For The Nightmares I Had As A Kid

Ahmir Allen

Copyright©2015

The copyright to the individual pieces remains the property of each individual. Reproduction in any form by any means without specifci written permission from the author is prohibited.

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The Literary Arts DepartmentPittsburgh CAPA 6-12, a Creative and Performing Arts MagnetPittsburgh Public SchoolsMara Cregan, Literary Arts Chair111 Ninth Street Pittsburgh, PA 15222mcregan1@pghboe.net412.529.6131

For The Nightmares I Had As A Kid

Table of Contents

I

Flashback

Candy

Antiquation of Thundersaurus

Lucky Number Seven

Tag Doesn’t Sound Like A Real Word

I’m A Wreck

When Children Can’t Communicate

II

Existential Crisis #37

Gradual Predation

Dreaming About A Joke

To Questlove

2016

Workout

E x h a u s t i o n

Feelin’ Great

Flashback

I

Tomorrow morningmy grandmother will wake melike she always does, she’ll send me outside whileloving me from home.

II

These kids walk in snowslowly, tracing footsteps, not caring if they slip,just trying to make sure thatthey keep on their toes.

III

This small two-lane streetthat crawls up from an underpassmight be my fear, mortality,housing monsters who wait and lunge when they see me.

IV

These kids do not speak.They can’t shake the silent waythat morning crept up,snuck the sun with it, exhaledthe stars so smoothly.

V

They still see the moon,

pale, diseased, waiting for re-birth on the other half of the world, unknown, un-moving and silent.

Candy

35 cents a bag for gummy bears,red enough to dye your mouth,

red enough to bleed into your gullet, soft and squishy, artificial, always better red.

25 cents for a sucker, for swift scratches against your tongue,soft purple food coloring that drips

in your gums. 25 cents for the wrapperyou throw down and for the cracked teeththat you’ll whine about all day.

Your sugar tooth will not last.If it doesn’t fade away, it will almost certainly break.

Antiquation of Thundersaurus

1. You treasured me when we were both two feet tall. My right armwas the shield of defeat,sympathy, bulky bluesecurity, the fist ofgenerosity because I doled it out so amiablyand without hesitation.

You kept me hiddenin the corner, stableagainst the dresser, moved me onlywhen you felt like it,my left armwas your destroyer,a drill to sew calamity, jewel-incrusted spear,and my prized possession.

2.The giant maw sticking out from my heart, fangs and pointed tongue and fear- induction, so cool that I can’t imagine why you let me sit in that room for years, let me knowhow far in the back of your mind I was.

There was a time when I could throw down against your meanest enemies, the villains,the other toys, let you know you were okayand safe and free to imagine anything you’d like.

Now I’m stuck somewhere unknown, my image in the back of your mind, sometimesreminding you that you were a childnot that long ago. I collect dust. I don’t think you’ll be back any time soon.

Lucky Number Seven

One day soon I will open my eyes and become seven years old,nothing will be significant in even the slightest way, no gran-deur, no

big clock ticking down inside my heart, no backbone to fight for, nothing to fight with, just an open sky

shaping cloud after cloud inside my vision, and tomorrow is my rebirth, revitalization,

recognition will settle on my doorstep and I’ll walk right by, who needs work anyway?

Who can try to walk away from paradise? In the morning I’ll slip through

cracks in the chain-link fence on my way to school andmeet up with all of the other children

who I never try to talk to, hear footsteps in the snowcracking ice, spilling empty gestures from my palms

like saluting in a mirror with my feet on tip-toes,like punching 1-2-1-2 rhythm into my pillow

out of frustration when I throw a tantrum,listing things I hate over and over and over and over and over

as a relaxation exercise, stuffing my faceinto small spaces to breath more clearly,

tuning out time so I can try to get used to the future and what I’ll be like as a seven year old

and what could go wrong and what I’ll be in ten years.

A Five-Person Game of Tag

Five of them gather just after lunchtime,they keep their eyes moving,then break of once “it” has been decided.

