Every line which you now see has a slight bend for there was never a straight line to begin with. It is safe to call our lives crooked in advance due to the inevitable deviations- the buttress to the fall of man. Stones should be in no threat of being hurled in this warped and twisted world….at least not hurled in a straight line. Which leaves me to believe that rock quarries have grown unavailing.

There is a dizziness that is inextricably linked to  glimpses into the past, of lives that veered off beaten paths-no chaser. To those managing OCD every curve simply means things are never really in place, and in place is some persons perception of the framework that is now called straight line.




Solitude, a place within a place full of us speaking in concert but in multiple keys. The clamor penetrates the calm of still waters with ripples unending. And though seclusion is the intent, he runs in a group of five waiting to call “iso” for the showmanship of it all. If he shoots and misses he potentially has the safety net of the three, four, and five………if they play for the sake of the team. A scoring shot leaves one bullet lodged in eternal lamentation, lamenting over the hoax of being alone being better. But better than segregation could never be without segregation. Having made these claims of the chicanery of solitude, one may consider fine tuning the clamor of off-key voices.




Danger lies in the concealed carry for one never knows from whence you could draw. Therefore, a license to masquerade is required-de jure. A smile as deceitful as the one fixed on the face of a corpse with kin proclaiming that “they look so peaceful,”
is tricky to diagnose. While the world sings “Happy” and people clap along in a perfect circle the 360 degree trip returns those in the matrix to the day to day stupor-apathetic. What you see is not what you get, and you may never see it. Its an Inside Job, and the plan of the individual sporting a mask comfortably is to make out with the cash, front door, without being recognized-de facto.


Incident Summation

The five incidents that impacted my life were the only ones that I recorded; however, even when I tried avoiding them, the interactions with people almost assures that there will be some point of collision.

I rode out to Coosa one evening to see one of my close friends. I was excited about the possibility of going to Georgia Southern and wanted to share the idea. I had attended Boy’s State one summer and enjoyed the campus so much, that I just felt that would be the place for me. So I was visiting a friend to get her take on my decision. Like a good friend she met the decision with questions. She felt that after West Rome I should consider going to an HBCU (Historically Black Colleges and Universities). Her perspective, though she possessed a diverse group of friends, was that our school was full of racist. I told her that HBCUs do not represent the real world population. I had not even considered the notion. So we went back and forth for a few minutes and I said we would agree to disagree. Little did I know HBCU was what it was going to be.

After incident 5 I had grown despondent about race in America. I kept thinking that if I learned to operate in all circles that somehow we would be accepted by all, even those that would hate without a cause. I had never even heard of W.E.B. DuBois at the time  which would have helped me to understand the idea of “double consciousness.” Every moment spent out of my neighborhood was spent juggling consciousnesses.

The feeling of hopelessness is what led me to Savannah State College, an HBCU. It ended up being a quarter of partying with frequent visits to the Trust Bank and liquor store, but no one ever called me a nigger. And I did not juggle consciousness. Most of the people at Savannah State were contradistinctions to the perceptions which caused my white peers to harbor the word nigger so close to the surface of their lives, that in moments not worthy of being called dissension, they risked losing friendships, and being stomped to simply use the word.

After the quarter of vacation I ended up back at home eventually working in Lindale, hesitant to stand outside to await shift change for the fear that someone would ride by and call me a nigger. I was constantly reminded of the years that I spent ignoring signs of prejudice and bigotry. Its like I had a six sense for it. I went ahead and decided that blue collar work was not the direction that I was headed, and soon left for Normal, Alabama to Alabama A & M University.

A&M was similar to Savannah State in that it served as a safe haven for people like me that spent their lives coping with bigotry, prejudice, and apathy towards minorities. At times the struggle made groups like Sankofa, even other religions extremely enticing. As I began to probe for answers I realized how my own thoughts when juxtaposed to those of each individual in the incidents that drove me to an HBCU, had become a cluster of proclivities. The difference was that I took no joy in using terms considered to be derogatory against whites. I was apologetic of my thoughts and the stellar performances that I put on for years- years of acting as if the words did not hurt.

