The Damned do be Grinning

A play/ story set at a bus stop in Los Angeles

Sun Ra was trying to remind us that another world is possible on When Angels Speak of Love.

Nigga, sweet optimism is rotting your heart. He’s in the graveyard he always said was haunted and we’re out with this wind reaching up through our instruments like a serpent’s skull, is that him reminding us we’re in hell? 

Pass the gin, fool, I said another world, not a better world.

Bitter world. What’s possible is to hop over onto a different frequency where we’re not at this bus stop on Pico trading apocrypha for warmth in this dumb LA wind. 

What shld we be doing instead? Held up in some castle with prostitutes and diplomats looking for god in different devils?

Not that far over, I’m just saying we don't need to ache just to prove our souls worthy of this music. 

We don’t need no fake industry come up neither.

Starts drumming on his knees to wake the bones as the headlights swim up like searchlights. You never know if they’re coming to rescue you or arrest you. The first time you hear a good drummer it’s like he’s dancing his own skeleton under his palms, glorious madman banging on the walls of his asylum to see who will come break him out. No one. So he keeps on going till captivity sounds good. Psychologists call that self-soothing, to give it that pathetic human edge. We call it black music, black magic. There’s so much pressure on these madness rhythms that some of them become trivial to survive. You catch a nature spirit, a living god, working out the dull intricacies of some tv jingle to help sell toxic soap or Sun Ra himself fawning over Walt Disney. 

That goes over into the genocide/ revivalism dialectic. Even the most unreal negroes had to be slick enough to appropriate whatever was trying to kill them and turn it back toward sovereignty. 

Sick enough to risk their natural selves on a bluff? To give up the authentic personality for the mask?

Like I said, sweet optimism, rotting in your heart, puncturing it with worms of absolute cleanliness. The truth is made up of contradictions side by side, trying to fall in love. 

Like you and that white lady you say you can’t take for another minute but you bring her everywhere like a talisman of weakness? 

Yeah, like that. I figure if I let that distraction undermine me a little, her little idea of tenderness, then the greater evils won’t get anywhere near. She’s a strategy. And crazy enough to almost love. 

Sounds like you’re paranoid. 

Cause I’m smart. You’ve seen how trivial they treat afrocentric negroes if we don’t go against ourselves now and then. 

Another world is possible, though? 

Not if I get there first and sabotage it all in advance, whose scheme has a catchier beat, ours, or theirs? Or are they collaborating to break the spell earth casts on our sense of the greater universe. Feels like Sun Ra is right here looking me in the eye until I promise to witness that.

Maybe the catchiness got us trapped here, like rhythm is a fisherman’s net and we can’t swim.

You can’t. One thing about these white girls they will push you in the deep end till you learn.

Ok heart rot, just say you have a problem and stop making excuses for not wanting to solve it.

All I have is a plan, you should get one with your shiftless ass. Come over and hear these records I found, Chicago gospel, it’s church at the crib. 

House of the Rising Sun been spiritualized? 

Redeemed. Like that Donald Byrd meltdown on “Christo Redentor.” He was trying so hard to hold it together that the whole song sounds like sobbing. And good for him. Probably needed to let it out.

They got us pretending you gotta be secular to be intellectual, their whole scheme is that misguided.

I haven’t met anyone smart in 50 years, just a lot of fools trading dead ideas. I miss Monk for that, smart enough to shut his ass up and play. And stop playing when he ran out of ideas. He wouldn’t have had to stop if they hadn’t beaten the ideas out of him with clubs and clapping off beat at his concerts, he’d still be rearranging the space between now and then if not for that. You coming over? 

Nah, I gotta be somewhere. 

Privacy like yours is where ghosts go to recharge. Maybe I dream you up so I don’t have to wait here alone.  You even here right now?

Whatever gets you through how much you miss me, fine with me, fantasize about how mysterious I am while I go argue with my landlord in peace. Niggas always wanna call absence negligent or glamorous, many days I’m over here lonely as parrot with no one to echo, negotiating my value, trading in worthless bullshit at the pawn shop, staving off the collector, trying to hold it together so my torment doesn’t ruin this music. Not enough admiration in the world to make up for tedium like that. 

Yeah. I always forget it’s the cold hearted negroes who get home and sob in private, the compensating viscousness of the tender hearted. 

Man, go take a nap, (laughing), Ima go home and weep then, just for you. 

—-

Ever think about how Charlie Parker died choking on his own laughter at the white lady’s house, left her with a scandal, made her an exile from Manhattan. You think that was him getting the last laugh? 

