MENTAL is LIFE

one of my first works

They won’t have to write about me when instead, I live on the walls of the PJ’s in my BX home within the pollution of my own art. The paper of which I write on is invisible to the living eye. But I can see my errors made on the page. This page that I speak of is my skin, that once limited me from expanding as a human. The ink, my blood which my body spat around to keep me alive.

I was born on February 22, 1983, a cold winter day. I was born with no illness but with all the wrong. My parents were okay, I guess. I mean, I never really met my dad though, ‘cause they split when I was 2. My mom re-married to a guy there who was 6 years her junior, yet was more abusive than Ozzy Osbourne to his own body. I was originally born in a small town by Houston, Texas. We had to move about 4 times ‘cause Jordan, my mom’s leash, holding her back from life, had a bad criminal record in each city. This made him America’s most needed because no one wanted him.

No one really knew me well and I never tried to make friends, well, yeah kinda. Why should I if I would leave them waiting, as a line of U-Hauls would pull me away? But if anyone was going to remember me, it was would for Jordan Baker’s death. I saw him hit my mother like a bat to a baseball, out of this park. This wasn’t the first time the coke dealer did this to my mother but it got ridiculous now. He wanted a Heineken from the fridge. She, according to his perspective, was too slow in getting that for him, so he hit her. All I saw through my limited visibility from the kitchen was her rose red blood spill from her nose and leak from under her left eye. I grabbed a 7 inch blade of stainless steel, with a grip to freeze the world in place, just to stop time. I walked determined to Jordan. I heard him say, “wadda fuck u plannin…,” before I started my own crack count. 1, 2, 3….14, 15, 16. A total of 17 pokes, one for every year I lived with the bastard. I walked out the house, hoping to never see that pathetic couple ever again.

I never trusted Jordan or mom with my money ‘cause it would go up their nose like oxygen to an asthmatic, needing more to live. So that day, of all days, I had $87 and change. Only enough to take me to the city that never shuts up- NYC. It never seemed like my mom wanted to ever find me. She always defended him over me, in order to keep him by her side and the white powder in her system. I didn’t need that ho, or that bitch ass bastard.

After searching for apartments, I moved to a building that several called the proo-jects or the PJ’s. One bedroom apartment. Just enough for me and my bitch lover, an empty canvas. I made some money selling my stupid paintings to some gallery there down by Williamsburg. My art name was Standing Vulture. It’s funny how they pay for me to draw about the ways I deserve to die after killing Mr. Baker. Jesus holds a rope on one end as I hang from the other or Satan chopping my head with the guillotine. Anything securing my future to live in the purgatory was due. Jesus wouldn’t want my bad soul and Satan would think that I’m a silent killer, so I can’t live with either one of them.

I died in a fire. It was a summer day, so the temperature was already hot, but I was going to get my last high fever. I was having an argument with the only person that I ever stayed close to, a girl from Houston, who went to school in FIT and now lives in NYC. We were on and off dating. I was cooking some leftovers on the stove. I forgot all about it while I was yelling at her, drinking my whiskey, which fell down and onto my pants. The only alarm that hit me was the distinct scent of smoke, one of which I was so used to from my childhood. I walked out of the bedroom and the entire place was in flames. I must’ve met Dante, ‘cause hell was in my living room. My first step out caught me straight into flames. Raising from my ankles to my lengthy hair, I was burnt more than the black skin I was born with. When my body crisped down to ashes, I started walking down a tunnel. The tunnel seemed too familiar though. I should’ve known that it would lead me to my place. Oh well, at least I don’t have to go through the awkwardness of meeting new people, in heaven or in hell.

They won’t have to write about me when instead, I live on the walls of the PJ’s in my BX home within the pollution of my own art.

“Standing Vulture”

February 22, 1983-August 11, 2006

Died in a Fire, Fighting for What was His