Poetry
PROLOGUE: GREEN FEATHERS by Jasen Sousa
PROLOGUE: GREEN
FEATHERS
What’s lost in the
streets
without names and
owners
eventually finds
homes, cuddled
by the flames of
loners.
Listen to those who
search
for temporary treasure
on the corners
where weight is
exchanged for
green feathers
that float into the
pockets
of invisible street
lovers dressed
in urban sweaters,
stitched
with the letters of their
real names.
Who you be?
Who can you be?
Sell more than lies
that were put in your
palm. Search
for the truth like the
man who keeps
asking for a refill of
the juice
in his arm.
Check please!
Full, until I am
hungry again. Search
for nourishment that
will fill
the linings of my
stomach’s soul for an entire lifetime,
or at least until the
moment gets old.
Inner city mining,
digging for punishment.
Do you feel me, how am
I supposed to be felt?
Every time I write,
live a line,
I wonder if I will
tell it in the right way?
Can you hear it the
same way I can hear it?
Echoing inside my rib
cage, pulsating
down my
fingertips. If I didn’t write it,
it would never exist.
I guess.
Fresh, like the dozen
eggs just placed
on the shelf, waiting
to be cracked open
to find what’s in one’s self.
Addicted to Nothing by Jasen Sousa
Addicted to Nothing
My friends call
me
and ask what I am
doing today?
I’m working.
Most weeks, seven days.
I go, I go and I go.
I have a routine
where I wake up every
morning
at 5:30 A.M.
Walk into the bathroom
and don’t turn on the
light.
I strike back as I put
my leg
into the water before
it fully heats up.
Use my eclectic shaver
when the skin
on my face is nice,
and tight, and dry.
I eat my banana, my
cereal, and my juice
and am out of my house
by 6:30, ready
to attack my day.
I know where I’m
going.
I’ve been going there
every day for
the past five years.
Maybe it’s
different
when you wake up each
day
and don’t know what
you’re going
to do to keep yourself
busy.
If I didn’t have
somewhere to go
who knows where I
would end up?
I wake up every
morning,
and the only thing I
crave
is trying to leave a
legacy
before my time here is
over.
I don’t crave anything
else, not
even coffee.
I wake up every
morning not needing
anything in my life.
What has not needing done to my brain?
Reunion of Sorts by Jasen Sousa
Reunion of Sorts
“Can you come pick me
up in Everett?” She says
as her voice shakes
inside the speaker of
my cell phone.
I walk up smoky stairs
into a house party
where I find her in
the bedroom sniffing lines
through tightly rolled
twenty dollar bills.
“I’ll just be a few
minutes,” she says
as she leans over
and pecks me on my forehead.
I sit on the edge of a
strange unmade mattress.
“You want some?” Asks
the skinny dude
in a black wife beater
with an unfinished tattoo on his bicep.
“I’m good,” I say.
“We got some killa
weed in the kitchen, you
got to try a hit,” says
the dark skinned
fat man who is
probably older than my dad.
“I’m good,” I say.
I hold my breath to
try and keep out
the different flavors
of smoke
that evaporate over my
head.
I watch her give the
same pecks
to a bunch of guys as
she clumsily
gets her stuff
together.
She grabs me by the
wrist
and leads me
down
the backstairs of the
house.
She sits shotgun,
rolls the window down,
tilts her knees to the
side,
closes her eyes
about four different
times.
“Can you turn the station?” she asks.
City Tornado by Jasen Sousa
City Tornado
She is a city
tornado
sweeping through her
apartment,
sweating, trying to
gather
her thoughts and pack
everything she thinks
she will need for a
week
long stay in detox.
Eminem speaks
to her in the
background,
and she listens.
I help her carry
out
her Nautica bag
while she balances
a bowl of oatmeal
sitting in her
daughter’s
Bratz bowl along with
a bag
full of feminine
hygiene products.
She takes a quick look
at the board on her
window
where people enter
when Eminem is
speaking to her too loud.
Bruises high on her
thigh
from getting hit by a
bicycle
a few nights ago
are painted more
colorful
than her eyes.
