ADELE
ADELE- © 2015 Maya James
We aren’t Adele chasing pavements or making more broken-promise cravings to send on a postcard to who we once were.
No, we’re new and upcoming,
we’re fresh and vibrant and some people think we are really, really, stupid.
We are
two,
three,
four inches from the television screen, unwavering passion vibrating in the air--
tonight, is my favorite, show.
It’s called “My Generation”,
It’s risky,
it’s funny,
it’s tragic-
it’s kind of like Game of Thrones,
or the baby boomers,
or both--
all the characters are the same-- just different clothes
and now it’s down to season three,
season three is where it all goes down,
season three is when the Pentagon armored small town police departments for no specified reason,
like The Faith of the Seven,
trained them to shoot,
and not negotiate.
Meanwhile,
A woman stands up to the Supreme Court with desperatity in her eyes before a row of displeased, old white men who want her to have no control over her body.
So she enters the room with a sense of confidence that exceeds her,
because her daughter has a smile like the sun waking you up right on time for work and she’s probably still sleeping,
and when she opens up the door her eyes greet her like a million flying Dahlias in the wind.
She wants to teach her that self-love,
matters,
because her own image makes her turn south and cover the Earth that lies within her face so as not to take a picture.
“Mom, I’m not wearing makeup”
But she’s thirteen. She doesn’t need too.
She wants her to know she is comforted, that she’s triple the beauty and she doesn’t even need to have half the body that Sofia Vergara does.
Most importantly, she wants her to know that who you have kids with is the most important decision you will ever make.
Meanwhile, the cliche story that our parents all ignored, happens.
The last two ice caps that gave us life are gone. We have gassed the land and all that is left
is the remains of the polar bears that fought tooth and nail through extinction,
Florida,
Rhode Island,
and New York city are twenty meters underwater and the pipelines are just drilled deeper because capitalism has always meant more to us than our livelihood.
OR does it?
Meanwhile
A river runs through the broken vein in a black man’s chest,
no
a black teenager’s chest,
no
a black child’s chest
and no one cries.
No one says a word.
It’s mentioned at the end of the news report,
right after the lottery winnings and before the channel goes off-air.
And now we’re here.
Episode 19,
right before the finale,
not the season finale.
The finale.
The end.
The final.
The last chance and
now
as in finales’
finally
people are asking why the clouds don’t look right anymore,
why our resources are dwindling and our population is too large to sustain it,
why there are no more JFK’s
no more Martin Luther Kings,
no more Malcolm X’s
no more Joans of Arks
no more John Lennons
no more Lauryn Hills
or Commons
or me.
and the sea level is rising,
and the women are in pain.
And no one cries.
We aren’t Adele chasing pavements or making more broken-promise cravings to send on a postcard to who we once were.
No, we’re new and upcoming,
we’re fresh and vibrant and some people think we are really, really, stupid.
We are
two,
three,
four inches from the television screen, unwavering passion vibrating in the air--
tonight, is my favorite, show.
It’s called “My Generation”,
It’s risky,
it’s funny,
it’s tragic-
it’s kind of like Game of Thrones,
or the baby boomers,
or both--
all the characters are the same-- just different clothes
and now it’s down to season three,
season three is where it all goes down,
season three is when the Pentagon armored small town police departments for no specified reason,
like The Faith of the Seven,
trained them to shoot,
and not negotiate.
Meanwhile,
A woman stands up to the Supreme Court with desperatity in her eyes before a row of displeased, old white men who want her to have no control over her body.
So she enters the room with a sense of confidence that exceeds her,
because her daughter has a smile like the sun waking you up right on time for work and she’s probably still sleeping,
and when she opens up the door her eyes greet her like a million flying Dahlias in the wind.
She wants to teach her that self-love,
matters,
because her own image makes her turn south and cover the Earth that lies within her face so as not to take a picture.
“Mom, I’m not wearing makeup”
But she’s thirteen. She doesn’t need too.
She wants her to know she is comforted, that she’s triple the beauty and she doesn’t even need to have half the body that Sofia Vergara does.
Most importantly, she wants her to know that who you have kids with is the most important decision you will ever make.
Meanwhile, the cliche story that our parents all ignored, happens.
The last two ice caps that gave us life are gone. We have gassed the land and all that is left
is the remains of the polar bears that fought tooth and nail through extinction,
Florida,
Rhode Island,
and New York city are twenty meters underwater and the pipelines are just drilled deeper because capitalism has always meant more to us than our livelihood.
OR does it?
Meanwhile
A river runs through the broken vein in a black man’s chest,
no
a black teenager’s chest,
no
a black child’s chest
and no one cries.
No one says a word.
It’s mentioned at the end of the news report,
right after the lottery winnings and before the channel goes off-air.
And now we’re here.
Episode 19,
right before the finale,
not the season finale.
The finale.
The end.
The final.
The last chance and
now
as in finales’
finally
people are asking why the clouds don’t look right anymore,
why our resources are dwindling and our population is too large to sustain it,
why there are no more JFK’s
no more Martin Luther Kings,
no more Malcolm X’s
no more Joans of Arks
no more John Lennons
no more Lauryn Hills
or Commons
or me.
and the sea level is rising,
and the women are in pain.
And no one cries.
Lonely
She looks at the reporter.
Her eyes are slanted,
brown beads of hopelessness,
once gleamed with a show of approval
and pride
and confidence.
Maybe this will be over soon.
Over,
over never.
Never.
Never.
He never lets her
he never lets her
he never lets her
her her
her eyes are slanted.
One right above a purple bruise violet from misuse
misuse
misuse
misused
used
used goods.
He called her used goods.
As if she as a good to begin with
good to follow around
good as a second choice
good
“good planning” the lawyer said. “They’ll never think your guilty, so you can keep on playing your game, and we can all pretend this didn’t happen. I doubt the bitch will talk.”
For the sake of football.
Football, an American pastime
pastime
past time while she gains her consciousness
dreaming of the love she once met on a warm summer night
an abundant sunflower patch,
patch
patch
patch
patched up.
She’s patched up. And she doesn’t say a word. She is not concerned on the good of her wellbeing but wellbeing of her captor
she isn’t saying he has a gun in the car
she isn’t worried about herself
but well, being victim,
thighs dug into the nails of her tormentor
she never asked for this when her mother bore her in a small house in a bad neighborhood
and she found remedy in a rich
6’4” 312 lb male running back.
Run back
run back
run back
“home”
she wants to go “home” she says,
it’s my husband,
“leave him alone” she says
alone alone
alone
don’t leave me alone with him tonight.
