Crumbs of a Bum's Cake

By Kenny Attaway

Is it beautiful like the residue of a birds hum? The last pound of the blind man drum. The rum of the scum, Is it the scent of a bakers thumb? The beautiful of the slum? The gift of the innocence/ confusion in the solution. A something of nothing or the nothing of something. The surrendered of superficial / is the hug from a poem. The kisses of an I miss you. The leftover dew from a long exotic nightThe last twisting on an erotic knot. Is it the cream that rose to the top/or the sugar rush from the last drop/The simmering of a rainbows nose/ snowflakes un-froze? Is it birds freed/ or insanity caged The teaspoon of humanitys first and last flavor /Drowning of a thought/ or the life saver. Now ask yourself this. Crumbs of a bums cake/Washing your face in midnights rage/ waking up with the good in morning caged/Laying down and sharing your heart with if, possible and maybe Erecting to the world aggression. Is crumbs from wanting the love /but Accepting the Mmmmms on the Fs between the liberations of breaths/ Crumbs of a bum cake where desires are lit or destiny blown outWhere the softest flowers grew into hard like rocks. To taste the crumb of a bums cake / where all senses radiateSparked by a revolution / and the most angelic earthquake partake Accepting the lost in winning/winning to not lose/ still confused by when you win -you still lose. In short, Crumbs of a Bums cake addresses the hardcore battle of drug addictions through six generations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504962827

Kenny Attaway

Kenny Attaway (G.E.R) is an American writer. Raised in West Philadelphia, began authoring novels, plays and mini movies in the pre-teens of his life. His works of art has touched the hearts and minds of countless fan/supporters. Since 2005, he has published a total of twelve-thirteen works of art. His subject matters/genres continue to give light on array of topics. He loves writing and ushering in new projects. Currently, he is penning three complete novels to be published soon.

Book preview

Crumbs of a

Bum’s Cake

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© 2015 Kenneth Attaway. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, places, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse    11/18/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6280-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6281-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6282-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919047

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Crumbs of a Bum’s Cake

CHAPTERS

(Based)….. how the cake crumbles (Intro 1)

Cake and eat it II (intro 2)

*not a crummy thank you-not* Thank you’s

01   my morning jacket smothered in crumbs….

02   no scented candles in solidary condiment ….

03   a pancake & syrup romance II

04   breakfast in an alley….

05   a bag of beautiful rocks…

06   love a dangerous necessity….

07   the prettiest penny in a rhinestone jar..

08   a banquet of mary janes’s flowers …

09   wedding cake & honeymoon spoons…

10   crumbs from a bum’s cake (the babies)

11   digging for new planets …

12   john coltrane butter & miles davis muffins

13   purple rain plantation…

14   a handful of pennies & a pocketful of cool…

15   a spoonful of gold to swallow a ruby

16   black C.R.E.A.M (free the pigeons)…

The definitions: meaning of life appears in the order

(Based)….. how the cake crumbles (Intro 1)

Based on reality: the intro to a lifelong high (kinda).

Drugs and human nature has gone hand in hand since the days following B.C. it recorded early on that the first know humans to civilizations. It was recorded early on that the cave men would snort rocks (sounds like a cruel joke), but it’s recorded. Since the 19th century when Americans first discovered new wonder drugs like morphine, heroin, and cocaine, our society has confronted the problem of drug abuse and addiction. When the 20th century began, the United States—grappling with its first drug epidemic—gradually instituted effective restrictions: at home through domestic law enforcement and overseas by spearheading a world movement to limit opium and coca crops. By World War II, American drug use had become so rare; it was seen as a marginal social problem. The first epidemic was forgotten. During the 1960s, drugs like marijuana, amphetamines, and psychedelics came on the scene, and a new generation embraced drugs. With the drug culture exploding, our government developed new laws and agencies to address the problem. In 1973, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration was created to enforce federal drug laws. In the 1970s, cocaine reappeared. Then, a decade later, crack appeared, spreading addiction and violence at epidemic levels. Today, the DEA’s biggest challenge is the dramatic change in organized crime. While American criminals once controlled drug trafficking on U.S. soil, today sophisticated and powerful criminal groups headquartered in foreign countries control the drug trade in the United States. An although there are more than 1,000 illegal drugs used across the work, Heroin, Cocaine, Meth, Crack-Cocaine, LSD, Estacy, Opium, Marijuana, Mush and PCP (in descending order) remains the most addictive/hard to shake and break drugs.