That abject nigga, nah. I think Lucifer himself had had enough and needed his accomplice back. 

You’re so ready to incriminate somebody. 

You’re so ready to reward all your heroes for the two minutes of self-awareness and modesty. Bird was a bird of prey, part angel, part monster. Neither side could win, his death was our divine punchline. 

Anyways. I’ll keep my revenge fantasies to myself from now on. 

No one gets revenge here, just more tangled up in phantoms, better at making the knot a pretty note, blue note, blue not, one of those soaring Bird notes that makes you wanna strangle him in praise. He never felt worthy of his own sound, that was why—   fear, sabotage, vast black themes 

Tired of all the psycho babble about our low self-esteem 

Fine, you want me to lie? 

Bird was the happiest man I ever met, how’s that? Never saw him buckle over in pain and regret right in the middle of solo or a good hit, only cheers and fried chicken right from the bucket. 

Yeah, keep going, what else? 

Then he died laughing. That’s all there is, wanna loop it again? 

Yep, gimme the swan lake version, reincarnation of a lovebird. Whatever the case, it’s the only happy ending I’ve ever heard, even the tabloids never forgot he was laughing his way off the planet. And the way he disgraced a perfectly good benefactor. Play it back. 

Or maybe she gave him a poison apple, was part of the CIA and paid to kill him and make it look natural. Who all was there to watch him laugh himself off stage? Her and the television? Who was the WITNESS? Who saw it? Who watched it happen? Who let it? 

Why the CIA killing suicidal negroes? 

Cause it’s a great alibi, a wondrous finale to the perfect crime

Man, you crazy and paranoid. I love talking to your crazy paranoid ass. 

—-

What do you think they mean by The Damned Don’t Cry ? 

I think it’s a vicious cycle, not crying out or even asking quietly for help, never getting help, a self-fulfilling condition of those conditioned for self-hatred. 

Stevie on Fullingness’ First Finale, maybe he’s introducing the end of damnation. 

Here come these damn headlights. Looking like blood spilling out all over our shadows 

I don’t wanna get on tonight. Never should have taken that first hit, first note in my stomach now, will you walk with me instead? 

Nah man, I gotta be somewhere, I gotta get on 

Fuck you, then (he smiles) see you later 

The damned do be grinning 

—

That’s one way to have a face 

The rapper way? 

Lips pursed like they’re about to kiss their mamas just to deliver threats, talk themselves onto the ledge. 

They finally got us treating agony like glamor, headshots and mugshots like the same type of photo op.

I don’t know, I think our anger just graduated to rage and we needed that next sound before we went around killing everyone over missing notes.

Some people are going around killing everyone regardless.

Where? The movies?  Most of my friends just trying to survive and a loud beat reminds you to use your heart innit.

That’s sweet, but they look ridiculous and half of them sound that way, like they’re speaking in tongues.

What if they are? What if it’s the new path to spiritual awakening? Yelling rhymes at the air all biblical— and rich too, gold all over and gold teeth, gold spit on the microphone, gold knees to fall on in repentance.

I’m with it 

I don’t see them having to catch the bus after shows, I see them with drivers and entourages while we’re out here blowing our lungs out on sincere music just to feel what empty is—pockets, hearts, houses. It didn’t used to be so bleak, having a skill wasn’t a liability before, now they want us on machines or gone and forgotten, programmed into machines so the rappers can just pick us up like a gadget, toss us out with the blunts with they’re done, and they love to make gadgets obsolete just when you start trusting them .

I guess we should try to take our power back from that bullshit, get into the love element again.

I guess. I’d love to get into a heated Cadillac with some bitches and be driven around the city like a king, I’d love that.

It’s not enough that you can turn ideas into good sounds without a machine and without “english,” that you’re free in your own freedom language? 

Nah, it’s not.  I’m so free I ain’t been paid yet for my gig downtown last month, and I’m hungry. 

I’m tired too. We should have been dealers for a while then come back to the music, relieved of struggle.

Music would probably leave us to our relief in that case, all you’d hear is the guilt trying to get outside and confess, tapping on the window of your mind, all songless and shit. You can’t sell someone’s mama crack and then play a pure note.

So we’d be rapping is what you’re saying, these niggas sound like happy criminals, just like that.

You talk too much 

You listen too much 

The fucked up part is, you can be evil one day and pure the next, that’s the catastrophe of choices. We could do both, play the horn on the corner as a front for selling on the corner, become ghetto millionaires. Mo Better Blues stars!

