Black Short Stories : Sun of The Night & Day

Discussion in 'Short Stories - Authors - Writing' started by Legacy21, Jul 6, 2003.

  1. Legacy21

    Legacy21 Well-Known Member MEMBER

    Jun 25, 2001
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    Poet All Day, Everyday
    Detroit, MI
    +7 / -0
    This story is a works in progress written from the view point of a young Black MALE poet who cannot seem to help his hapless addiction to women. Let us enter the mind of Malik Jabar King...

    No one understands how hard it is for a brother being in the spotlight. For five minutes on stage I am illuminated and my soul is set free. In those five minutes at the mic I become the vessel that God speaks through. I am the living, breathing Word of the Creator, and I feel a thousand miles away from all the sorrows and troubles of the Earth. For five minutes I, as a Black man, become the single most powerful entity in the Universe. Then that one second between the sweeping silence in the room becomes eternity, until the atmosphere resounds with thunderous applause. My soul is lifted on the tides of glory, and I am swept out to a sea of euphoric bliss. Then I open my eyes and move slowly away from the stage, away from the spotlight, away from my platform overlooking the endless ocean of eager Black faces. I feel numb with a joy and deeply moved. It’s too difficult to engulf this great tide of passion that overwhelms me at the mic. So the beautiful brown skin sister with the eyes like shining stars is the first thing to greet my vision. She is angelic, perfect in the misty candlelight and incensed filled air. I follow the delicate curves of her waist, thighs, calves, and the smile that beams like the first rays of the dawn, and I am filled with elation because I know that smile is just for me. She asks nothing of me, wants nothing more of me than my mere presence, and I can give her the passion that moves me so deeply, so deeply that my words are a quiet whisper in her ear. As she continues to bestow me with her sunshine smile, silken praises falling from her soft lips for my gift that moved her as deeply as it moved me. Now as the dance and murmur of words streams into seductive stares, lightly touching hands, we sway beneath the dim lights to “Turn The Lights Down Low”. For five minutes I was the voice of God, and tonight this fine sista will be my angel, my ocean, my universe until she absorbs the last leaping notes of these velvet deep soul vibes. Tonight I will escape, until the morning sets in reality, but for now the night is all I live for and this divine queen of the Most High.

