6:15AM in Tucson

“Son, there are no atheists in Foxholes”

End Scene

See, I used to dream in black and white

Now they come to me in technicolor and in rhyme

The sky, on fire as the Sun rises with me

Conversations with my father that were never actually spoken

Filling life’s voids of my own with imaginary script

A booming voice in an IMAX theatre

From a character that had the same bottom lip

And with crushing hug ending a whimsically heavyweight handed pat on the back

He would send me on my way

Thinking he’d given me the key to all of life’s problems

My friends in college always wondered why I did that

The heavyweight boxer’s slap on the back with the whimsical hug, giving life problems away.

Transference of energy in foxholes

Bullets grazing my temples – fraying the black hoodie on my head

Bullet holes filled with gems

An obsidian crown fit for a King

“Son, there are atheists in foxholes.”

And you realize that there aren’t

Once you figure out that you are a God.

6:32 in Tucson

Last night, I watched an imaginary Black man console his dying imaginary Black father

One that he had only known for months

Since he left him outside of a Fire Station as a newborn

Choosing crack over fatherhood

The imaginary Black man was the raised by a white family

His wife, “My dearest Beth”

End scene

“Do you know how your father died?”

“Nah, he was in the ground for five days before the call even came my way.”

“Ironically, I was coming from the Wake of a guy I didn’t even know..”

“Do you ever wish that you got to have those conversations?”

“No, I like think I’ve made peace with that piece of me.”

End scene

Compartmentalism at best

The guy at the wake

His wife and ex-wife, both, hysterical

What was I even doing there??

Ah, to support a friend

Much to my own chagrin

How hard must it have been for my mother to make that call?

End Scene

And I was just number six on the list

Probably another ten after me

Technicolor and in rhyme

“No atheists in foxholes, Son”

Pat on the back

Whimsical hug

I have these conversations in my dreams

With him

With others

Trapped inside of a film

That I get to write

IMAX theatre

Sometimes black and white

Coping mechanisms

Booming voices

Sometimes silent stares

Longing hugs and pats on the back

Dreams from my father

I am the dream of my father

Hoodie

Bullet Hole

Temple

Crown

End scene.

6:53AM in Tucson

My father’s father

I do not know what he looks like

A Guyanese cook in the Bronx, New York

Who worked on the Panama Canal

Married a girl from Virginia

People wonder about the Caribbean in me

Three Guyanese grandmothers have now told me that I look like their people

Without even as much as knowing my name

But they knew my face

They all knew my face

Apparently it’s in my cheekbones

One even brought me back a keychain from my motherland

They all wanted a whimsical hug

“Do you know where you come from, Boi?”

She asked with kind eyes

“Have you ever been to your home?”

“No, I’ve never made the trip.”

“They would love you there, you know dat?”

Laughing it off

“I would hope so…I’ll have to get there sometime.”

End scene

I wouldn’t even know where to start

I think I’ll make the trip

Another hug

Less heavyhanded pat on the back

“No atheists in foxholes, Son”

Hoodie

Bullet Hole

Temple

Crown

King

God

End scene.

6:59AM in Tucson