Maya Angelou and Matters Expressly Related

Maya Angelou is one of the most inspirational minds of all time. She has held as prestigious positions as a right hand to Martin Luther King Jr. and an idol to the likes of success such as Oprah Winfrey. Her life is a series of events that molded a thought process that above all sees the beautiful potential of the world it inhabits. One of her beliefs was the prominence of dreams in creativity. She believed that one could learn everything they need to know about themselves or other people from their dreams. I think this is very much the truth. Our conscious mind blurs the feelings of its subconscious counterpart quite often in resolving decisions and making analyses. We focus on moments as opposed to situations, words as opposed to actions, favoring flattery over fallacy. I believe our dreams are a medium for interpretation of the thoughts and ideals too murky for our conscious minds to fully comprehend. Such dreams of my own ring true to this. The time that I fought a herd of zombies in a dream and the next day I got into a heated debate with a group of Republicans. On a more serious note, I have resolved conflicts and emotions based off what I’ve seen in my dreams. Call it superstition if you’d like but it at least makes life more interesting.

Maya also had several beliefs on interpretation, addressing perceptions, and relaying information. She said that, “there’s a world of difference between truth and fact.” We live in a society that attempts to make synonymous such words as these. What this quote means to me is rather simple; a fact is a statistics or a statement while the truth is something so much deeper. A fact about America is that we have a Capitalist society. A truth about America is that we have become greedy and selfish and any concept of social equality is dying faster than a bonfire in May. A fact is nigh meaningless while a truth has meaning. A fact is just there while a truth is a perception of facts I suppose. To me this is very important. Facts impact the truths and it is the truths that we react to.

Maya has also been quoted saying that writing is no easy task. This may come off as just short of comedy for some, but I do believe that there is a difficulty in the trade. Writing is the recording of thoughts and feeling and the forging of valiant heroes or cunning heroines. It is the configuration of worlds and fastening the strings on an omnipresent marionette. Every word we right provides another word to be interpreted by those we thrust it upon. Ideals and thought processes transcend anything we could put a hold on and that is exactly what writing is all about. We convey glimpses of worlds and sections of lifetimes. No author can cover every thought or every action in the life of a character, but by golly, we try.

Maya Angelou was pure in intention. She believed that people could be just as beautiful as they could be beautiful and that is exceedingly important. She remarks on being told that one is incapable learning halfway through their twenties. She did not believe in this and I most definitely do not. Change is the pinnacle of human achievement. Our ability to adapt and evolve in tune with the situation we are in is the calling card of our species. With this in mind I truly believe that the racist old man down the street has the ability to love a black man as a brother. I believe that the Politician you can’t believe people keep voting for can reform his sensitivities and be more considerate. I believe that the human race is the most spontaneous and curious species on this planet. I don’t care if you are 25 or 75, change is necessary for survival and preservation of love and understanding is necessary for happiness.