Her son’s trains are
derailed
sitting on a sticky
tile floor
in a debris of
sideways sneakers
and empty Coke
bottles.
She is headed from
Boston
to Worcester
hoping to return in a
week with less poison
in her body, and more
clarity
in her thoughts.
The Struggle To Be by Jasen Sousa
The Struggle To Be
For the past 10 years
of her life
she has never had to
question
who or what she was.
Homies with heroin,
and cool with crack.
Married to methadone,
until she decided
it was time for a
divorce.
She has been clean for
two months,
and has not been this
free at any other
point in her life.
For the first time in
her life,
she doesn’t know who
she is.
Has never held any
type of job,
just collects child
support
from two different
dudes,
and sells pills when
she needs
extra loot.
The struggle to get
rid of
names in her phonebook
that can grant her any
wish she wants, but she has never wished
for much more than being high.
Beauty Is Sold by Jasen Sousa
Beauty Is Sold
With at least ten
years of abuse under
her belt, I don’t know
if her mind will ever
be hers again.
She fights to regain all
that she ran away
from, she wants to be
that little girl she
never came to
appreciate. I
knew that little girl,
and I do not recognize
this woman
whose beauty is now
sold in a dope sack,
squeezed into a
syringe, and shot into
abandoned veins tagged with drug dealer’s
names.
Miss Liberty by Jasen Sousa
Miss Liberty
We park in the
Walgreens
behind Cambridge
Hospital.
She staggers out of my
car,
Dunkin Donuts mug
glued to the palm of
her hand,
butt crack
crawling
out of her jeans.
She carries her coffee
up a dirt trail
that leads to the
hospital,
right arm raised in
the air.
Early morning green,
modern day Statue of Liberty
with shades and blonde
hair.
I sit in my car
and read a Stephen
King comic,
wait for her to
return
from a shot of
methadone.
Back in the car,
less jumpy,
Band-Aid on her mouth,
a quiet ride home.
Lonely Freedom by Jasen Sousa
Lonely Freedom
I walk to the local
store,
swing in and out of a
sea of people.
Neon lights Photoshop
paint me.
The pizzeria oven
open, not done yet,
and the sinking of
skateboard wheels
in and out of the
sidewalk cracks.
Even inside a city I
have lived all my life,
everyone is a stranger
because my friends are
hidden
somewhere behind dark
windows
going to sleep with
their shadows, secrets,
and I the free man
am lonelier than ever.
Bus Stop by Jasen Sousa
Bus Stop
Her glass is covered
with torn-off
stickers. Small cracks
in her frame have
transformed
into large tears that
make her less sturdy.
Her transparency has
been replaced
by a mucky haze that
doesn’t
allow people to see in
or out.
People have
tagged
her skin with magic
marker
to let the world know
who
has come and gone.
Little shining
pieces
of her existence, what
she used to be,
glow in the dark on
pavement,
liquor store signs
provide light.
The elements have worn
her down
to the point that I
would not even
recognize her if I
were standing inside her,
waiting for her to arrive.
Deep Pockets by Jasen Sousa
Deep Pockets
He is finally
back home around the
way, I
am glad to see him.
He is mad happy
to see familiar faces,
the same faces who
sold him his poison.
How do they look to
him now,
knowing who they are?
Friends who only
care
about the final sale,
cash
exchanged for his
soul,
which they still keep
in
their pockets with
lint, pills and
wrinkled dollar bills.
Aroma by Jasen Sousa
Aroma
Have plans with my
man,
nothing specific, we
are
going to just hang out
and kick it.
He sends me a
text
from an unknown,
unfamiliar number,
telling me that he
can’t make it.
Become angry,
thoughts
speed through my head
like a disabled train
at rush hour.
He must be up to his
old tricks,
out to get a fix,
texting me licking his
lips.
I send back
an angry response
in angry fonts.
He texts me back,
he wants to see me
real bad,
but he has been in and
out of shelters
lately, and hasn’t
been able to shower
for weeks.
“Even my name wreaks.”
And for a moment
I remember his name.
Symptoms by Jasen Sousa
Symptoms
I search for words
like my man searches
for
his next hit. I
search
for pleasure, for
freedom
in the moment, just
like my man.
