation of half God & equal part Devil. So. Must’ve been, because U deliver Righteous as willingly as U do Wickedness; Preaching me, cursing me, Praising me, degrading me - And, all of this is in the same simple act of loving me

a story on . . ., closing:

No other man has been beat enough to anticipate the endurance he’ll need to struggle through the battle. No other man has beaten enough to have the wrath determined enough to make the battle last. Both fleeing and tracking his duality.

And me, my life, is the mirror through which he sees himself for who he is verses who he got to be. The Black man is in war, against self. She wants, tries to fix his problem.

When I look at him, I don’t see him or a reflection of god, don’t even see myself. I see the things I don’t want or need. I see the pain of what might be. I don’t know what a man is, what being a man means. I look at her and see naked motivation. I look at her and see a paycheck earned, half the bills paid and money tucked away. I look at her and see my manhood manifest in another seed planted, another meal satisfying my hunger. I don’t see her. I don’t see me.

I just am, as I am - possibilities for what I want, what I need.