for air, he waves
like everything’s cool.
And a hundred
kids snap
pictures
to post
anywhere and everywhere.
After he finishes signing autographs
the limo takes
the giddy groupies away.
What are you doing here?
He holds up two fingers.
Well, son, see, that’s the thing.
One: it’s too cold in Denver.
Two: the rehab food was leftover prison grub. I think they
tried to poison me.
But don’t worry, I have everything under control. They said
I was doing fantastic.
. . . .
Blade . . . Blade. He stumbles around,
grabs
for my shoulder
so he can balance
his wasted
soul.
Blade. Listen to me, son. I’m not gonna miss your sister’s
big party. It’s going to be vicious.
The party’s over. You’re high. This is insane.
Insane in the membrane, he says, strolling into the house
just in time for Storm
to come running
down the stairs
crying
a river
and pouring
the whole sordid mess
out for him
to drink.
Erase Me
He pushes me
up against the wall
because I didn’t defend
her honor
against Van DeWish,
who he says
should have met your DeFIST!
I cleared the party.
Cleared the party? We’re Morrisons, we don’t clear parties.
We rock parties, and we knock the blocks off of any joker
who messes with us. What kind of weakling doesn’t protect
his sister? You better wake up. The world ain’t sugarcoated!
It’s real out here. And if you wanna survive it, you better
learn to PULL THE TRIGGER! We don’t mess around.
Yeah, and we don’t quote from a comic book movie
either, is what I want to say, but he’s lit, and he’s not
listening to anyone but himself anyway.
Why didn’t you show up?
Show up? Show Up!
You haven’t shown up
in my life
since I can remember.
What do you know
about showing up?
These are things
I want to say
to him, but
all that comes out is
I’m tired of fighting.
Have you forgotten
how many times
I’ve defended
our name
with punches
and body slams?
He comes back with
You’re not made
of rough edges
like the rest of us.
You’re soft
and you’ve become selfish.
It’s all about Blade now, isn’t it?
You’re wasted talent.
I peel myself
off the wall,
start to walk away,
but I just can’t let this go.
You want to talk about selfish.
How about all the masses
of women you parade
around with no care
or respect.
Or your stupid addiction
to anything and everything
that kills reality.
Weak? Weak is YOU
not being strong enough
to say no.
I’m not the loser here.
As for being made like you,
you’re right, I’M. NOT. LIKE. YOU!
I want nothing more
than to wipe this Morrison stench
from my body.
Clean its muddy glum
from my existence.
I’m not like
any of you.
Family Secret
You have no idea
how right you are, Storm says, getting in my face.
Storm, be quiet, Rutherford says.
No, Dad, I’m sick of his holier-than-thou-we’re-all-bad-and-
he’s-a-saint attitude.
He benefits from our lifestyle, and pisses on us.
Storm, I’ve told you, THAT’S ENOUGH!
It’s not enough. Does he even know you got arrested for
almost knocking Chapel’s father’s lights out?
What are you talking about?
Yeah, I figured as much. You think everybody’s against
you, but Dad told him that you could date whomever you
wanted and that he better not ever threaten you again.
Storm, this isn’t necessary.
Yes, it is, Dad.
You’re the reason Dad had to go to spend the weekend in
jail. Or what about the time you took Dad’s car for a spin
and got yourself arrested ’cause you didn’t have a license?
Who do you think got you off?
Well, thank you for doing what fathers are supposed to
do.
You ungrateful little—
You’re right, you aren’t like any of us, Storm yells.
AGREED!
You ever wonder why
you’re a shade darker
than everybody in this family?
Why your hair is curly and ours isn’t.
Why you play that soft stuff,
and we’re Hard Rockers?
STORM! Rutherford screams. Don’t listen to her, Blade.
You don’t want to be a Morrison, little brother? Well, here’s
the kicker, you’re not. You never were one of us, and you
never will be . . . You’re adopted!
White Noise
I storm
out the door
buried
in silence
as if music itself
has died.
Be careful
what you ask for.
I get in the car and drive
like a mannequin
vacant and numb
to the bone.
I call her number
five times. And again.
No answer. Just her voice
saying, You’ve reached Chapel.
Sorry I missed you.
Leave me a confession.
I drive a little too fast
down Topanga Canyon
wishing my car
could turn
into a boat
and float
across the Pacific.
My phone lights up
dozens of times.
Missed calls from
Storm
Rutherford
Storm
Rutherford
Storm
Rutherford
Storm
Storm
Storm . . .
nothing from Chapel.
Text from Chapel
10:52 pm
Sorry, Blade. I’ve
been at church all night for
revival. What’s up?
Texts from Storm
11:01 pm
I know you’re pissed. I
shouldn’t have kirked off like that.
You’re STILL my brother.
11:35 pm
I’m sorry. Please answer
your phone. Or call us back. Dad’s
really worried, Blade.
12:16 am
Blade, it’s been 2 hours.
Where r u? Please don’t
do something stupid.
Text from Rutherford
12:22 am
We may not be blood, but we
are family. Sister Sledge
’til the end. Come home!
Texts fr
om Chapel
1:00 am
Blade, call me
so we can talk
about what happened.
1:00 am
Storm called me,
told me everything.
And that you
1:01 am
freaked out a little.
I would
too.
1:01 am
Come on, babe.
We need to talk.
You shouldn’t be alone.
1:01 am
I’m getting sad
and could use
one of your hugs
1:01 am
an arm scratch
and a back rub.
A sweet song?
Under the Cherry Moon
Too shaken up
to drive,
I call a taxi,
which drops me off
a block from
her house,
in front of
blind, old Mrs. Burns,
who hasn’t been seen
since 1997.