I know the pleasure will
not last, but I still
need it, just like my
man.
We are the same.
We come from the same
street, from the same
city.
The only difference is
that he has caught
the disease. The
highly contagious disease
that gets spread
through crews.
He is sick, he
suffers,
and has no one
to take care of him,
because unlike
other diseases, this
disease makes
you steal from those
who take care
of you,
not because you want
to,
but because you have to.
My Man, the Ice Cream Man by Jasen Sousa
My Man, the Ice Cream
Man
My man, the ice cream
man, creeps around town
in a marked white van,
crawling through the streets
selling magnetic
treats to little kids
with metal feet.
Frozen snacks, summer treat.
My man, the ice cream
man, plays the city
a song that echoes off
signs and buildings.
Memorized, generations
of children
that purchase in order
to keep living.
My man, the ice cream
man, knows about all
the different flavors
people want to buy.
Keeps an inventory of
an old story
written with a beginning,
but no end.
My man, the ice cream
man, he will come back
tomorrow to make sure the cities’ fat.
Ring by Jasen Sousa
Ring
“I’m doing so good
kid.
I really think I got
my life
turned around now.
I’ve been clean for
six months.
But hey look,
I really need to
borrow
a c-note from you.
I promise I’m good for
it.
I’ve been working mad
hours
at my new job, I told
you right?
I’m working at the
Dunkin Donuts
bringing in major
cash.
But anyway, I’m just a
little behind on things.”
I tell him I’ll call
him right back
so I can take a minute
to breathe
and decipher which
parts are true,
and which are not.
Somewhere Lost by Jasen Sousa
Somewhere Lost
Somewhere lost
inside fidgety
movements
and rapid fire vulgar
outbursts
that arise from
anxiety
he wears
to show he is clean.
To show he is the same
kid
who grew up three
houses
down the street from
me.
The same kid I used to
pitch to in the park,
the same kid I used
to
play rebound with.
We drive three
blocks,
he is already on his
second square.
I drop him off
at his house,
give him daps
and wonder
if he remembers
who he was
like I do?
A Snowman in Somerville by Jasen Sousa
A Snowman in
Somerville
A strong wind from
Charlestown
blows cold air through
the City of
Somerville.
A snowman is
built
from the bottom
up. It is given a body
with no legs
because distance and
travel
are not part of the
plan.
It is meant to stay on
the same lawn,
on the same block.
His eyes are soulless,
he watches, but is not seen.
Flesh on his arms
turns to twigs
from injecting the
warmth.
One night he grows
legs,
and commits crimes
against himself,
against his kind.
Snowman stop snitching
on the people who feed
you your poison!
Snowman stay silent!
Police lights bounce
off store windows.
Blood pours on dirty
snow
to make it pure once again.
Unnamed Streets by Jasen Sousa
Unnamed Streets
He walks down unnamed
streets,
strolls by his home,
hung-up
on habits that his
family doesn’t condone.
There’s not much in
life
that he owns, except
for a pair
of socks with holes,
and sneakers
with worn down soles.
There’s not much in
life
that he controls,
addiction blankets
dreams and goals,
friendly strangers
and demons he has come
to know
and like. He
swings for the stars
with a lighter and a
pipe.
His darkness has crept
into the day
away
from night.
Everyday a fight, a
12-round-bout
filled with anger and
doubt, victories
and failures.
The misery of being
both a fiend and a
dealer.
Haven’t heard from him
in weeks,
which means he has
pockets that leak,
and any spinach he
accumulates
goes to people who
live in cities
that don’t have flood
gates, drowned
in hate, and don’t
care how they
make an extra buck.
Outta money.
Outta pleasure.
Outta luck.
Change, Please? by Jasen Sousa
Change, Please?
He holds the stack of
loot sideways, cannot
even look at the green
faces that are
drowning in his
nervous palms as he walks
to the spot to go
shopping. Cabinets
are empty because he
ate his way out
of his home and ended
up in a strange
place where the
shelves are stocked with long aisles
of the sweetest
ingredients you could
ever imagine.
