trifecta of plaudits

there, i feel, hopefully, in a way that differs from every other american wanna-be, is something that promises reward upon release.

i over-think, so much, and now, i am post-spiritual, post-belief, pro-faith, anti-ignorance, and no longer concerned about finding a system of thought to inform my every future decision.

everything is everything, nothing is as it seems, nothing is new. all there is left is hard work, fate, and hidden opportunities. one can’t know how the cards will fall. some people were born to do certain things; others were chosen for and given to certain opportunities, or…just devout in making their own luck. i heard a man say today, ‘if it weren’t for bad luck, i wouldn’t have any luck at all.’ tragic existence in my eyes, for i am at least half-committed to *making things happen* and affecting my own outcome…never giving up on making shit better til the night death does me.

and yet… i can’t (loser-speak) seem to get past writing this nature of gunk when i sit down to produce. the twitching wrist, shifty-eyed, bewitched discomfort of writing about writing about nothing. failure. weakness. procrastination, repetition, forgetting, and so on. so on to the next song, switching gears, and pressing past the shit… when did shakespeare write? what kinds of things floated around in alice walker’s brain? what did toni morrison read? how did wally lamb imbibe such detail? did da vinci dream in perspective? were michelangelo’s lucid thoughts haunted by cherubs? did anne sexton dream in verse? were basquiat’s phrases just behind his eyes while dining with friends? what does flying lotus think about? i am here, on this couch again, both fascinated by and afraid of the powers and failures of my own brain. yesterday, i read the phrase “trifecta of plaudits” and it was so juicy, i wanted to bite it. that’s how things come to me. randomly. in verse. behind my eyes. in perspective. out of wack. out of nothing. into something, when i let it. and there, just then, i thought, remembered, and knew, the only thing for certain is this story i carry with me. the thing i have to write. with it, i triumphantly understand, my story circles a trifecta of women: 2 white, 1 black, 2 tall, 1 short, 2 college-educated, 1 not, all mothers, once in love with 1 bum. that’s the only thing i know for sure. and all the spaces we’ve inhabited. the things we’ve given our children. the ways we’ve chosen to love, and ignore.. these are the things i have to tell, when i am done pressing through the shit.

a trifecta of plaudits. like, money, cash, hoes (“money-cash-hoes”); sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll; the first, the last, and everything in between; nothing is ever exactly as it seems.