I ninja walk
down Chapel’s street
where everyone is asleep
where every light is out
except for the one
in her bedroom
flickering
like a lightning bug.
Her shadow floats
across the room,
a signal
that she’s still awake
and can save
my life.
Text to Chapel
1:17 am
I’m out front.
Basement window in three minutes.
Make sure they’re asleep.
When the Levee Breaks
to the backyard
she’s already outside
waiting to hug me
like she’s never
letting go.
She cradles
my face
in her chest.
And for the first time
since the bomb dropped
I can’t keep it together.
A geyser
of tears
explodes
and the weight
of my sad, sad world
bursts forth,
floods my vision.
Conversation
They didn’t love me.
They gave me away
like a donation
to Goodwill.
Don’t say that.
I never felt like a Morrison.
Now I know why.
Stop it. You are loved, Blade.
Am I?
Before
The sky beams
as I search
for comfort.
She wraps
her arms around
my waist.
We hug so tight,
the Milky Way spins
on our axis.
Our kiss
could save
a planet.
This is where I want to be.
This is where I need to be.
Swaying softly
together
toward the stars.
Until . . .
An earthquake
thunders toward us
with an anger
so fierce
it’d make ten thousand
horses fall
and never get up.
Chapel’s father is
a 6.5 on the Richter.
He stomps up to me
in an ominous black robe
and practically moves
the ground beneath
us.
THIS. IS. IT. he roars.
And he tears us
completely
apart.
Aftershock
The one time
I did go to church
I don’t remember
the preacher
dropping bombs
like Chapel’s pastor father does
when he tells me to
GET THE—
Taking a Stand
Sir, I have been underwater
my entire life.
Your daughter pulls me up,
gives me new breath,
strange and familiar
this is all I know now.
This is where I want to be,
between the moon
and her gaze,
inside her arms
carefully inhaling
tomorrow,
is what I want to say.
What I actually say is:
SIR, I LOVE YOUR DAUGHTER!
Devastation
Chapel doesn’t say, I love him too,
but I know she feels it,
as she squeezes
my hand so tight
the blood
hurries.
And the volcano
in his eyes
is ready to erupt.
If her mom
wasn’t holding
his arm,
he’d quickly abandon
his religion.
You can try to break us up, but
you can’t break our bond.
You can try to keep us apart now,
but when we go to college next month,
we’ll be together, I say, standing up
like I should have done
to Van DeWish.
That so? he answers. You love her? I bet you’re a drunk like
your father.
I get in his face.
What, are you going to hit me, like your father did? Like
thug, like son. We will see how strong your bond is three
thousand miles apart.
What are you talking about? Chapel screams.
This won’t continue on my dime. You’re going to
community college. Right here in LA.
Mom, that’s not fair.
Life’s not fair, young lady. Get used to it. And, son, if I
were you I’d get off my property before I call the police.
NOW, he screams, like I’m a
common criminal
whose only crime is
being in love
and alone.
I sit under an
enormous palm tree,
a block away
from Chapel’s house
in the pitch dark,
wishing I had
my guitar
to write
a song
about the second-worst
day of my life
about the shattered glass
that is my life
about the tiny shards
cutting into
Blade.
The City of Palms
I have taken for granted
the palm trees in Cali
brought in
from somewhere else
planted by Spanish missionaries
in the 18th century.
We have something
in common.
They don’t belong here.
And neither do I.
Yet they stand.
How will I?
On the taxi ride home
I think
about the things
I should have said
to him
and wonder
if I’ll ever
see her
again.
Maybe I’ve been crying
too much
or thinking
too much about
drinking this bottle
of Malibu
I took from
Rutherford,
but I don’t want to
end up
like him,
especially since
I’m not
his.
When we get
to the bridge,
for a split second
I imagine
leaping over
and falling to
the bottom
and never being found
or heard from
or seen again.
Would it matter
if I were gone?
Who would care
about this son of
no one?
Change of plans, I say to the driver. Take me to Santa
Monica, please.
Perspective
I watch Robert
hold a small
audience captive
with “Mean Old World,”
which ain’t nothing
but the truth
for me
right now.
I nod at him.
He smiles, and
after he’s done playing,
waves me over.
Where’s your other half? he asks.
I’m overwhelmed, Robert.
With gloom. She’s gone, like
ashes over bridge.
He wipes down
his trumpet
and shakes
his head.
You weren’t ready for her or she wasn’t ready for you?
Her father wasn’t ready for us. He ended it.
Put yourself in his shoes, what would you have done?
I’d trust my kid to know what was good for her. It sucks.
Sorry, Youngblood.
There’s something else.
I know. Written all over your face.
I don’t even know how to say it.
Spoonful at a time.
Turns out, I’m adopted.
It’s like a freight train runnin’ up all through your life.
It sucks.
That’s one way of looking at it.
THAT’S THE ONLY WAY.
Some people don’t even get one parent, you got four.
Yeah, but two of ’em gave me away, one of ’em doesn’t
care about me, and one of ’em’s dead.
If the blues was cash, you’d be the richest Youngblood in
town, he says, laughing.
Not the time for jokes, Robert. This isn’t funny.
I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro once, he answers.
Huh?
Yep, with a friend. It took seven days.
Okay! Thanks for sharing.
Life is a mountain, Youngblood. Nobody said the climb
was gonna be easy.
You gotta choose your route.
Get your gear.
Breathe.
Clear your mind.
And enjoy the journey.
Robert, what are you talking about?
Perhaps you need a break from the Angels. Get outta LA,
get some perspective. You understand?
. . . .
Give her father some time, he might come around.