When Doves Cry
I grip the steering wheel
like we’re driving through a hurricane.
You’re almost out of gas.
We’ll be fine, babe.
Where are we going?
As far away from this madness as possible.
Rodeo? She puts her hand on my leg to soothe me.
Not exactly.
Finding Robert
Chapel and I walk
the pier
to find Robert,
only he’s not there
or in any
of his usual spots.
I ask James, who fishes
on the pier every day, rain or shine,
to help us
find Robert.
Try Leimert Park. They got a jam session going on tonight,
he tells us.
Chapel whispers, Another day, Blade. I should probably
get home.
It has to be today. You have to meet him today, I say.
Seriously? Thought we were going to do Rodeo Drive.
It’s important, Chapel. He’s important. I need you to see.
See what?
I just need you to see . . .
We pay
the $15
to get into
5th Street Dicks Lounge
in Leimert Park,
where the musicians
jamming onstage
nearly outnumber
the people
drinking
and shimmying
in their seats.
Hearing Robert
up there
on a bona fide mic
for the first time
is like entering
a universe
where melody and
soul
and groove
and element
collide
into something strange
and magical.
She kisses me
hard and long
like a riff
strung out.
Is it possible
to overdose
on love?
He finishes his set
and waves us over.
Youngblood, how’d you find me?
I know people.
I see, he says, eyeing Chapel.
This is—
Chapel, he says, finishing my sentence.
She reaches out
to shake his hand,
but Robert doesn’t shake hands.
He bows.
Chapel bows
her head too.
It is a blessing to finally meet you, Chapel. How’d y’all like
the show?
Pretty dope, she says.
Robert nods at Chapel. I knew I liked you.
It was okay, I guess.
Okay? Boy, you better recognize . . . your little rock and
roll started in these mean streets.
I know, I know.
Sit down—you need a lesson, and school’s about to be in
session.
Track 3: Cross Roads Blues
ROCKER: ROBERT JOHNSON / ALBUM: THE COMPLETE RECORDINGS / LABEL: VOCALION / RECORDING DATE: NOVEMBER 1936 / STUDIO: GUNTER HOTEL IN SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
Youngblood, don’t you know
rock and roll
is just the blues
minus the hope
plus a bunch of screaming
electric guitars?
All these good ole boys
just borrowed
from gospel
and the blues.
But, don’t tell them
I told you so.
Zeppelin, Clapton,
all the greats,
they just channeled
Howlin’ Wolf and Chuck Berry,
and the O-riginal Robert Johnson.
Did you know
before Robert Johnson
was called
one of the fathers
of rock and roll,
he stood at the crossroads
and sold his soul to the devil
traded in his eternal residence
for guitar-playing powers
that would rock the world.
Sounds like Rutherford.
Out of Gas
That was fun.
That guy is real special. I always feel good when we hang.
We make a left on Crenshaw when my car sputters and
the engine nearly shuts off.
Blade, I told you we were almost out of gas.
It’ll be fine. There’s a station right over there.
Did you hear that? Is the car even on?
I tell myself everything is going to work out fine.
But I am wrong.
So wrong.
Crisis at the Pump
What are you doing here?
Mom?
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, CHAPEL?
She looks at me and then at her daughter.
Blade and I went to see his friend perform at—
Chapel, you know the deal. This right here CANNOT
happen. Blade, you seem like a nice boy and I’m sure this
is hard . . .
Mom, you know how much we care about each other.
Your father and I made a decision and it’s final. Now say
your goodbyes. Five minutes. I’ll be in the car. Don’t keep
me waiting. I would hate to tell your father.
Chapel and I embrace
frozen in fear
of this moment
we’ve tried to hide from.
Come on, Chapel! her mother yells from the car.
And like that
she’s stripped away again.
She won’t even look
out the window of the car
as they drive off.
I fill up my car
and try to fill up
the emptiness
in my spirit
on the long drive home
across a world
of canyons.
Don’t fret
Mom would say
whenever I was sad.
My fingers glide
and press down
on the frets
of my guitar,
secret sounds
of pain
burning my ears,
stinging my eyes.
Hands shaking
like caffeine itself,
and it doesn’t stop.
And I start thinking about
how dangerous this feels,
to love someone so much
when they can’t be with you.
The Beginning of a Song
This is what I know
In this cavalcade of stars
She is Polaris
Her love shines
Brighter than one hundred suns
Sure, others are visible
But in this orbit
She is nearest
And we are bound
Together
Forever
I thought . . .
© BLADE MORRISON
I REALLY Got to Start Locking My Door
What are you doing in here?
How about knocking?
The door was cracked.
That wasn’t an invite.
More love songs for your secret lover?
Get out.
Just don’t let her dad catch you.
He won’t.
They all say that.
Seriously, what do you want?
Have you called Rutherford?
For what?
To see how he’s doing. It’s been three days.
I’m sure he’s fine. Probably figured out a way to sneak in
some weed.
I don’t have time for this. Look, I’m having a party
tomorrow night.
I heard.
Good, so you know not to be anywhere near here.
Actually, I w
as told to be right here.
Over my dead body.
Well, keep following in Rutherford’s footsteps and you’re
on your way.
Jerk.
Sometimes, I think we’re all cursed.
You’re such a drag.
The kiss of death envelops us.
Who even says that kind of stuff?
I’m sorry.
For what?
For wallowing in the despair that is our life in front of
you.
Why do you hate us so much?
I don’t hate us so much.
You suck.
Rutherford’s a drug addict. Our mother’s dead. And we’re
headed nowhere fast.
Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not
condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and
you will be forgiven.
Something your shrink told ya?
You’re an idiot. It’s in the Bible.
Since when do you read the Bible?
We’ve all got stuff, Blade. Suck it up. Life’s too short.
