BlackRoseCity

Chi-Chi Hank: Private Raymond Keith Knowles Jr. I gaze into his graduation pic grappling over lost time. A stern figure emits a soldier's glare. His solid eyes pierce the scoping lens. Chiseled jowls crease at 90°; no smile, focused. His ancestral LaNubian heritage resonates like Che liberating the Congolese; Zapata amalgamating haciendas in Morelos. A red-white-blue republic flag crops a darkened background foreshadowed by his broad shoulder. The legacy of a 4th generation, Knowles tatts the left side of his uniform; his code of honor flanking the right. Chi-Chi Hank ain't little no more, baggy jeans pulled to the waist side, elongated white “T's” tucked below the belt, Nike “Air-Force One's” marching to a stammering commander in chief. M-4 lock and load(ed). Bullet-proof armor plates deterring shraps of hot lead. Grenade pouches pack atomic blasts. 30 round magazines strapped. He's 7 ½ lbs. stronger, deployed in the land of mortars, sand-dusted helmet fastened no games on this field --fourth and short-- human bombs cloaked as children. Chi-Chi Hank ain't my little nephew no more, laminated photo clutched in the palm of my hand. His spirit, still like a freedom-fighter totting BlackSteelintheHourofChaos, praying that his devout faith will keep the shepherd's flock from the war-wolves bloodthirsty for crude. --------------------------------------------- How Many Fanatics In the Cosmic Realm of Roller Skating Actually Overdosed on Rhythm and Speed? I laced my shiny black boots and dashed to the boy's bathroom to christen fluorescent green “zingers” in lukewarm water. That assured my wheels an extra grip. Disco lights flickered like electronic Christmas trees. Huge box speakers dangled from the ceiling blaring Michael Jackson's “Thriller:” It's close to midnight . . . Vincent Price hypnotizes ambitious roller boogies with the funk of forty thousand years . . . . Saturday nights belonged to the skate gods; we, merely obedient zealots circling their shrine. Wilbur rolled in reverse, sporting blue Dickies and a crisp white polo T embroidered skate guard. He never benched anyone for speeding. Marshall owned the only pair of triple jump-bar skates ever seen in the Rose; shiny, crisp blades reflecting psychedelic hues of turquoise, green and gold that mesmerized white girls as they floated past waving blonde locks of allure. Pete fancied an old wheel for a toe stopper; cool, the way he'd cut his ankles screeching his plump frame to a halt. An exhilarated Chanise offered me five dollars for a blind couples' skate. I did the math, two slices of pizza, a coke and some chips for two songs . . . deal. Allison, the economically advantaged out of the group dished out her allowance for Pole Position tournaments. And I, I was the Shoot-the-Duck King, the undefeated Chipped-Tooth-Champ. When Afrikka Bambaata's “Planet Rock” hit the turntable we'd drop conspiracy theories on who shot J.R.? And wager how many laps one of us could achieve before Rolo, the by-the-book guard, blew his whistle. We ignored his shrieks. No time for rules. Only time for speed. More whistle-blowing and then, Rolo's pointed finger, his direct order to get off the floor and sit by the office. Damn! I got kicked off again! eight laps into “White Lines,” Melle Mel's prophetic hook shouting to a skate feign on the verge of od'ing to don't don't don't don't don't don't do it ba ba ba ba ba ba baby! Too late. During my 10 minute suspension, I contemplated how many fanatics in the cosmic realm of roller skating actually overdosed on rhythm and speed in a world of bliss and 80's pop music? Times up. I pressed my black toe stopper firmly into the carpet, assuring me a solid thrust back onto the floor. ----------------------------------------------- Rose City Thorns Toto, I remember the way you would tell me to lie flat on my back, as if positioned for my very first sit-up. You'd squeeze my tiny ankles, ask if I was ready, and catapult me into the air. My tiny frame whirled from a perfect release into a full back flip, a massive head-rush, and I landed squarely on my feet, giggling, pleading for another, then another, and another. Rab, you stood outside the back stoop leaned against the rusted, metal post and watched me lace up. I felt the pressure, even though I knew I could beat my opponent. Still, my chest flamed. I remember thinking that if I won the backyard grudge, I would gain the honor of dating your daughter. Now, nearly twenty years later, I see you glancing at me through my daughter's eyes. Neicy, you would call weed fudama. You were the lone orator of a dead discourse. I remember how I would sell you poison, and watch you and my brother cook it, smoke it, and fiend for more. I watched your youngest son, barely eight, run back and forth desperately seeking your attention while the strange man who only came around twice a month stole his lunch money from your hand. Who could have comprehended your cries and understood your fears as the virus infiltrated? Old friends, who believed it only consumed fags and junkies, misunderstood you. They isolated you, pointed their fingers when you walked down the street, sat for a drink, attempting to drown infectious T cells conquering your kingdom. Those friends didn't know shit. They couldn't have possibly fathomed the casualties, millions caught in the crossfire of pharmaceutical warfare. The absent-minded who dodge the virus' bullet, still whisper memories in the dark, exchange theories of who fucked you raw, passed you that dirty needle unleashing the monster into the bedroom of your veins. I don't feed your memories with phantom stories of the boogeyman, gossiping secrets of contraction. Your memories feed me, giving me the strength to fight this pathological war, like ultraviolet sunlight nurturing wilted rose petals dwindling into a thicket of thorns.