But today he’s sick, sick
from the same meal he
has been eating all
month. He
scratches, shakes, he shivers, he sweats,
and keeps moving, holding onto his
change.
Proof of Life by Jasen Sousa
Proof of Life
We start off at
Somerville Hospital.
“To get into detox you
need
a Massachusetts ID,”
says the lady
with the huge tits at
check-in.
He has his social
security card
and birth certificate,
but no MASS ID.
He’s 21 and been in
and out of jail
since 16.
Never took a permit
test, let alone
a driver’s test.
We arrive at the mall.
Another large woman
with bent glasses
at the RMV in the
Cambridgeside Galleria tells us,
“We only renew
licenses here,
we don’t process
ID’s.”
All that time in line
for nothing.
We arrive at the
larger RMV in Watertown.
We wait in line for a
half hour
before we get the
form.
While we sit filling
this thing out,
a woman with a cast on
her arm
that has no signatures
wants to make sure we
have all the proper forms.
He has a birth
certificate,
and a social security
card,
but no proof of
address.
They don’t care
that my friend
has been in and out of
jail,
and homeless,
sleeping at a friend’s
house
here and there.
We still wait because
we think
we can convince the
person.
Like we are at a deli
waiting for some meat,
we wait and watch
for almost two hours
as the numbers crawl
from 49 to 110.
We approach the man,
tie undone,
pen protector,
a few pieces of hair
slicked to the side.
“I don’t make the
rules, sorry.”
We go to another RMV
in Melrose
and wait for a good
hour, standing against a wall
before we get a
ticket.
He gets his MASS ID.
The day is over.
Can’t check into detox
until morning because
the cut off time is 3 P.M.
I drop him off at a
Dunkin Donuts
as I head to work, and
wonder
if he will stay clean for the night?
Lawn Chair by Jasen Sousa
Lawn Chair
Tonight is the first
night
my friend asks me for
money
and does not lie,
telling me he needs it
for food,
or to buy a gift for
his girl or family.
He tells me straight
up to let him
borrow some money to
get high.
I guess you have to
respect his honesty.
I tell him
I am not in the
demolition business,
and that I am in the
construction business
and I am not going to
give him money to get high.
We play ball at Conway
Park until the lights fade out,
and then we play a
little more.
We sit in my car and
listen to a little music,
and we talk until he
nods off.
I drop him off
and he goes to sleep
in a lawn chair in the backyard
until his girlfriend comes home.
Race by Jasen Sousa
Race
His thoughts are like
a NASCAR speedway, race
the dragon, fire
breathing, an addict’s
burn to fill time and
space with a substance
that does not
acknowledge either. Today,
just like other days,
my friend committed
a crime against his
own flesh, blood, because
his flesh and blood
are no longer his, he
sold them for a bag of
heroin and
has been trying to buy
them back ever
since with computers
and family heirlooms
that help him consume
the stars and the moon
on a park bench under an empty sky.
Wireless Rain by Jasen Sousa
Wireless Rain
It is a rainy Thursday
night
as almost every summer
night
has been here in
Boston.
In a world where
everything
and everyone is
connected, my friend is missing
and out of touch,
anonymous
as a person can be in
this day and age.
Homeless,
when he does call
it’s from a pay phone,
strange numbers
common.
We are wireless in a
world
full of tanglazation.
Days of calling
and asking me for time
and money I don’t
have.
I miss him
and hope that the tree
in the park is
sheltering
him from some of the
rain.
I hope he is wireless
from rubber bands and
needles,
and is able to catch
himself like
the drop of rain in my palm.
Spotlight by Jasen Sousa
Spotlight
The one Somerville
streetlight
shined on me while
I bounced my ball
deep into the night.
Basketball is a game
of rhythm, repetition
and discipline.
My dirt-covered
fingertips
painted from a court
that was swept
by me years before
when I stole my father’s broom
to sweep puddles that
stood in the way of progress.
I tried to find seams
on the ball where the leather
started to peel off.
Basketball saved me
when my friends were
putting drugs in their
hands.
I held my own rock
and flung it towards
the sky,
and it would always
come back.
