Loud Music

Stop what you spinnin' and rewind...

Listen to the first verse, again, You hear what it say?
It say you just come and born today.

So...You livin'?

Alright then... play the track again. But this time, put it on ten.

You feel that?

Now.

Is so is how it should go.

Who's that coming down the block man, loud as what?

That's you!

You're ALIVE!

Strange Bird

No one knows me here. I am like a foreign bird
blown off by the wind.

In the valley of the sun, I forage lightly among
the rugged hills, hoping to draw scarce attention
to myself, but its no use.

I am a Yellow Oriole walking around between the
rocks. I cannot hide myself. My brightly colored
feathers stand out among the brambles. There
can be no mistaking me.

To compensate, I shall walk the ancient trails and
foot-paths. I shall map the seasons. I will study the
local birds, and learn from their wisdom what berries
to eat. I will inquire which predators stalk prey for
meat, then learn my best escape from them.

And when the mountain faces become familiar to me,
and the rocky foot-trails imprint upon me; when I
become accustomed to the warmth of the low-
hanging sun; then I shall call this home,
with my yellow feathers and all.

THE Duet

Smooth like slow churning butter.

Hotter than atomic pepper seeds.

Soft as black. Wet as water.

Cooler then an island breeze.

The original embassadors of cool, Ibrahim Ferrer and Omara Portiondo in THE Duet, 'Silence'.

If you can't dig it, you're already dead.

Eating Dark Plumbs

I hold in my had a dark plumb which I picked with great care and deliberation from the grocery store fruit display yesterday. My mouth was all set to eat it, but I was disappointed to find it's texture still firm to the touch.

Its not ready.

I'm vex, more upset that a lobster in a pot.

A ripened plum has a subtle give beneath the fingers when squeezed. This one is so hard it seems to push back. I know from experience that I'll have to wait for it, probably another day or two before its ripe.

There is nothing physically stopping me from just going ahead and peeling off that little sticker and giving it a bite. And although it would be a hard chew, crunchy and tart; a tiny dab of salt before each bite will make it delicious.

But little bits of it's crumbly pulp will likely sneak between my teeth, and edge my molars on whichever side I chew. Soon the acid from the immature plum will inflame my oral nerves and cause me to grimace and clench my fists before I even reach the seed.

I hold the plum with two hands now and turn it, squeezing ever so slightly at intervals. I'm looking for an excuse. Any sign of softness anywhere would be the excuse I need to go ahead and eat my plum. But no luck, it's as hard as stone.

I'll have to be patient. All fruit taken from the tree before maturity are like this. Plucked in a state somewhere between green and adolescent, it is then boxed and shipped on ice to slow the ripening, so the sun never kisses it again, until its taken home. But if I'm patient, in a day or two maybe my plum will have it's full aroma, if I give it more time.

I want each bite to be a soft juicy mess. I want the nectar to run down my arm down to my elbow. I want the sweet tanginess of plum to play on my tongue and linger on my breath. I want to gnaw at the pit, until there's nothing left but the bumpy seed.

I'll wait.