Today is a lovely day.  The sun is up broad and high.  Perfect for feeling saktipat (god's touch) without expending too much extra effort.  I've been listening to Mary since December 20, 2005, the day before E.J.'s funeral.  I am thankful.  I am a clinging fan. She gets my kind of woman.  She sings to a female struggle eternal.  She's constantly reupping her faith that the forces of nature won't betray her the way human beings naturally do.  In a woman's thirties her crown makes a fast descent towards the head center but sometimes it lands on the ground. Dented in a few places.  That's me, dented up in a few places.  I'm laying low.  Not talking on the phone.  Glad to not be hearing my phone ring all the time. 

I spoke with my brother last night. i've been listening to Graveside tracks since the weekend.  It was hard at first because what happened is still unbelievable.  But then, I think well, at least these tracks exist.  My brother found a videotape of them recording in the booth.  He's asking people that knew them and chilled in the studio if they have any other footage so he can edit it together.  He's back in school now.  The ghosts don't haunt as passionately down in his small Georgia college town as they do in Boston.  I do believe the worst of the shock is over.  The crew is gone.  Welcome to the travails of Black life.  Keep livin.

I shiver.  I wring my hands.  I grind my teeth. I pace in my father's house. I have lost my ability to sleep.  In all that I have been through in my life this is the first time where I've lost the sheen on my laugh.  I look crazy.  I look like the cryptkeeper.  My hair is dry and breaking no matter how much grease I rub it down in.  I have aged 41 years. I have been eating non stop since I arrived in Murder City and I have still lost a pound per day. Ghetto Auschwitz.

I won't let myself stink.  I can't stand myself now as it is.  Dark circles have appeared liike craters of Saturn under my eyes.  And then there's Mary J. Blige.  I copped that shit the moment it hit stores, the day before E.J's funeral.  My brother's Ace as he calls him.  Yo, I lost my Ace. God Damn.  Edwin Jerome Duncan born premature on earth and slaughtered up to heaven. Premature. Now you wanna talk about a scrawny boy who grew to be a stylin six footer of love and bone.  E.J. was our family's dude.

Ooh. My breath. It's just so terrible. When my stepmother told me, I fell back on my couch, slapped five fingers across my face. When I let them go, all I could mouth was

note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.note.j.no

I'm impatient for the breakthrough.  I ain't fuckin kiddin. This is some straight bullshit.

You see me right now on this Christmas Eve I need a heavy knock, you know one of those beats that makes your neck crick when you fall into an imperative head nod.  Love. Really this moment calls for Biggie, Nas or Jigga but I can't hear about gun clappin and fuckin bitches. Unbelievable what my people are going through.  My people meaning those whose red blood dark coppers my same veins.  Happy Holidays all the salespeople cheer when the register chimes ch-ching.  Yeah? Kinda. Mean, I'm glad I'm living, word is bond, no slang intended, mean, glad the weather broke a bit, mean like yeah, the sun and skyline in Boston is dope. Ooh, the way the river and sky beamed towards each other today like identical twins.  Rippling blue providing background for the trees.  Now if only beneath those trees didn't lie four of my brother's crew.  Put a toothpick in your mouth and roll it around slow.  Unnastan'?

For the record I am drinking a bullshit Chardonnay my father kindly brought up from the basement. Indeed, this entire week I've been stuck to my brother's side trying to help him through the murder of his rap group, ironically named Graveside.  Bullshit wine is better than none.  And when Dad opened the wine, he handed me the entire bottle and told me- there's cups in the kitchen,  Yeah, my man, help your chile out. I'm 33.  It's all good. Because we are going crazy over here.  I wanna be back in Brooklyn so bad now, I can hear Welcome to Jamrock every time I breathe. In my heart fo sho, they call it, say it with me- mur-dah. What? I pray like amen to Jesus, A salaam alaikam to Allah, Mojuba to the Orisha, and Om to the Buddha.  Palms upturned to the sun.  Do you feel a sister?  Y'all see me? Fuck is going on?  My eyes are closed, I'm sitting still cross legged to the God rhythm.  What's the science? I need the mathematics on the night of December 13, 2005. Church grows through my locks. Talk to me, please.  I'm pleadin. For real. My brother is going through some frightening shit.  We don't know who did it. These young lovely talented dudes, were shot execution style in my brother's best friend's basement just before Christmas and I am lucky that I am able to throw my arms around him if I just decide to stop writing and go tap on his door.  I suspect while I'm writing this he's writing rhymes.  Shit, we both trying to make some sense out of the senseless, bloody and unsolved.  Mic check, mic check 1,2 , what is this?

Aww, man.

Now, it's Christmas time of the year, right?  You know what Santa had in his bag for E.J., Fat Boy, S.O.I., and Jihad?  Hollow point blasts to the chest and head.  Fuck is up? I pray for the answer.  Both Cash and the P.I. affirmed somebody knows something.  But guess what?  In between wrapping new boots, cologne, cd's, and toys, and no one apprehended as of yet, a chic is wondering how long her brother will have to keep looking over his chiseled shoulder. I think Santa is tied up in a North Pole basement.  I don't know who that dude is who shot up all my brother's friends.  I don't usually talk about the devil, not really a subject I'm about.  However, this situation requests that I expand my thought inclusion. Last night, trying to get our minds off things we drove to see King Kong, at the Fenway movie theater.  That's where the Red Sox play, in Fenway Park. That's the apple pie part of town.  We live in the hood, where the spirits of young black men are cored and baked underground.  Can a brother live to be a grandfather? It ain't right to bury four children.  19, 20, 21, and 22 is still child. At least to me.  I hope to you?  I remember my life was just gettiing started.  I was not unique.  It's called natural human development.  Certain systems wanna make Black life as unnatural as possible.  I believe I'm correct about that shit, no second opinions or pundit debates necessary.  Feel me.  Even just for a little while.

I don't mean to be heavy.  I really don't.  If you know me, you know I'd rather be feelin sexy.  Straight up, I'd rather be Vixen, the cute ass reindeer, in a red mini-skirt with white fur trim, giving gifts of love and personal bling while sliding down a fine ass man's chimney.  My bling comes to me in book form  I love to read, decorate my crib with words.  Mmm.  Damn.  Knowledge is beautiful.  Loser, lost serpent , who committed such a heinous act.  Gonna leave my brother standing scared, nightmares all in his eyes.  No doubt, he's alive to be scared.  My baby.

Please.  I am so woman I cry all the damn time.  No shame in how I clean myself.

Myheartisbreakingmyheartisbreakingmyheartisbreakingmyheartisbreakingmyheartisbreakingmyheartisbreaking.