Michael Jackson

Hat. Coat. Glasses.

The red-hair chile from the far, far foreign land is sitting at we dining table, matching pictures with words, learning English. Quick-quick she work, stumbling only here and there, giggling with girly humour at some private li'l joke or sometimes at a comment I make. I used to worry that she would find me corny because of she pre-teen status. But though she is twelve, she ain’t what we would call force-ripe like them pre-teens on foreign tee vee shows...that is, over-precocious and sassy and rude...none o’ this she ain’t. A lovely child, me friend who introduce me to she does say.

Pants. Blouse. Match, write the words in the blank line.

Gloves.

“Michael Jackson,” I say.

She giggle.

“You like Michael Jackson?”

She nod yes-yes-yes, heart-shape face and green-brown eyes, excited.

“Me too,” I say.

Later I marvel at this...

...how me, she, so different, can appreciate the music of Michael Jackson...how he was able to bridge borders, race, religion, cultures, ages, to reach people. Most creative people can only dream of getting half-way there.

Later, I think too how, although some o’ we may never want to admit it, there is a bit of he in all o’ we. We might colour that bit a different shade, call it another name, but there it is, one bit of the same, from the beginning of time and man.

Only difference is, between he and most o’ we, is that he coulda transcend the pain and sorrow of being human and create amazing works like Earth Song.

My li'l sister.

When my sister is in the shower, she does sing faux-pera, that is, fake opera.

She does sound like this.

Liquid Lunch

Been waiting for the right moment to share some Liquid Lunch with you, a gift from Stephen that arrive in the post. First, I did plan, I would loll off one evening in the spare bedroom, and read. I would open them louvre windows lining the east and south walls; pull open them curtains tight-tight to the sides of the windows; smooth dark-blue sky with the one star would cool me mind like breeze cooling the warm room. The crickets-cacophony and guava-tree-rustle would mingle with the music playing quiet-quiet inside.

Then we get the news about me cousin death and the perfect moment dash away. Was as if the clock hands went mad, spinning whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, skipping days, turning hours into seconds and there was no time anymore, only a blur of...whirrrrr...bread slices, cheese grating, mixing with a few drops o’ milk and pepper and shallot and celery that I chop-up fine-fine to make sandwiches for wake-nights, visiting Auntie M. and Uncle J. to comfort them, gyaffing ...chatting...with younger sister of cousin A. who die, and in between, teach English, try to contact artist-friend to plan artsy affair with other creative folks...whir...rr...

...r r...me creative self slow down like clock unwinding.

Two mornings ago, before sun rise, I pick up Liquid Lunch, blues-inspired poetry. Hey! Realisation wash down on me like cool water on hot, dusty skin, them these here ain’t no blues. Sure, they got the rhythm, the style, the word-sounds o’ the blues. But in them these pages is folks jivin’ with music, laughter...and inspiration. Them these pages got cat-fish, slick bones and molasses; women toss off men like they changing lingerie; men chase sweet fine things even though, when they go home, they gon have to duck and dodge pots and pans that their ol’ ladies send flying at their heads; and towards the end, there’s Soul, man, Soul, and a man re-born.

See there now, time do that whiirrrr thing again and I got to skeedaddle, but now I know, Liquid Lunch is the kinda chapbook I can sip-sip any time, or I can guzzle it in one go then return for refills.

Thank you, Stephen.

Now go, folks go, get your own Liquid Lunch ‘cause I ain’t givin’ you mine.

A death. And two goodbyes.

A month ago my cousin A. die. And not long after, I bid farewell to two people I am fond of – one gone to work on a cruise ship, another gone back to she homeland, Russia.

Wish I was one of those folks whose sadness does make them flow creatively. Not me...the creative part o’ me does slow down.

Now, trying to move, to write again, I feel like iguana when people approach, the ‘guana does freeze, crouch down, low-low-low...