Life Goes In Circles

F.L White has spent most of his life in New England and New York City, inspired by his experiences in both places. The twenty-two year old writer/performance poet currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina. Mr. White has performed at Charlotte Gay Pride 2008, events for Charlotte Black Gay Pride 2008, and hosted open mic poetry night at the short-lived Studio Diesel.

Observation of Ghetto Life

Cameraman zoom in, get in close
around here we wear our jeans loose and low
typically low credit and usually low scholastic aptitude scores in the ghetto
peach phillie blunts we roll, we smoke,
play spades, we laugh, we joke
the corner store conveniently sells menthol cigarettes and a forty ounce
to a black mother’s now grown fatherless child, who is unsure of how to make life worthwhile
meanwhile, our women do hairdos on concrete stoops
cornrows on front porches, doobies in their living rooms
slaves to Section 8, light bills in the babies’ names
in every hood, in every city this scene is the same
from Compton to Bedford-Stuyvesant
constant struggle, my people hustle
when streetlights come on, there will be trouble
mamas call the kids inside
hard times
tears cried
police always come late, they leave chalk body outlines

ice cream truck, in gloomy urban daylight
drives by some old men playing dominoes
while they listen to The Temptations, discussing reparations.
little girls hopscotch, double-dutch, pattycake,
while little boys watch the dealers on the block,
impressed by the money they make.
ice cream truck stops
its song melodic, hypnotic
mama can I have two dollars please, a little one pleads.
white soft serve on cones is sold, young customers buy eagerly.
just yards away, dealers make their sales
older customers buy eagerly
the brick apartment buildings of this block are filled with families
barely making it,
rent is always due too soon, five people share one bedroom.
but the ice cream truck song plays
and for the neighborhood children these are carefree days
in summer heat, water from a hydrant sprays.

_______________

I, In Dreams

I, in dreams

seek to reclaim things stolen from me

Childhood, with it a certain naivete

and belief in the overall good of humanity.

God help me forgive the thieves.

I, in dreams

go to Africa, to Gaza, to Vega Baja

fly there with my spread wings

to save my people from affliction, from addiction, from disease.

it’s true, I do

in dreams.

In my dreams, I

find peace of mind

in making all the water of the Ganges the drinking kind.

I, from my dreams

attempt to bring these things into waking life.

____________________________

Village Poem

on Christopher Street,

wondering where time really goes,

questioning why it goes there so quickly

hopefully this November wind will rid me of my fatigue

my dark chestnut eyes reflect city lights.

I rode the subway here

on the 1 train, down my cheek rolled a single tear.

Nights like this,

the sound of my own footsteps on the Sheridan Square platform is the norm.

And this village has become my home,

just as my mother and father have always feared.

Found myself and find myself frequently

on Christopher Street.

Manhattan air can smell so sweet

and it feels good to feel free

even if only momentarily.

________________

Untitled

Morning.

I am soaked in night sweat,

my head is heavy,

and dreams have left a bad taste in my mouth.

I get out of bed

naked, right leg first

that’s the first step.

Drops form streams on my smooth, toned body

in an awakening shower,

I notice I’m thinner than I once was, not long ago.

The mirror reveals to me a face, recognizable barely

beautiful still.

Where is the youthful innocence my eyes once held?

My attempt at a genuine smile is a failure.

maybe later.

Headphones on, Bailey-Rae

people are fragile things

eggs toast tea

take pill with food

holding on to my sanity.

War against the sickness.

I will win, God is my witness.

_________________

Karenga

Two hands, smelling of cigarette smoke
you accept them
knowing they will never touch another the same way.
These two lean, long arms hold you close to an unimpressive chest
for the purpose of you mending a broken heart
and it is done.
Show me, show me
what real love is,
if you’ve got the time to spend.
Aphrodite in disguise,
one falls for you in such a way,
there is no recovering.