I’m tired man, tired of asking for my money after gigs and them looking at me like I’m being pushy, like I'm a greedy thug. Some nights I’m a thought away from choking some suave looking wannabe for running his club like a plantation.

I know

My man Baraka always said the highest form of knowing is doing.    

The best rap is about almost committing premeditated murder and strangling some square just for living but then by the time the rap is over the mood shifts to joy, the song avenges—

Yeah, that’s some bullshit too.

Yep, so who we bout to kill? 

Ourselves if we keep living like this, scrambling for crumbs after all our eloquent performances of cool, ain’t nothing even a little bit cool about our condition, band almost going hungry every other week but in some ornate opera house acting jolly. Nothing is cool.

Nothing is. But at least we know it, these rap niggas still believe they are hip, in 20 years they’ll be out here with us catching the bus and the new sound will be all screams and mumbles.

Probably sooner. Let’s shut the fuck up and go rehearse.

—

I guess I’m just tired from playing the drums and flute in this dry wind. Don’t feel right but I was fine in rehearsal, I’m fine. Maybe I’m too old for this shit. Nah. I sounded great, I sounded like I did at 30 with Ramsey Lewis when I first got my stride. That sighing rhythm I do that sounds like grinning. Why would I sound renewed but feel like I’m gasping for air, don’t make no sense, I’m fine, just need to get over to the bus stop and sit down. Just need to rest. Should I ask for a ride? Nah. I’m fine. Grown man don’t ask for no ride unless he’s offered.  Just need to pack up and catch this 11:30 so I’m not sitting out there for 40 minutes in this dry ass wind round midnight. It’s been a good night, I could tell they liked the sound, I even smiled while switching instruments and some of the women came up to me after grinning like I had it if I wanted it. I don’t need it now. Just need to get over to the bus stop and relax after all that. I think I’m overstimulated. The government’s also poisoning the air, whole sky’s a vat of poison. Maybe I took too much of that air in when I was playing and need to just breathe deep and slow and wait for it to pass through like a ghost passes through in the night. Maybe I’m haunted. I like that, that means I’ve still got it, if I’m still worth haunting. Ima come back too, be Damballah a few seasons, chaos and order on this plantation. I feel a little weird but I’m fine. It’s real cold out here tonight, real raw, doesn’t even feel like Los Angeles, feels like back in Chicago. Maybe I’ll call my girl, and my son back. Talk to them while I wait for the bus. Hey, can you hear me? Oh, wait, I’m gasping, words not coming out. This is weird, I need to scream for help, I can’t say nothing. Let me beat the drum and see if a driver notices and stops, girl on the phone and doesn’t hear me, thinks I’m just being quiet. Damn, I can’t breathe, I need help, I don’t wanna die at this fucking bus stop. Man I love this bus stop, my workshop, kinda sad looking but all my ideas flowed here, and Dwight used to listen with a sparkle in his eyes like he believed all my stories and shit. They were true but it’s nice to watch eyes believe you and love you, shit, not here, my phone, I can call someone again. I’m tired, I just need a ride, damn am I crying now, dry crying, why’s it coming out silent, why can’t they hear me. Damn my teeth hurt and my eyes burn in this sharp air, I just need to rest. Still haven’t been paid for last month, my son’s bringing over some dinner though, I just need to rest and let the road sound soothe me, I’ll be ok. It was a great show. I’m not obsolete, I’m free in my own— Here come those headlights. It’s early, this bus is never early, why can't they hear me screaming, wait… I should have done more crime, less whining about art and beauty. Why ain’t she stopping for me, don’t they see me. I guess I have a delicate soul, damn, pulling up bright and early to whisk my delicate soul past angels and demons and eternity. Never got that Cadillac or that big gold, never had shit but a sound and that was all there is anyways, damn, I could laugh if I could breathe right I would be chuckling at this merciless ass planet, kicks you off on a high note after making sure you know how low and alone you are too. Hopefully I leave a trace, right here, a shrine to the cruel grace of black music, not that it should be literal, but some subtle blinking neon of the soul reminding people how they left me, how niggerish I had to feel right here, can’t breathe, can’t call for help, bright ass headlights checking for me like I’m the one who’s got the times mixed up. Girl right there on the phone talking about tomorrow, with her shady ass, wtf is tomorrow, some white shit, sweet optimism, I’ll miss that sweet white shit, like cocaine and ocean and poison sky and trying to survive my own rage. Where the fuck am I now. Is this tomorrow? I just need to relax. Ima get on this time, Ima get on.