Jared
was 25, lived in South Central, died in 2018. A raw agitator, by a ruthless gaze,
prone to relentless violence. They fought for sport, himself and a close friend,
it went often too far. When Jared died those streets filled with misery, the
FBI were watching, many were snatched, disgusted, but muffled. Jared loved
dice, an alcoholic, a close compadre. It’s been some time, wasted and
explosive, riding Harley’s harder, laughing when provoked. A true machine a
magnet for winged hips an occasional outburst.
Victor
was younger, lived in West Los Angeles, died in 1995. We knew it, something was
gray, but we ignored it. Charisma, a quick fist, a bit of a daredevil. A quiet
soul. An observant soul. We didn’t say he was ruthless. He had a friend. They
both were silent. I wondered about true hostility. Victor played Cowboys, a
night made memory, he turned fire onto himself — and all were stunned. So much
a nice soul or a disinterested soul or an accepting soul.
I
cast a prayer, as rethinking journeys, eating an opal plum. I think back on
lemon trees apple trees and pomegranates. Shacks made of metal, thoughts made
of screams, or plates of breadfruit. Maybe an olive grove, or helicopters, to
see as they circle. sirens wailing tires streaking or classrooms void of our
condition. Stories are made simple, no one knows, and most aren’t interested. So,
a kid is shy, angry, secluded, and ignored by subsistence.
I
analyzed something, it felt peculiar, but most of us are reluctant. The quick-witted
ones die. The tepid ones are unfooted. And the negligent ones struggle without
understanding. This applies to a few, not all are dying, unless, we speak of
silence as a death.
We
close a message, embedded in a mime, while struggling to re-voice — those tales
those seasons those deaths. A family watching. A soul just released. A person
feeling vulnerable. To exist in margins, as never noticed — while we ask, “Why
did they fall for that?”