What Bible verse is that?
After she finishes
telling me
how ungrateful I am
and how any fool
in their righteous mind
would be more than happy
to trade places
with me
and my privileged, flashy life,
she slams
my bedroom door
loud enough
for Mick
and Jagger
to start barking.
Hope
I plop down
by the pool
stare at the ripples
and torchlight dancing
off the water.
I wonder.
About me.
I don’t think I’ve hoped
for enough.
Maybe that’s what too much money does?
Why am I so ungrateful?
I have
everything:
the cars,
the guitars,
the mansion,
the view,
the girl.
Something’s not right.
There’s a vacancy
inside the rooms
of my soul.
That sounds way corny,
like a bad love song,
but I’ve always assumed
my hope
would end
badly.
So why hope
for anything
when all the money
in the world
can’t buy
a happy ending.
Hope never drowns.
That’s what Mom used to say
when I was afraid to swim.
Hope swims.
I drift off, dream
of swimming
toward
a sacred shore.
Today is the Day
I wake to the feeling of
wet tongues mopping up salt
from my cheeks
and sleep from my eyes.
Instead of being ticked off
at Mick and Jagger,
I hug them, tell them
how I’m really going to miss
their insanely annoying
high-pitched yaps
and the ear-piercing songs
of their mother goddess, Storm.
But I’m going to do this.
I’m leaving LA.
I’m going to pick up Chapel
and we’re going to
make a run
for the highway
and get this adventure started.
Today is the day
that hope wins.
Conversation
I tell Storm
let’s Jumpin’ Jack Flash
this joint—a final hurrah.
Speak English, she says.
The party. I’m gonna stay, help you out. Then, I’m ghost.
Oh lucky me!
How to Throw a Sick Party (According to Storm)
Invite every guy you’ve ever met
(including your exes, apparently)
and every girl you hate.
Fly DJ Goldie in
from Miami
and have her mix
your music
with music
everyone actually likes.
Have bartenders
and cocktail waitresses
pop bottles
and tubs
of shrimp
and Doritos
and hootch
(the kegs are literally labeled
hootch).
Show off
the $4000 statue
that you replaced.
Bring out
Kid Cudi, then
the dancers
you hired to perform
Bharatanatyam:
the “dance of bliss,”
which, actually, is
pretty
sick.
After the Dance
Here I stand
in a random gallery
barely noticed
by the odd-shaped faces
the loud conversations
surrounding me.
My temples pulse
like little drums
my eyes paint
scenes
each a masterpiece
of Chapel.
I wish you were here, I text
to no response,
just as Cammie Wood,
who’s been sweating me
since sixth grade,
comes up
in a shoestring bikini
and smacks me
on the butt.
Conversation
Hey, sexy.
Hello, Cammie.
How’s it hanging?
You tell me.
You and choir girl still together?
You mean the love of my life, Chapel?
Yadda, Yadda, Yadda!
Nice to see you.
Wait, don’t go. Let’s dance.
I’m good.
Your loyalty is cute. But where’s hers?
What are you talking about?
She’s not even here. She’s probably somewhere with
someone else.
Don’t be dense, Blade. Don’t let church girl fool ya.
Okay, thanks, Cammie. Later.
What she won’t know won’t hurt her.
But it’ll hurt me.
I promise to be gentle.
I have a girlfriend, Cammie. Bye!
She takes
my shades off,
gets so close
her breath tangos
with mine.
She gently kisses
my cheek,
moves around
to my ear
whispers
tasteless things
that get a rise
out of me
then she nibbles
on my earlobe.
I close my eyes.
Try not to think
about the thrill
growing.
Try to push her away
out of my mind
just before she kisses
me so hard
I’m kissing
her back.
Bliss Interrupted
Van DeWish
crashes the mic
and screams
MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION!
This hater
is a wack rapper,
with rich parents
and no record deal,
who used to date
my girl,
and thus
a hater.
Ever since Storm’s album
flopped,
debuting at
the last Billboard spot,
he’s dissed her
on social med
ia
every chance he gets.
But tonight is, by far, the worst.
It’s live.
He gets everyone’s attention,
mocking Storm’s song,
then
roasts her
in front of
Her. Entire. Party.
What’s the difference between you and a lawn mower? You
can tune a lawn mower. And your dad, Rutherford, is old
news.
Storm stands there
in shock,
ready to strike back. She
looks at me,
like I’m supposed
to do something.
I’m just glad Cammie’s tongue
is no longer in my mouth.
Hey, Storm, Van hollers, going in for the kill, you should
leave your band and sing solo . . . So low we don’t hear
you!
The laughter erupts
like a chorus
of mad singers,
and Storm runs . . .
she just runs,
knocking over people
and chairs
and hootch
to escape.
PARTY’S OVER
I scream
on the DJ’s mic.
I don’t care
where you go,
but you got
to get the heck
outta here.
We came to par-tay! Van chants, and
now everyone joins in.
WE CAME TO PARTY!
I pull the plug,
and make my way over
to him.
Get out.
It’s just jokes, Blade. It’s just jokes, dude.
Yeah, whatever. Party’s over, everyone, I turn and say
to the posers.
I thought we was cool, Van says.
We’re not.
Your girl thought I was cool, he says, laughing.
C’mon, Van, Cammie says, pulling him away before I do
something I won’t regret.
It’s a lame party anyway, he adds.
I clear everyone out,
make my way to the front,
where a mob
of partiers
are gawking at—
Wait, this can’t—
A stretch limo pulls up
and out jumps
a scruffy
Rutherford Morrison
with two giddy girls
in matching
zebra-print
miniskirts,
whose combined ages
are less than
his.
His eyes look like
they’re swimming
in water.
When he comes up