I would sit on my ball
on the free throw line
and watch my friends
with thumping systems drive by,
going to places they thought would make them
happy.
Mr. Clean by Jasen Sousa
Mr. Clean
The dirt has been
washed
off his hands.
The streaks of ash
have been removed from
his face.
His socks are not full
of blood. His feet
are without blisters
from walking in looped trails
for different places
to sleep.
He is home with
muscles
on his bones, lined up
sideburns, and eyes
that haven’t seen me
since
I was a much younger
man.
He carries sidewalk
stories
in his jean
pockets. Years of stepped on gum
imbedded into the skin
on his forearms.
The sun is out.
People walk up and down
the streets with their
own agendas, knowing, and not knowing
where their feet, and
minds
will take them today.
My friend’s thoughts
have returned him
to my life, not to ask
for extra cash,
or a place to crash
until those he has yet to pay
find someone else to
harass.
My friend has returned
looking for the all
the years he has lost.
He has trusted me to
help him find them.
We will go back out at
night with a flashlight,
look for all that he
has dropped along the way,
and I will help him pick it all up piece by
piece.
Soul Compartment by Jasen Sousa
Soul Compartment
For now, we are
friends, because addiction
has decided to hang
with someone else.
His eyes are open, his
pupils are wide,
and he witnesses me
for the first time in awhile.
He comments about my
hat I’ve had for months,
and the earring that
has hung from my lobe
for even longer, and
how much he likes them.
We have a conversation
I know
he will remember, I
speak from my soul
that I usually keep
locked inside my glove
compartment with my
wallet.
This is a day to
cherish
because it might be
weeks
before I hear from him again.
Old Friend of Many None by Jasen Sousa
Old Friend of Many
None
Because of the
destructive lifestyles
I have been around for
most of my existence,
I run, I diet, I
sweat, I fast,
and do everything in
my power
to keep myself
healthy.
Maybe in the end
I’ll be an old and
wrinkled man
with a brain that
stayed fully intact,
not allowing me to
forget,
but only to remember
everyone I have lost.
All my friends I grew
up with
will be gone
and there will be no
one left
to visit in jails, in
mental hospitals, and in half-way houses.
They will have all
succumbed to their lifestyles, and they
will not need to call
me anymore for assistance.
And there will be no
one left
to come and visit me.
Weekend Solo by Jasen Sousa
Weekend Solo
My friends call
me
all week.
“There’s no one else
around, just let me borrow a few bucks please, I promise. I’ll pay you
back.”
“Hey, I’m in a real
bad spot now. I feel like using, I know it’s late, but if you want to
hang out and talk for a few I’d really appreciate it.”
“Hey asshole!
I’ve been trying to get in touch with you the last few days. I got bad
news. Call me back when you get this. Asshole!”
“You got any furniture
moves coming up? Last one we did together was some good dough.
Remember that granite kitchen table? That was nuts. Hit me back.”
“I have to take care
of some stuff. I’m wondering if you can just watch Eva for a few
hours? Please. I would really appreciate it. You’re the only
one I trust.”
“You know Jacob’s
father just got out of rehab and he thinks we’re going to get back
together? I kind of told him I would if he
got clean, but I didn’t really think he would! Don’t know what to do?”
“You know
Crissy? The girl that was staying with me? I went out for a few
hours, just to pay some bills so they wouldn’t turn off the electricity and
when I came home my TV was gone! She sold it for a quick fix. Do
you believe that?”
Once Friday appears,
they disappear
into thick air
and I am alone
the same way they were
during the week while
I worked
and they roamed.
It’s Friday
and I too am looking
for something to do.
I make a few calls
to see if anyone wants
to hang out, no
one
picks up.
There’re busy now
putting in work,
looking for their next
fix.
I wonder how many
times
people have looked at
my name
and number on their
phones while they shot
what they
bought,
what they will never
own
into their systems.
Pick up, pick up,
listen.
First Published
in
Somewhere Lost
Copyright © 2011 by Jasen Sousa
Copyright © All Rights Reserved by J-Rock Publishing
Library of Congress
Cataloging in Publication Data
ISBN
978-0-9714926-7-7