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Carolyn Baxter poet

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The Photographer
by Carolyn Baxter poet

Thursday, July 06, 2006
Not rated by the Author.
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           >> View all 37

Its our Soul an Rhythm in each other that we Love so much.
From my New book Platinum Dreams Lead Reality. Prose,short storys,Poetry Essays.Addressing The Variations of Street Violence Slain Rappers,Hustlas and Playas befall in the'Game'many Young Urban males under age 30.Released on Harlem Life Books.

                     The Photographer

You were perfect for me, long Beautiful dreads, down to your ass, I used to tease you when the white chick you were seeing would drive you Crazy. And you’d change the subject so eloquently by talking art and Photography. You were perfect for me ‘’The Perfect ‘’brother’’ but that 5’4’’’ you ‘’killed it. Some how a man has to be taller than me. I Have this misconception of wanting to look up to them, put them on a pedestal. an baby baby ‘’The one or two if your ’’Lucky’’ ‘’real man ‘’as they say lives up to that Fantasy without so much as a word out of place. Cause a ‘’Real ‘’man knows when to talk an when not to talk. And he always but always perceptively sees a light year in advance a potential argument turning it into a collaboration of ‘’well baby…what do you think ‘’we’ should do? cause once a woman goes toe to toe with a man ,she turns him in to an arguing ‘’BITCH’’ and woman never respect a man she sees as a competitor And what Respect he did have Hell never see again.

You knew all the subtlety’s of getting along.. And I almost compensated for your’’ height’’

But there was one thing ,one thing that got in the way, something bigger than the both of Us. Something has Started wars , an Woman whore for, Fed Violence with a smile, and ate ended lives in a heap with hollow Dry bones, Tortured and killed civilizations. Something that only ‘’BAD BOYS

And ‘’GIRLS’’ The ones that didn’t give a Fuck about Politics,Fear, the shape of the world, how much money they did or didnt have, kicked death to the Curb and knew life was a passing illusion. And ’’GOD’’ was what you make it. Those were the ones who did HEROIN. The BAD BOYS

And you were no ‘’BAD’’ boy…you came from the Suburbs.,educated,went to F.I.T, Photography school. You weren’t supposed to be with the BAD BOYS. But you wanted to be around your people, you had to be on ‘’The Street’ get as close to living on the street but not be ‘’on ‘’ the Street.. Right-on Houston St. The Old Usta be ’’Bowery’’ the ’’Men’s Club for Malcontents’’ you there, ‘’Noddin’’ off on one Lousy bag a Dope. One that wouldn’t even turn my Stomach. It wasn’t for you. You couldn’t handle it. I saw that right away. Heroin holding us both arm and arm…walking through life, nah!…Threesomes never worked for me.

The Ritual Getting up in the morning seeing glassine bags on the floor torn open as though by Eagles talons with your white powdered salvation, sniffed up your nose. Nah!

It was for ‘’BAD’ boys the Heartless, The relaxation for the Stickup kids. The hurt little Girl inside the street Woman. It was the Hand that always stroked you as well as your lover, Heroin the Hand that never slapped you. The Voice that Never disagreed with you. you weren’t ,in any of those Dark cold stone Tombs. You were spared suffering like ‘’Black folks’’ on Welfare, fucked up schools, fucked up tenements. Welfare cheese, single parent home. But sometime you just  had to be with your people. Its our Soul an Rhythm in each other that we Love so much.  That comforts  us so  much.Nurtured in our Pride. 

Your People, Deep down in the Iron Horses Tunnel of despair ,sleeping souls, have a place to rest their head. To Cloke their addiction. Caring for it like a newborn Infant.That Iron horse tore round that  haipin Curve, Flying into that second ave Train station the ‘’F’’ Train Line,Barreling in  Scaring  lil  kid's,making old people Cringe,covering their ears..all the poor folk , addicts , crack heads, Homeless stick up kids, Were Terrified of her, knowing how she took lives,blindly, looking for more Victims.

But you had to be around your people sometimes, around the ‘’Bad’ boys the street, the people you loved to Photograph so much.

Your chopped torso thrown, upright in a Perfect half Statue, a Shrine , to Your Convictions standing ,with no legs.

In the middle of the tracks looking up as though to take that last picture, eyes closed .That last Picture you didn’t want to see. The photographer now the Image. An Image no one will forget. Not the street,people not even the Bad boys.
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Reviewed by Cynth'ya 7/6/2006
Ditto on Elizabeth. . . this could be a one woman reading/presentation on stage. (hint hint!)
cynth'ya lewis reed
Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader) 7/6/2006
"Wow!" I read that twice and will read again I am sure.
You have power in your words...good work.

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