sun’s up, nobody’s woke
we’re bleeding out
not only from the gun and knife
though we’re losing there, too
we’re bleeding out
potential
bleaching out
dark pools of creativity
taking a bucket and brush
to possibility
on the streets and stoops
brother to brother, mother to son, east side to west
a game of Chinese whispers
& this
on the lips of the last player
“we need to be
outta here
anywhere
but here”
just to
have a minute
catch a breath
take it in
let it go
take a spin
let it rip
without gettin’ rolled up on
for nothin’ real
nothin’ more
than just tryin’ to be
hoodie’s up
for a minute
keepin’ the chill off
from that cold april wind
even summer
it blows
howling
through gaping holes
in the heart
that won’t close
don’t need an abacus
to do the math
to feel the weight
of two hundred stones
pushed across a wire
to feel the hurt
of two hundred stones
lined up along a furrow
in the dirt
early morning thursday
1231 greenmount
board’s up
instead of a door
a sacred heart of jesus
tacked up
where a window
used to be
lord, you can see straight up to heaven
lookin’ through that house
because there’s
nothin’
on the other side
just sky and
that cold april wind
blowin’ through
nothin’ there
no one home
nothin’ more to say
‘cept . . .
sun’s up, nobody’s woke
nothin’ more to do
‘cept . . . leave
‘cept . . . try to be
somewhere
anywhere
for real
somewhere
where children
can run
not from blue or black
stick or gun
can run-without lookin’ back
can run-just to play
can run-with no why’s
can run-just because
just to breathe
take it in/let it go
just to be
for once
anywhere
but here
maybe here
& this
on the lips of the last player
“yes,
the people look like people at last”
Since working at Caroline Center, I have often said that the two and a half miles I travel to work each day comprise some of the most honest, powerful, and real moments one might experience in life. Everything that can happen, happens here.
While writing sun’s up, nobody’s woke, I was thinking about the panoply of life along Greenmount Avenue; imagining a game of “telephone” or “Chinese whispers” stretching out for miles – from “mother to son, east side to west;” and thinking about how far we’ve come, or not, since the death of Freddie Gray.
Last week, just hours and a couple of blocks from Baltimore’s 200th homicide of the year, 58 women in Caroline Center’s Class 67 graduated and took their first bold steps out into the world of professional practice as certified nursing assistants and certified pharmacy technicians.
Roses all. The way Tupac saw roses.
Flowers in bloom. The way Bukowski imagined flowers blooming.
So real. The way Tom Waits felt the weight of real in Bukowski’s poetry.
Graduates at last. Wearing their “many beautiful truths from a hard scrabble life.”