Race is what raised me. At times race signified running, the running away from what my gut said was reality. On other occasions race signified the one definition that says the fact or condition of belonging to a racial division or group; the qualities or characteristics associated with this. What I saw was moments of division that negated many great days. Though I am not proud of the way that I allowed the struggle to guide my decision making, I am proud of the friends that I developed both white and black, that sensed the different path that I was travelling. I was simply attempting to bridge the gap between both worlds amidst a panoply of predispositions. Along the way I temporarily aborted the mission, haven been influenced negatively by race.



Tales tell of deals made with the devil, son of the morning, a deal which purposely left the “u” out of the bold print of the contract. So one never prognosticates the mourning at the end of the deal.Typically “crossroads” represents a moment of decision where life has posed an interesting ultimatum. Interesting in that there are clearly two cardinal directions to move, while simultaneously there are actually four. And while we cannot physically go back in time we can mentally ascent to a place so deep within ourselves that like Marty McFly we act but renege.

What if our choice was to go off the road and take a path not traveled before as long as we arrive at the place “there?” There being harmonious living where one can appreciate the melodies of creation while following the four/four strokes of God’s baton. The situation is not different but the perception is such that one can read the song before it is performed and identify the places to input ad libs.

Loneliness is a bigamist.


Loneliness is a bigamist possessing every intention of entering relationships with baggage unaware-passing it off as “just who I am.” Only to identify depression as the mysterious wedding crasher from the reception video. Loneliness really isn’t alone, for it was already joined in matrimony. So the claim that loneliness is a bigamist eclipses accusation. The psychology of the wooing process should be marketed for its effectiveness, but punished for the impurity of it all.



A leech understands the art of borrowing time, at least in their minds. When in actuality they do not borrow it because their intent is never to return it,self-centered. There is however a place where they actually can return the time that they borrow and that is on the other side of life awaits eternity. Humans occupy a planet that will soon grow frost cold from the hearts of greedy men which it mimics. It has been the inevitable since times before. Thus as aliens we are here to influence to alter to change, all on borrowed time. The understanding is that 120 years into our stay, the borrowed time must be repaid. If we check out any earlier, well we just borrowed less, but still made good on our debt.



Disappointment is the initial feeling I got when challenged with the meaning of the term kafkaesque. Disappointment is what I felt when finding out that the life of service that chose me is an example of kafkaesque. The whole world will never be saved,  yet I remain optimistic.  Disappointment is the moment that one recognizes the reason Swedish fish are a few cents more than the cheaper imitation-childhood promises never kept but unforgettable. Disappointment is out of body experiences where even when screaming directives at yourself you fail to recognize the voice.




Bubbly and talkative, while safe, make for great cloaks. When one grows unremitting of repeating the same story, while simultaneously coping with the anxiety of effective defending of self the reality living under the cloak is exposed. The idea of manning up would make my grandfathers proud, but I don’t think they meant for me to follow their footsteps.

I am grateful for the role that my glasses play as long as I remember my wipe cloth. For when I feel the pressure of uncomfortable places I can simply remove my corrective lenses which momentarily blur reality. Though it does not magically make the problem go away, it is much like a response to an ultimatum. Once my glasses are put back on my face I speak to the problem and ask,”So were you talking to me?”

I am grateful for my precious phone, hard to tell by the removal of my protective cover; however, easy access is more important at this juncture. I first announce the fact that I am going to be antisocial at a particular moment, stare at my screen, and its like everyone understands. None of the information that I read is hardwired to my brain during those moments because my senses are heightened to the surroundings that I am attempting to ignore. Oh the pressure! Oh the pressure in my chest

Every initial statement made where all attention, whether an audience of two or two hundred, is preceded by pressure-soon followed by added pressure, and then a response that has been translated into the most acceptable vernacular for the moment. Then somewhere in the flow of my response emerges the feeling of “am I saying too much?” Responses to my responses are far too much to decipher. So with the rubbing of the beard or head, reaching for the inside coat pocket, twisting of the watch or fitbit, and/or reaching for the wipe cloth for the glasses and I am off to the next uncomfortable place.



The earth has the knack for spinning and twirling without spewing out its contents. Or does it? Maybe the spinning and twirling are simply responses to the inability to purge itself fast enough to keep up with industrialization in overdrive. Like the Berlin Conference of 1884 there are key players at the table determining earth’s fate without ever inquiring of its own aspirations. As a result, earth is fed a constant diet of processed natural resources that it no longer recognizes as kin. The calm erupts into a volcano, earthquake, tsunami, hurricane, and tornado. Then the light dims to frost.