Dinner at Midnight

He asked me if I’d love before

so stirring stew beneath my nose,

I pondered wandered through

evicted rooms and ghosts of smoke.

Thinking...fanatic certainty at one time.

Perhaps several. Twice? Once?

Or maybe just infatuated

with lust, or a crush, flings and flirts

fumbling baubles, dangling buttons

kisses that lose luster

over measured stanzas they muster.

The curry brew wretched,

an odious blur to my sense

as the spoon kept turning

looking for answers at the ocean's floor.

And in the silver ashes,

a few vague candidates appear,
faded from an inferno
Who I could have, would have...

had the timing, reason and season

been in alignment with my horoscope

with my work schedule

with my location or vocation and

other...others, I looked at his inquiry.

with sad and tired eyes. 

Here we sit at this vector in time

sharing food. Laughing, smiling, entangled hands

underneath the tablecloth

along with melancholia and

history’s fumbling fingers

dancing on my knee. 

Have I ever loved really meant

do I love you now?

...

No. Not in the least. 

And you do not love me,

which is what makes dinner

so nice and frivolous,

which is what makes my stew

so cold and noxious.

which is what makes my heart

so still.

which is what makes this affair

like a bookmark: holding a place

in between the pages.

Have I ever loved meant

did I love you then?

I’d be lying if I said yes.

With sorrowful eyes I glanced

across the table and squeezed

his hand. 

Have I ever loved meant

would I love again?

…

I am...

turning the stew again and again.

raising up a rolling red mist

as the spoon turns again and again,

fanning the vermillion clouds

veiling my smirking lips,

turning a dark night into a scarlet noon

I nod slowly as I stare at a horizon

turning again and again, again and again,

again and again.

To the Pot-Smoking, Wife-Beating, Drug Dealer on the Top Floor: Vol. 2

The pot-smoking, wife-beating, drug dealer on my top floor...has left the building. After being burglarized a second time, he and his pregnant wife moved out within 72 hrs. I received a frantic series of text from the landlord about a burglary over the weekend while "Defacing Michael Jackson" premiered at Nuyorican Poets Cafe. I wasn't extremely concerned because I don't really have anything worth taking. My roommate shrugged his shoulders: what could they take, the old small TV, the fish tank, food from our fridge. We both figured these burglars knew what they were looking for: a drug dealer's cash stash. Apparently they found it by scaling the wall and climbing up to the 3rd floor of our dubious neighbor.

The thieves went into action the moment the dealer left his apartment. They were watching and waiting. Neighbors across the street said they watched it happen. I don't know if they called the police or if they just observed the incident go down.

There are no winners: the wife, the baby, him. Granted we, the residents, are no longer inconvenienced with loud music and pot smoke, but it feels like something was left unfinished. What's most sad is if their lives continue uninterrupted in its downward spiral with a child in tow. He and his wife will not be missed or remembered fondly. Another NY story with loose ends.

At the same time an Indian family moved out across the street.  My roommate took their 'broken' washing machine because he figured it might be worth something. On Sunday a junkyard collector stopped by and asked if he could haul the washing machine for scrap metal. My roommate said no and immediately went to work. He opened up the machine and found a huge clump of pillow stuffing in the pump. That's why this brand-new machine was 'broken.' A simple clog that took a few seconds. Once the pump was cleaned, he filled the machine with water from a hose while mixing in vinegar and baking soda. Then he put the machine on rinse and de-clogged the basket. After a few cycles, everything was running smoothly. This was an expensive GE washing machine that someone was going to throw out because of a simple clog. And then someone was going turn it into scrap metal. I think about all the objects and machines people throw out every day that just require a simple cleaning.

At the end of bringing the 'broken' washing machine back to life, the drug dealer popped up in my head. What's going to happen to him, his wife, his kid? It's so easy to dismiss people and throw them away. But some times the things that seem broken only require a little cleaning and someone willing to put in the work. 

Michael Jackson and Me

Most of October has been "Defacing Michael Jackson" rehearsals. It's a personal play while still being fictional for a variety of reasons (the timeline, the plot points, most of the characters are archetypes). In rehearsal we've spent a lot of time talking about Michael Jackson and I've taken that spirit home with me. A reporter recently asked me some questions and I thought about what makes MJ so special. Answers below and show opens tonight!!