One counts to thirty in fifteen seconds.

Two wastes timelooking for somewhere to hide,shuffles back and forth betweenbridges and slides and neverdecides. One is already done.

Three runs away, past the jungle gym, past the softplayground floor, to the trees,to shelter. Three breathes heavilybut feels hidden into safety.

Four hides at the top of a slidewaiting to see the best route of escape,the realist with the time-tested backup plan.Four just wonders how fast One can run.

Five’s biggest mistake was climbingway too high, trying to make up for distanceby getting out of reach, but fails in the end when One climbs up to meet him.

One and Five get back in time to discoverthat Four is safe. Two was captured first.They see Three running, leaping, trying not to slipin soft dirt or trip over a bench in the way. One dashes out to intercept. Three gives up.

Two counts to thirty in fifteen seconds.

I’m A Wreck

Slumped up against a car doorstaring at the stitches that crawlup and down my eight year old arms.

Slumped for few hours in a hospital bed on anesthetics, my eyes cracked open just enough to watch afternoon cartoons on channel nine.

Slumped before that in an ambulancewith a neck brace and some kind EMTs,sirens blaring as I black out.

Before that, slumped on the pavementwhere I can see hazy cars stoppedand smell smoke, oil, paint chips.

Before that, slumped in a car staring out the window,cradling a backpack, twirling string betweenmy fingertips, daydreaming.

And before all of that, slumped over my bed as I reach for an alarm that tells me how late I am,trying to snap myself awake.

When Children Can’t Communicate

When there was something I wantedmy voice cracked through the air,it sent vibrations out into space. Eventually that became an exercise,evolved into scribbling out what bothered me,repeating, repeating and repeating untilthe words broke and my hands were sore,and when that couldn’t help anymoreI punched at walls and pillows when the wallshurt too much and shook in contempt,too stubborn to try and reason. Instead of talking things out I tried to stay silentand I never stopped trying and most days I got nauseas or tired or felt like broken words.Most nights I sank into the sheets,melted or burned or knocked myself unconsciousand I was reborn in the morning, half-dullbut half ready to start all over,and nobody ever knew.

Existential Crisis #37

I’m trying to make my fingers more calloused.To make the shallow veins in my hands show themselves. To keep my face in the shape of a half angry, half tired snarl for as long as I can, eyes shining and teeth gnawing,hoping somebody might think I’m thirtyand believe that I can take care of myself like an adult, work when I need to, steal when I need to, keep my rigid posture because I always feel worthy.

Somebody might say it to my face. If everybody knew memaybe they’d say I’m boring, and yet exhausting at the same time,like long division or riding in noisy, gasoline-scented traffic. Maybe my name would be Ted, as in Tedious, as in the nobody asked for me because nobody had the time,but I brought myself anyway.

Then here I am. Trying to grow so muchthat eventually nobody notices, or everybody realizes that there was nothing to take note of in the first place, grow so much that nobody can argue my presence.Exist so much that when I break out of existingnothing will be the same, but that should be fine.The world was already bored of the way things were going.

Gradual Predation

I.

The key phrase for freshman yearwas “breakdown.”

When school cleared out by the end of the day and I stood alone in abnormally

hushed air, feeling the lights pull my eyelids shut,quietly walking out and pretending

that I was actually just a ghost all along.

A specter haunting empty classrooms.

The repetition felt like falling,

struggling against gravity

that didn’t notice me, trying to stay focused,stay sharp and quickeven though all I had ever felt was dulland slow as fog loweringover the city and the woods,

like the way today ends up as yesterday in a few hours,like the way tirednessseeps into and out of the blood steadily as oxygen.

As if ghosts can become tired.

Now the key phrase might be “steady ascent,”the way I scrape time out of nothing

and devour it until my teeth crunch and my gums are no longer salivating

but rather aching painfully. Trying to churn out a fullsoliloquy like it isn’t staged, like I can read minds, like I can carve up and ingest the world, as if I can move on becauseI was just a ghost to begin with.