In Living Color

  The sky was blue but the air was thick. I was never a big fan of high school parties. They always seemed to invoke bad decisions and reckless opinions. This was no different. The tables were lined with bottle after bottle of Bud Light. Now, I'm not a drinker, but I did take a few sips. I had always known that I was a lightweight.
  She was wearing a short purple sundress and vibrant lavender lipstick. Her hair was a short bob dyed black with an electric blue streak. I don't reasonably know why she stuck out to me at first. I've definitely seen more risque teenagers but there was something about her. Her face was very polite and her body was thin but lightly curved. She was smiling and laughing in a group of kids in assorted Ravens jerseys and cargo shorts. I stood by Jerrod, my best friend, watching her move. It was like watching a devoted butterfly dancing across roses lined with divinity. I knew that I had to talk to her.
  When she moved towards the drink table I took my shot with a face of pure crimson. The walk towards her seemed like it lasted a million years. The rush of the party blurred into one symphonic noise, plaguing the thoughts that try to remain whole. I saw a world of gray protruding from a singularity of color. Her face was frozen in a permanent grin as if nothing in the world could go wrong and it pushed me forward.
  Then came my silver tongue, "Uh... h-hi?"
  She noticed my platinum blonde hair first of course.
  "Hey," she said with that adorable smirk and a pure golden laugh.
  Suddenly, my face returned to its usual pink stature and I thrust forward my hand and recited my name. She returned the favor quite gently. As soon as our hands touched I could feel it. I could feel pure energy coursing through my veins. My eyes lit up and she obviously noticed due to her dropping her head and giggling into her hand. Then she looked back up into my eyes and it was like being hit by a freight train. The smile on her face warped the whole visage into one of pure beauty.
  She met me at eight o clock in the pitch black that surrounded my usual spot. She was unsettled which I was used to by now. I filled her with words of encouragement and she let loose a little bit. We went into the old abandoned strip mall and she took to screaming rather quickly. I was disappointed that I had to end it so quickly. I had hoped to enjoy her voice for a moment longer. I took her body and put it onto one of the posts that the other ones sat on. Her smile is an excellent addition to my collection. 

The Logistics of Love

I sat in deafening quiet,
Numbers and symbols bouncing through my brain.
I never found math to be entertaining.
That's when Peter showed up.

Peter the plus sign was just an average guy
With a mean crush on Mully the multiplication sign.
He had never quite added up to anything in comparison.
Their relationship can be summed up with a lot of awkward times.




Peter was reduced to marrying Sally the subtraction sign.
Their combination made an odd couple.
Positives and negatives don't always go together though,
They divorced and divided the properties up evenly.

Peter then reflected upon Dani the division sign.
She knew his name so that was a plus.
Dani was just as two dimensional however.
Peter decided it was best to take her out of the equation.

Peter felt as though he was on a decline.
He had never factored in all the difficulties of life.
He pictured a point in his life where he was happy.
He envisioned a bubbling fountain with a beautiful number upon it.

This girl turned out to only be imaginary.
Peter figured life would even out.
He decided that women equal sadness.
They just cause too many problems.

Jaded Vengeance

"Take me to the Green Gum Tree!", she yells,
Full of the vigor that toddlers are so well accustomed.
These were the last words I heard 
Before my daughter was stolen from me.

They swiped her from our rural green lawn,
Moving her in a silence that is still ringing in my ears.
Five years go by.
They find her in a truck stop dumpster.

She was bruised and barely breathing.
On her right thigh was the brand of a clever mantis.
It took some time but I unraveled the truth.
I then stood as stiff as a saguaro cactus.

My self-worth was eviscerated,
My daughter's life was broken,
and our lives can never be normal again.
This, Mr. Ortiz, is why you're going to die.

Royal Grape

Royal performances
Open with chaotic
Yelling and profanities.
All of the people 
Laughing at the

Games before them.
Rarely do the slaves 
Acquire their freedom.
Presently I stood,
Emotionless and broken.

Roses

I met her early,

On a bright July summer day,

A rose in her hair.

I love you she said.

The doctor hands me the sheet.

Cold she sleeps tonight.

The past in a bud,

The garden packed with roses

In her memory.

The Little White Bear

It is astounding how the trivial can ascend to the treasured with the tic of a heartbeat. How the things we hold dear are inspired by the moments we hold dear. How the people we hold dear are memorialized by the emotion following. One such thing I believe to fit within this ideal would be a small white bear. I have no recollection of the origin of this bear, nor any idea how it has maintained its figure through years of torment. It was originally a small white bear, sitting with its arms open, and adorned with a red bow under tiny black eyes. The toy stood at about an inch tall if not less. Its bow is now mangled and the color darkened. I can look at that thing and have a million thoughts rush through my head. It was given to me by my grandmother. 