    6:00 AM

    The tan and brown small wrens nestled on the fence begin to chirp, and the morning air is cool and the skies pale blue. The first rays of the day will be streaking the skies soon, and I will be retreating to the darkness of my bedroom to sleep until the moon beckons for me to awaken once more. I sigh deeply as I put my hand on the brass knob of the door. I hope that she does not hear the whining creak of the door, or the light padding of my Lugz boots against the light beige thick pile carpet of our living room. I know that she will be lying beneath the emerald green sheets one arm restlessly slung over the edge of the bed, a fine dew of sweat on her forehead and the back of her neck. The shades will be halfway down allowing the early morning light to stream onto her ivory brown skin, showing each perfect and pure pore. Light moisture glistening on her lips. Dark hair swept back from her forehead. She is beautiful even in sleep; even in the troubled sleep I know she has had this past night without me. I silently begin to undress back rigid with anticipation of her waking suddenly, and exhaustion. Draping my Fubu shirt and jeans across the vanity chair I stand before the mirror. The mirror reflects a 6’2 bronze complexioned brother, well muscled arms, and thighs, hard abs, and broad shoulders, sleepy brown eyes framed with thick black lashes, and a head full of black waves. I can clearly see how tired I am and turn away from the mirror, approaching the bed with the stealth of a long, lean jungle cat. I hold my breath as I slip beneath the matching green comforter beside her. A sigh of relief is about to escape my lips as I begin to relax my body, and then she begins shifting. Slowly she turns and faces me, eyes still closed, but now I know she is not sleeping. “Where have you been?” she asks in a sleep fogged voice. I try to keep my tone as even and casual as possible responding; “It was a long night at the Black Sphere, baby. I ended up hangin out with a couple of my peeps afterward, we started cipherin, and politickin, and before I knew it I was knocked out at Khary’s.” I said referring to the poetry club I had performed at the last night. Khary, my homeboy supreme, is a DJ at the Black Sphere, and many nights have ended with a crew of poets and other peeps chillin and crashin at his crib. She was silent, digesting my lie in her throat, tasting the bitterness of it on her tongue. It was hard to lie to her, and she always seemed to sense when I was not being straight up. “Malik Jabar” she said in a low, threatening voice as her eyes suddenly opened flashing with kindled fire. The tension shot up my spine, and my whole body jerked from the steel in her voice. “Look, Kamara, I’m tired baby, and I don’t feel like fightin with you at no 6 in the gotdamn morning!” I snapped defensively. I knew I was dead wrong, but I did not want to battle with her. Kamara gazed at me steadily as she sat up. “It’s not about what you feel!” she said sharply, “You come slinking in here at 6 am in the morning, and don’t even call to let me know you are not coming home, and you want to get defensive with me?”
    “You know **** well you weren’t at Khary’s because I called over there. He did not even go to Black Sphere last night!” she challenged.
    My blood froze and my throat clinched. Khary had warned me about lying to Kamara. He told me one day he was not going to be around to cover my *** and the day of reckoning had come, but how could I explain it all to Kamara. How could I tell her about the feeling of being the voice of God, and for a few minutes I was perfect, all powerful, at peace with the Earth and Nature. I was a blazing star filled with an unbearably blissful light, and my passion was so wide and deep that I had to let it go immediately. I had to pour it into someone else, and the sisters would just be waiting to receive me as I stepped off stage. How could I tell her of the bedazzled look in their eyes that made me feel as if I the Black man truly was a god. The feeling of knowing my words caused the hungry gleaming in their eyes, and how badly I needed the touch of their skin, the strength of their essence wrapped all around me until I exploded, and floated back to Earth. The irresistible allure of these women so intoxicating in shades of cocoa, vanilla, honey, ivory, deep chocolate, golden bronze, and every spectrum of the African princess rainbow. She could not possibly understand how much a brother needs that warmth, that supreme connection. So many days brothers go about their daily lives taking blows on every level from family life to the corporate world. There is so much weight on a Black man’s shoulders and we are told we are punks if we cry or complain, so we clinch our fists and grit our teeth against the anger and pain, and walk around grim faced, determined to keep it inside. Yet sometimes one too many white ladies clutch their purses and rush away from you, one too many sisters roll their eyes and grim you if you give them a friendly greeting, one too many white men in their anal suit and tie get ups brush past you rudely like you weren’t standing there, one too many cops pull you over on bull**** and write you expensive *** tickets and glare at you with veiled malice for driving a better ride than them, and sometimes one too many brothers just openly hate on you for no apparent reason. So when I go to the poetry clubs, and I get on that stage I spit my soul out on that mic. I slam the audience with every inch of my existence and let the Muse ride my mind until I explode with the last metaphor falling from my lips. My words rectify social injustice, repair broken homes, makes sisters smile, makes brothers greet you with open faces and friendly fist pounds, erases racism, and economical disparity. The whole universe sings within me, and the Earth spins just right on its axis. Then when I open my eyes God rewards with me a vision of loveliness, smiling and swaying beneath the intoxication of my words just for me. He gives me a channel to unleash this too wide, too deep passion into so that my soul can settle back into it’s fold, and not float away into the far off stars. I’m not trying to do my baby wrong, but I am driven into the arms of these sisters who are so hungry for what I give them. It’s impossible to ignore them. They just drop from the skies and land right in your path, and though I have every intention of returning to my beautiful queen, my passion pulls me in opposite directions. Some of these conscious sistas be smacking they lips at me, talking about “See there goes a ***** with skills. Using his poetry to mack these silly *** sistas tossing their panties at him.” These beautiful super conscious sistas sit their dred locked, head wrapped, artfully and tastefully coifed like true African Queens and roll these words off their tongues as undeniable truth. I try to act like I do not hear them, but the words hit my ears and roll over in my stomach, and it bothers me, because I don’t mean to abuse my gift. I don’t write to bed women. I write to free my soul. I write to elevate past the painful reality of this chaotic world. I write for a change. So many sisters have put me and brothers like me on a pedestal, they call us righteous and peace because of our enlightenment and it feels good. It makes a brother feel like a real man. It makes us feel like a god, and we feel like nothing is impossible. Have you ever seen how a brother’s chest just swells and expands, and his spine straightens, and his shoulders rise when he is looked upon adoringly and approvingly by a sister?. There is no feeling greater in the world than knowing you have made a sister proud to know and love you. Too many brothers are deprived of this treasure, and too many brothers have bitterly disappointed these sisters, and every time I think I can please them and see that love in their eyes I will try my damnedest to do so. But sometimes I get carried away by the feeling, and when the leaping ocean inside me has subsided I realized my connections with some of these sisters is only temporal, and that I have neglected my real strength, the love that lays in bed at home waiting just for me. Kamara. She is my Queen, my Earth, and my Treasure. God’s greatest gift to me, and now I sit staring helplessly at her, with no words to explain the thoughts running through my mind. For once the gifts of words have failed me, and I wonder where the voice of God is is when I need him so desperately. Perhaps I am just another conscious *****, a “***** with skills”, a conscious **** looking to merge with unconscious *****, a militant brother on stage, but offstage having a list of revolutionary hoes. Maybe I am my own worst enemy, but I never asked to be worshipped, or placed on a pedestal. I am not so righteous and conscious that I am not fallible. But despite it all don’t I deserve love as well? I am the Sun of Night and Day, forever torn between the divinity of higher self and the temptations of the flesh. Battling within, walking the fine line between the darkness and the light. But as the sun will eventually burn out, so will my words, and then I wonder what will I have if I don’t have love? Because without love I am nothing, but that ***** with skills, living for five minutes of borrowed glory, and 30 seconds of orgasm, with nothing left but a vague memory of a smile and a whisper beneath the dimmed lights of another poetry café……