The key phrase is “gradual predation” so I can make it seem like I planned on being here.

Dreaming About a Joke

In the meantime I’ll waituntil I can totally wake up,let traffic barrel into my dreamalong with that buzzing alarmand the scold coffee leaves on my tongue.

Wherever I go will be asleep with me,getting ominously happier and happieruntil the joy tastes bland, the painton the buildings fades, someone singsfar away, the noise is barely audible.

And if I do eventually wake up I’ll feel guiltyfor letting that whole world implode,for letting myself give up on sleep.

So the choice is this.Either I wronged myself, lost a dayfor a dream or I began the day wrong,and should never have woken up in the first place.Keep convincing myselfto let time fall or hold on to what I have left.

To Questlove

Before there was me, there was Ahmir. Before you there were probablyscores more, and nameslike ours, and your talent,and the idea of talent, and you,floating in the ether,at the heart, deep downwith the roots, long ago. Now though, we’re all verypermeable and just as unlikely.I’m not the prince of anything.You command musicmore eloquently than I believe I can live up to. I command very little, occasionally I can make my fingers come to life, but not for very longand to much less effect.

Maybe we’ll meet up sometime,have a get-together between princes,talk about our kingdoms, the fast music that vibrates in the air,the soft words that linger on the mind.

In the meantime, best wishes.

- Ahmir

2016

It’s probably a good thing that I’m still seventeen.

In one year,when I’m voting,I’ll be consideringwhy I am there.What possessed me to get out of bed,stand in this line,pretend like this isn’t a joke?Like I’ll want to emigrate less tomorrow?Like it isn’t just another day?What lie am I believing right now?

In one year My legs might shake the way they do,not in anticipation, just bored.Kind of wishing I was anywhere else,my mind racing,astral projection in top form,just floating.

It’s probably a good thing that I’m still seventeen.

Workout

On summer dayswhen your father arrives unexpected, asking if you’re readyto go running for an hour, the sun shines extra strong onto the track.

When he yells to keep moving,to run faster, to breath,not to slow down once you seethe finish line, try to remain patient,to ignore how much it takes to breathe,the way you stumble, trying not to fallwhen you finally get a rest.His words are much less a punitive chant,

the days where you felt comfortable while alone,moving between some books and a videogame as bits of daylight broke through curtains.

much more a call backwardsto ten years ago, shouting what he should’ve done, who he should’ve been.until your inner voice is nothing but “what if this” and “why not that.”

and the silence soon faded as footsteps grew closer and you two argued over the sunshine, “It’s too nice outside…,” and so on, until someone gave up.

Now, once you’ve been droppedback home, watch how fast

you tune everything out,how little you feel like knowing,how much you can learn.

E x h a u s t i o n

Because I’m trying to be honestwith myself. I wish I could keep my mouth shut.That feeling, this cruel heat,and your words that sink into my gut like stone.If you’d just walk out, hateme from a distance, maybe they wouldn’t hauntevery little twitch in me, every nextbreath and every movement like dying via toxin.I used to act like a saintbut that didn’t work so now I just exist.Keep moving even though the air feels thin.Keep the warm blood flowing. Keep sane.

Feelin’ Great

Feelin’ better than the day, at least.Feelin’ better and betternow that I’m somewhere warmwhere the air doesn’t scratch my throat.

Feelin’ exhausted, feelin’ this worthlessday can’t end fast enough, and tomorrowmight not be any better, and it wouldn’t matterif I just closed my eyes and walked away.I always end my day wishing I could redo it.My hollow words don’t process untillate in the evening and I realizewhat they really were. Me telling everyonemy wishes, but never letting them knowhow unlikely they are.

Feelin’ lost today, like somethingI can’t understand. Maybe I’m not meant toand everything will be fine, soon I’ll have to grow up, and I’ll still be lostbut perhaps less sluggish, less flat-footed,wiser and less regretful.

Poetic Influences

Terrance Hayes

Ha Jin

Cornelius Eady

Natalie Diaz

Jamaal May