The Hood Memorials

Last night one of the songs that came up was from Ray Reed who lived next door. Jazz musician and author of the songs we were listening to. He died a few years back.
Smoke.
Smoke.
Smoke that cigarette.

Really nice guy I knew since 1956. He was older by about three or four years. His parents were musicians as well. The dad played piano and the horn in a military band. His mom was a hoofer on the stage. They had two children. Ray and his sister. The father died first. Then his mom and once free of the bitterest woman I ever met, didn't live long enough to really enjoy his freedom.

He had a girl from the next block but mom took that away. Mom took it all and it was--
Smoke.
Smoke.
Smoke that cigarette.

Three smokers in one house without a window opened--ever. What good is music when there is no joy? But Ray made beautiful music. And when he died, music teachers, musicians, and the jazz world paid homage. I still do and when I hear his music, I remember the day he showed me how to fly a kite with a fishing poll and reel to hold the string and make the kite dance in a blue sky and big clouds.

The Lady of the Forest is back. She has a steed, a Mustang all white with a black mane. The mane is the soft-top to her white Mustang convertible. She is alone in her forest. It's shade falls in darts on the grass with chairs and tables to sit under. The breeze is caught and filtered through shined glossy leafs. I think she is tired, sadness weighs on her.

The Zionist Jihad Party Boys, drag queen is the keeper of trash. As all drag queens, if it is one thing they know well, it's trash. I think she has a yearning to learn the crochet techniques I employ in my crochet butt flossers. She obviously buys hers. I might just crochet one in front of her the next time I see her with trash in her arms.

The palace is all so very quiet. Mean Queen has stopped shrieking. Daddy does not grumble and swear. A slave came out early and pushed more trash in onto an overloaded barrel. The lawn is as high as an elephant's eye but shit, these people think lawns are for goats.

But the memorial I will always have here is that for my father. The bravest man I ever knew and he loved me unconditionally--fag genes and all.