What I Remember About Circumcision!

I can remember quite a lot of my early childhood. Our family had many, many good times. But what I wanna talk about is circumcision. Ouch!

Now, I don't "think" I remember being circumcised. And, that's probably a good thing. But, I did dream about it (kinda). This would have been when I was quite young, because I remember my brother and I still shared a bedroom. Anyway...

In my dream, I was an infant, and I was being carried into some sort of tent. Like a tepee, I suppose. I remember feeling this place was very, very old. I want to say "ancient", but am not sure if I knew that word at the time.

So anywho, I'm carried into this tent, and it is night, and there are small fires all around. I can see the fires, but not the tents, but they had to be there. And I'm brought inside, naked, and there are women sitting around a fire. I got the sense that these women were generations of relatives, somehow "more important" than my mom and dad. I got the feeling that these women were important to everybody.

So I was handed to one of the women, I can't remember if she was black or white or whatever, as that would be fascinating, and she cradled me in her arms. Another woman took a knife (yes, the kind you are imagining, bone handle, the works), and placed it in the fire. There was no fear, by the way. When it was glowing hot, she brought it to the woman holding me and she circumcised me. I don't remember any blood or anything. So was this dream influenced by my body remembering? Wild!

So, I wrote a poem about it. It's free! It's... It's The Bone!

And They Carried It Through the Streets

My mother held me in a blanket.

Held me in a fever on grandmother’s bed.

I remember the heat – it was intense

and personal as any castration myth.

The fevered dream I had was of scissors,

hot stones and people who smoked herbs

in warm circles. A woman in colored hides and face paint

held a knife to the altar of my brown foreskin.

Another dream, in third grade – the teacher

diced my penis and threw it to me. I caught it,

but not before tiny cubes of flesh

fell through my fingers to the floor. I still wake

bloody sometimes. I cup my crotch

and sweating, spilling seed, wish

for a different interpretation

of Ouranos or the Holy Bible.

The first alcohol I had was when I was about 15. Kinda a late bloomer for what was to come. I remember my best friend showed me a couple beers he had acquired, and asked if I wanted to try it. I did. I think I drank about half of the can (I believe it was Schlitz, or some sort of swill); it was amazing. I was plastered! I don't know if it was my proclivities to such a thing or the passage of time, but I recall very little of the day other than that beer.

The first time I drank alcoholically was when I was 17. A thing had just happened, and I couldn't sleep. I was selling pints of hard alcohol to my classmates by then, and thought, "Well, I have a liquor store in my closet...a little nip will help me sleep." It did! Wonder of Wonders! Thus began my real affair with alcohol. I knew it was problem drinking, but ignored this fact and kept at it. Even in high-school, I was obsessed. I would painfully wait for the weekend.

Many baffling stories later, I present this poem to you, about my affair. It's titled "A Affair," because, well, AA. Anywho, stick this in, break it off, and let The Bone stay inside you:

A Affair

I’m in love with Alcohol.

She’s my hottie, my main squeeze.

I can have a different lover every night.

A Manhattan when I want a

city sophisticate,

a White Russian for my identity crisis,

Sex on the Beach for the exhibitionist in me.

And Coors sweating cold for the Cowboys,

Bloody Marys when I wanna ride that Red Tide.

a Hurricane for a quick fuck    up

and a Black Cow for those lonely Nebraska evenings…

Alabama Slammer for those southern sheriff nights,

fuzzy navels for my fixation

and a stiff    Tom           Collins              when

I want to reverse the roles and get fucked      up     

my     ass and a Shirley Temple when I want

to take a life but have no balls so I fuck     one     up.

She’s perfect for parties.

Champagne for a formal,

cans of Bud for the big game,

Vodka and Red Bull

for all-night raves.

And this lady, like Jesus, saves.

All the affairs I’ve had with

gin, tequila, scotch on the rocks

are forgiven on Sunday with a little bit of wine

three hail Mary’s

and Hennessy    for after the sermon

because I ain’t yet filled with the spirit.

And even 80-year-old Brandy can go all night,

can fuck me till I sleep, and when I wake she’s always there –

She never leaves me lonely.

Watermelon, Guns, KFC, Oh my!!

I’m a Nigger

My skin is darker than most,

and because of this fact

I cut my melon eating in public

in half.  Although I enjoy collard

greens, I don’t grow them: I

buy them at the store.  Finding

condoms large enough is a

hassle for me.  I thank the

store clerk who is kind enough

to carry my electronics purchase

to the door for me, even though

he doesn’t hold it open when I leave.

And in my closet at night I chase

KFC with 40’s of Mickey’s and Colt .45’s.

Although I’ve never owned a gun,

old ladies assume I have one tucked under

my baggy stonewashed jeans.  I don’t wear

baggy stonewashed jeans, but I have been

known to wear a joint behind my left ear.  I’ve had

an Afro, braids and relaxed funky hair just

like the song.  And although that isn’t wrong,

I cut it off so I could be hired at a Web-

for-hire business.  I work with two Hispanics,

two whites, a nigger like me

And a New Yorker.

Being "black" is exhausting. Literally, it takes years off a persons' life. Do the research!

This poem is, in part, a reflection of that statement. Can you possibly understand how unsettling it can be to eat certain foods in public? Like my son, Jake, said in a poem once, "Fried chicken is the shit!" and it is. But sometimes I feel like a caricature eating it. So, I start this poem that way, along with having some fun poking at the perceived economics of poor black folk. Then...the penis.

My penis has been fetishized in the past. It started in 2nd or 3rd grade, with an unnecessary "examination", endured through a situation where a couple friends and I peed on the school and everyone wanted to see it (we weren't taking showers yet at school), and culminated with an unfortunate date I went on through OK Cupid (don't judge!). When I was in grade school, everyone thought I could dunk a basketball. It was a rumor I nurtured until it was proven I couldn't (I didn't know karate, either, and wasn't a ninja). If I knew then what I know today, I would've used that fetishization to get a few more dates.

One day, while shopping at Best Buy in Omaha, Nebraska, I bought a stereo. I was escorted from the register to the door, and the guy didn't hold it for me (this was back in the day when BB didn't have auto doors in Omaha). I had to wonder...

Then I poke fun at guns and malt liquor. I have seriously had folks roll up their car window when I pulled up beside them. This would've been around 1993-4, but I hear things haven't changed much.

About hair. Throughout the years, I've done fun things with my hair. Why? Well, you can't really say much about a black person's hair--it's verboten. So, I've had fun with it (and pot)!

And after graduation, I moved to San Antonio, TX. I found great employment at BusinessWire, a company that did (does?) rapid-release earnings statements over the internet (this was newish at the time). I found it very odd this young black kid was working in a downtown skyscraper. I enjoyed the diversity there, but not so much the person from New York. She was...different, unsettling. So, I poked fun at her (you may notice a shout out to Pace Picante Sauce in this).

So, that's the bone for today--and now it's inside you. Where it can do the most good, where you can feel its smooth exterior and wonder at the marrow inside. Maybe a dog can find it.

watermelon/gun pic courtesy of https://gunstreamer.com/watch/45-auto-vs-357-magnum-in-full-sized-handguns-episode-11-watermelon-test_SkZYTHhDOmku2VN.html