Gerald Langston is half-sleep on the brown couch when his dad, Omari Langston, walks through the back door. Gerald is not the type of tired where he wants to go to sleep, but the type of tired where he does not feel like doing anything. A Whole Foods paper bag near filled to the brim with tissues stands at his side as he slowly sits up. It’s noon on Friday. Dad works at noon on Fridays. A quizzical look settles on Gerald’s face as his dad sets his briefcase on the kitchen table and comes to sit down on the couch next to Gerald.
Lit
Jaywalking in Kansas
Audrey tells me about the birds,
and her dead mother.
The strands of the two stories
tangle like her curly Filipina hair.
She thinks the nested robins are listening.
When Christ Came to Woodlawn
Losing the family home
to a long list of liars:
real estate brokers, mortgage bankers, and lawyers
in grey sharkskin shoes
The Anonymous Crossing Guard
I don’t ever want a park named after me.
Where I’m From
The following works emerged from a semester-long workshop offered this past spring at Prison + Neighborhood Arts Project (PNAP) entitled “Mapping the Self in Community.” The workshop was facilitated by Audrey Petty, Jill Petty, and Miriam Petty. The description is included below:
A Splash of Broken Thoughts
Color lines created
Gaps
Along the character scale
German
Taking you back again to the time when I was a little boy; eight years old, living with mom and dad in the first-floor apartment on South Ingleside Avenue. We had a living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. Furniture was functional and looked nice. Dad kept his precious books on a shelf next to the bed and Mom had her sewing machine set up in a corner near the back door. My Lincoln Logs, toy trucks and trains were everywhere. Not a lot of space, but I was happy. And I’d say we were all happy. Dad was working at a Downtown theatre and Mom catering. We lived the average Southside of Chicago life in the mid-Nineteen-fifties.
The Pleasure and The Pain
Today my partner is sad.
Time Travel: J.C. Penney Photo Studio, 1994
this photo wasn’t planned:
we’re just here
for my son’s annual
picture to be mailed
with Christmas cards
he’s three now
wearing a rainbow patchwork shirt
hugging Big Bird
Jennie my bestfriend
in blue-flowered top
sitting in her electric
wheelchair
I’m in raggedy
faded t-shirt
never expecting
“Hey, why don’t I take the three of you?”
my arms encircle
my son and my friend
my curly-haired son’s smile
beams trust
Jennie looks ready to laugh
and I’m grinning innocent
Jennie would die in four years
I’d lose my father and another friend
but in this moment
I have the world
a sudden spring (Nichols Park in May)
running daisy chains
up my spine,
sunlight halos
on our heads.
pounding feet
against new green
& crows above
singing the direction
of the wind.
the tingle
of small, excited hands
set to gathering.
we tread edges
of parks,
climb bottoms
of trees,
follow the skuttle
of forgotten tennis balls.
we string Ravyn Lenae
between our ears,
lulled by the
sudden sun.
afternoon kaleidoscope of
watching
running
resting
reading.
heartstrings drawn,
a fluid triangle
invading green spaces
like curious amoeba