Chicky Baby

When he spoke
a city listened
wrapped in the comfort
of his golden tones.

His voice,
purple velvet,
conjured images of
popcorn machines
cold butter,
creating Magic
in the hard heart
of Downtown.

We relied on his
worthy words
to give every second
more meaning.

He had to leave
and we shed tears,
for we knew that
the refrigerator door
would never open again.

Ali

You shook up the world,
And the world shook you back.

There,
You stand, a statue,
In black and white relief,
Shouting at Sonny
—floored/flat-backed/defeated—
Before his lights burnt out.
This defining shot
Wrapped a heavy weight
Around your waist.

With a defiant cross,
You upstaged your ancestry
And championed a new name,
Of a prophet, rightly-guided.

Your fiercest opponent
Dropped bombs from afar,
A war machine without peer.
You took off the gloves
For a fight
You refused to fight
As fights refused you.
This bout went to the scorecard
And the judges raised your arm,
Your title exposed and stripped.

Still undefeated—
You answered the bellow
Of an unbeaten brawler
To reclaim top prize once more.
Under the frenzied lights
Of a sleepless city,
You endured
Your first beating:
A fifteen round suffocation
In Frazier’s smoke.

You fought back,
Leaving home for jungle
And a giant—
A menace unfelled by man.
The natives hailed for blood.
You obliged,
Grilling that Foreman dope
With speed, guile, and ropes—
Your crowning achievement.

Only you,
The Greatest—
Molded from Clay,
Chiseled by faith,
Hardened by dissent—
Could transform
The sweet science
Into poetry.

Altar

He stood at the altar
a high priest engaged in ritual.
One delicate light
fizzled overhead.
He surveyed the jars
in precise sequence.
Canopic ruins
containing the viscera
of all that was important
to him.

His eyes flickered
calculating the next
stage of the performance.
He opened a jar
and splashed its contents
onto the altar.
Selecting one item
of correct size and shape
he swept the rest back home.
Old hands pretending to be
young and quick.
He replaced the jar
amongst the others
and continued his work.

The Things That Mattered

You never truly know someone
until he's dead.
Rooting around amongst
his used things.
A pair of slippers
with a hole worn clean through.
A crisp blue necktie.
Still in it's box.
A relic from Christmas 1968.

And in the garage.
Along the back wall.
Mason jars
filled with nuts and bolts,
nails,
screws.
Gleaming and galvanized.
Free from dust
and as bright as they were
before being entombed
in their current home.
These are the things that mattered.
They tell me all that I need to know.

Orlando Woolridge

Orange windmills
whirling high
in the air
creating perfect circles.

Zero.
Everything
or nothing.
A number built
to forget.
Unless it's Orlando.
A God in purple and gold.

The ball
appeared into his hand
as if by Magic
and he
cut,
sliced,
stabbed,
in
for 2.

When I hear the word
Orlando
I don't think of
saccharin sweet
amusement parks
or Shakesperian comedies.
my mind instantly sees
orange windmills.

Jordan

Silhouette defying the laws of nature,

leaving a shadow, perpetually expanding

(no matter the season), altering the collective focus

to

the

One.