When I was but a wee lad she had always called me Koda Bear. I always assumed it had to do with her love for Native American and Alaskan culture and the intrigue of the Kodiak bear. My parents were always away at work so I would stay with her and my grandfather. My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's three years before I was born so I never really knew him as well as I'd have liked. I remember growing up with Elvis and John Wayne. I remember eating mayonnaise and scrambled egg sandwiches for breakfast and mayonnaise and jelly sandwiches for lunch (we liked mayonnaise). I remember outliving some of the best dogs I've ever known, including Sasha, the collie that taught me how to walk. I remember the long car rides in the back of my grandpa's Ford Ranger that would one day be my first car. I remember the long walks through the woods looking for foxes and wolves because I thought I could tame them. I remember riding circles around that house on an ATV for hours on end. I remember drinking coffee with them while watching the Andy Griffith show. I remember her massive collection of barbies and other assorted action figures. I remember grandpa telling me scary stories while I laid between them in the waterbed. 

I remember when we had to sell the house after grandpa died because grandma couldn't handle him being gone. I remember when my grandma had to remove a breast because of cancer. I remember her bucket list containing two things: see Mount Rushmore, ride a cowboy. I remember the long drives to Warrensburg to see her at my aunt's house. I remember how much she hated the fighting that went on between my father and his sisters. I remember sitting across from her crying when I got dumped by the girl who took my virginity. I remember my grandma leaving me a voicemail telling me how worthy I was to be loved and how much she loved me. I remember how stupid I felt when I deleted it. I remember when she got to where she couldn't walk. I remember when I sat beside her on her deathbed, refusing to let her see me cry. I remember sitting on the bench outside of my aunt's house and crying for longer than I ever have before. I remember the screaming and the hate that filled my veins when she died. I remember all the nights I cried myself to sleep because I knew I could never hear her comfort me again. I remember all the people I pushed away because I couldn't handle being happy when she wasn't here anymore. I remember being the only person to be uplifting at the funeral. I remember giving a speech about the time she accidentally flipped a lawnmower because she was stubborn like that. 

I remember a lot about my grandmother. She practically raised me and incited all of her morals and beliefs upon me. She was the kind of woman that you loved no matter how crazy she could be. She was the kind of lady who loved everyone and saw the good in everyone, no matter how minuscule it may be. She was the best person I've ever known and I can't help but keep as much of her with me as possible. I have a lifetime of memories about my grandmother and every damn one of them slaps me in the face every time I hold that broken little bear, and I can't let it go.

I am...

Who am I you ask?

I am the man you see before you.

The boy reconstructed through years of trials and tribulations.

The physical defined by the metaphysical.

I am the wind that pushes me so gently from sadness.

I am the grass that comforts my fall from publicity.

I am the tree that’s peak shows me the secrets of distant ideals.

I am the rock that remains strong no matter how hard the hammer beats it.

I am the books that line the walls of a broken library.

I am the holster that carries your chambered rage so delicately.

I am the divine mediocrity that engrosses the uniqueness of human nature.

I am the vast expanse between equality and profit.

I am the shoes that protect me from the waste of the lonely hearted.

I am the shirt that covers the most judged aspect of existence.

I am the pantaloons the hold back the savage instruments of puberty.

I am the hat that encompasses the most misused weapon in the world.

I am the automobile that paves over history.

I am the crane that hoists us from the barren plane we design.

I am the glass that protects us from the intolerable reality.

I am the smog that holds our world by the throat.

I am the answer to the unasked and the question to the unanswered.

I am the pastor living behind a bank.

I am the politician that sleeps in a black briefcase.

I am the man who knows everything about nothing that matters.

I am the rings upon your finger.

I am the diamonds in your ear.

I am the priceless.

I am the man who stands in front of you and yet is not seen.

I am the cereal in my brother’s superhero bowl.

I am the rum in my mother’s drink.

I am the nicotine in my father’s cigarettes.

I am the plaster that holds together the fortress of my family.

I am the bruised.

I am the beaten.

I am the forgotten.

I am the unstoppable.