When did you first listen to MJ? 

MJ was like air growing up. He was around. It would be like asking someone when was the first time they tasted water. I guess I became aware that something was extremely special about him when he first moonwalked across the stage during the Motown Special and a sudden spasm of awe erupted from the audience. It was an electric recognitions of God. For a split second it was like God jumped out, people began convulsing, and then God disappeared back underneath Michael. I don't think I've ever seen that reaction from a performance where an audience is in shock at their own reaction.

A lot of your work deals with being African American and/or black in America – Why is Michael such a flashpoint for race and what makes him the catalyst for Defacing…?

Growing up there was this weird dark skin/light skin battle going on among my black friends and family. I knew that having a lighter complexion was 'better' somehow and yet felt guilty for feeling this way. It's a mind corkscrew to feel a certain way, but know you're not supposed to feel that way, but then know that this feeling is in part because of what society is going to do to you (so it's justified). One day I went out in the sun way too long and I came back with very dark brown skin. I began to cry. I was a kid. I just knew that having this skin was going to be bad for me. When my skin returned to a lighter shade, I was relieved. I buried the guilty feeling I had and just blamed it on society. I imagine Michael Jackson had many days crying over skin complexion, his nose, all the things he negated. 

The term 'defacing' has multiple meanings in the title and in the play. It's a process we do to ourselves, society does to us, we do to our friends, and our heroes like MJ. And it's this graffiti of pain and confusion that we spray on to ourselves and everyone around us. This graffiti can be beautiful but it can also destroy us. It all depends on how you look at it because one man's Banksy masterpiece is another man's defaced property. 

How do you view Michael’s role in America’s cultural landscape? What about the role/function of stereotypes?

MJ was the first male superstar in my childhood that made us hyper-aware of beauty standards, skin complexion, plastic surgery, self-immolating hatred for one's own identity, and how fame can make you go crazy. Michael was a genius and he did so many good things. But I do also think there was a certain moment when he went crazy and never came back. It was probably after the BAD album. He was losing it and Quincy Jones was falling away from his sphere of influence, his family didn't hold sway over him. MJ was surrounded which such an un-Godly amount of money, power, and time that he shattered all his anchors to everyday life. Artistically, this made for some amazing experiences and creations even at the very end of his life. But personally, I imagine it must have been hell. Apparently he died because he just wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to sleep so bad that he took anesthesia. Imagine that: a man who has everything in the world but not enough peace of mind to go to sleep. That is hell. 

  

From a journalistic perspective – what fascinates you about the way Michael was portrayed OR how his story was told?

The media devoured him. Recluse, genius, gentle prince. Boy wonder. This was the narrative for the first part of his career. Then he started to look funny, do unusual things and then the narrative because 'eccentric recluse.' Weird superstar. As his looks became more unsettling and the rumors started, it was like blood in the water for sharks. Every horrible thing you could call someone, we did to MJ. We joked about it, screamed it, wrote headlines for it. He became our monster. It was like fairy tale about Prince Charming and then finding out he becomes this Frankenstein demon. And like Frankenstein, the real monsters are the people around him. The ugliness inside of us comes out to attack what we see as a threat. The mob with pitchforks and torches out to destroy the gentle, unusual, recluse who makes them uneasy.

Is there an artist today that captures some similar cultural fault line as Michael did/does?

No. No. No. 

If you put R. Kelly in a blender with...Usher and then mixed it with....Rihanna...I'm going to stop right there. 

No. 

I don't think our culture would allow for something like MJ at this particular point in time. We're really living in the 1950s as far as music is concerned: very controlled, manufactured, dumpster fires. Hold your nose and enjoy the warmth. It will be over soon enough. An apocalyptic fire is in the sky and heading our way to burn away this compost. 

Tickets can be purchased at www.redshirtentertainment.com

The dates are:

Nov. 1st 7pm

Nov. 2nd 6pm

Nov. 3rd 6pm

Nov. 4th 7pm

Nov. 7th 7pm

Nov. 9th 1pm

Nov. 10th 6pm

Nov 14th 7pm

Nov 16th 2pm

Nov 17th 6pm

Nov 21st 7pm

Nov. 24th 2 pm and 7pm