In having the honor and beautiful challenge of being a clinical therapist I have assisted a heroin addict, LSD user, weed-head, meth user and so on. I have also had the sadden pleasure of working with one’s addicted to other drugs not as commonly noted; such a cinnamon heads/ inhalers, but of all the abusers of drugs that I have helped, witnessed or heard of in my history of rising from a boy to a man from the urban streets of Philadelphia I can honestly say, write and prove that crack-cocaine was not only the most addictive, but the most used and number home wrecker from the mid 80’s up to now. Drug programs, caring family and friends (family) religion and one finding him or herself has led to a steady decrease in not only the use of crack-cocaine, but its addictiveness. Since becoming a social worker/therapist in the early 2000’s I have encountered across over more than a hundred or more testimonies of How I got over and have met well over 500 functional addicts’/drug users of crack. But in the mid 80’s and throughout the 1990’s I would only hear about, know of and first hand see and witness "Pipers (no relation to bag pipes), crack-heads, cookie monsters, base-heads, druggies, smokers and many other names/titles and dehumanized jokes used to describe crack-cocaine users. Seeing a crack-head or piper push a cart full of someone’s clothing, personal belongs and/or theirs for sale was common for any Philly or urban city kid across the US and afar. My friends and I would often talk down or renegotiate the sale of some already worn socks, video games and other items the pipers and junkies were trying to sale to get the fix. Back then, in the more not so mature days and times of Kenny Attaway I’d laugh and joke at the pipers’ and junkies trying to sale broken amps" (Nas) or other no good or sometimes really good gadgets. Shamefully and unknowingly I didn’t have the understanding and sentiment of understanding the pain the addict was pushing along and dealing with back then. Not until when I reached the age of thirteen that I’d the first hand lesson in the life and times/pains and tribulations of an addict, junkie, piper, fiend and crack monster through firsthand experience of my Cousin, Shirley Ann (RIP). Shirley Ann was one of my mother’s favorite nieces’ and one of the few family members outside our immediate family (brothers and sisters) that would visit us and act and show ways of a truly family member. Before I became a teen, my mother would always attempt to educate us on the struggles an addict and how unfair, cruel and ungodly it was to treat them mean and disrespectful and that they were people with feelings too, but in the rugged streets of West Philly there was rarely a understanding or liking for a fiend unless you were a dealer showcasing your product two for five or if you were trying to talk down the asking price of a six pack of Dove soap from $1.00 to 50 cent, but some dealers and others still didn’t show love. I’d hear bitch all I got is blue tops (drug packaging) take it or leave it and I am not giving you shit but three dollars for the radio. A few of us began to understand more of how difficult it was for the addict to walk through life motionless and addicted to nothing but the drug, but repeatedly most didn’t. If they don’t respect themselves …how should we or anyone else respect them Thoughts and comments like that would always confuse me due to hearing my mother preach one way, but the streets and hundreds of others chanting If they don’t respect themselves …how should we or anyone else respect them (on-going. And to add more confusion to an already heavily stirred mind the infamous blow jobs and female pipers/junkies swatting over in alley became super popular.

Many people are still amused by the famous line I’d suck ya dick from the 1993 movie Menace II Society; in which a male fiend offered to give oral sex to Ol Dog played by Lorenz Tate. But for the brutal reality of an addict offering to give head, sex or any other dehumanizing act became second nature to get the fix, hit, pull, push and high. In fact, selling sex became the one and only option for many female and gay male addicts. My mother fought hard and heavy for my brothers and sisters to respect them at most; even if we didn’t understand them and their way of life Our home was filled with confusion and pots filled with poverty; which made it sometimes difficult in the early years for mom to fully educate us" on the life and mindset of an addict, but for now we respect them and not throw rocks, sticks and talk down to them in public or private. In 1987 and 1988 Hip Hop music was changing from the silly friendly ABC raps from the late 70’s and early 80’s to more aggressive socially conscience albums and album covers (BDP by Any Means Necessary), Ice-T’s 6 in the morning and others, but Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation to Hold Us back led the pack. PE’s unapologetic leader and lead lyricist Chuck D was no-nonsense. It Takes a Nation to Hold Us a back remains one of my favorite albums, arguably one of the best hip hop albums ever. Filled with charts and streets booming jams and melodies Don’t Believe the Hype, Rebel without a Pause and Bring the Noise PE/Chuck D reigned and with KRS. 1 and Boogie Down Productions sharing the helm in the ushering of political charged raps and messages for not the charts, but for urban America’s heart, minds and souls. LL Cool J’s Bigger and Deffer/Bad LP was my favorite at the time, but the lines From Night of the Living Base-heads (track from the album) "My Daddy-O Once said to me He knew a brother who stayed all day in his jeep….And at night he went to sleep And in the mornin’ all he had was The sneakers on his feet. The culprit used to jam and rock the mike, yo He stripped the jeep to fill his pipe And wander around to find a place Where they rocked to a different kind of…BASS. The Lines he rocked to a different kind of bass remains one of the paralyzing things I’d ever hear in my life. More important, Chuck D assisted with the emergence and beginning in helping me to understand the life and times of an addict.

With my mother leading the way with showing love and Chuck D now serving the understanding, my cousin Shirley Ann would assist in the love component. Ironically around the same time (summer of 1988) when PE’s It Takes a Nation was making its way to our radios, charts, hearts and staple in hip hop music Shirley Ann began to come around a lot more and would sometimes spend the weekend with us. It was no secret that she was a crack-cocaine user proud junky. She’d sometimes walk over to a crack house, not far from us, get high and fixed but then would argue on the phone with her mother, boyfriend and others; which was surprising to me. I thought junkies and addicts only loved crack, talked to nothing but crack and that nothing else mattered, but Shirley Ann’s visits and phone calls proved me wrong. She owned a beaming heart and soul just like the rest of us, but hers’ was a little troubled. She was always kind, polite and had a weird, but understandable lesson. She and her boyfriend, Mark, would argue of the silliest things, but other times real life serious things like moving together, bills and drug rehab programs. Crack had taken over her soul, but getting better remained her in heart. More than anything she kept a sense of humor; which kind of motivated more to talk to her and hang around her… she could force the scrooge out of the meanest fucker with ease. Watching her in action (being comical) was never difficult, but watching her fight for love and respect from her mother, some family members and drug dealers was a battle. I once watched a dealer punch her in the face and drag her down a flight of steps for $40 dollars owed.

Other times I’d hear about and sometimes see her very own sisters’ punch, kick and do unjustly things to her, because she was "crack-head/piper. Sadly, a few of my sisters began to feel the same way as her sisters in associating a crack user with being a bottomless nothing due to Shirley Ann barrowing a few dollars and not paying it back, stealing a VCR tape or some other small item to assist in purchasing her hit. They and later I didn’t understand how she (Shirley Ann) say in one breath she loves us, makes us laugh, give us the shirt and jacket off her back and later steal and take from us. In fact, on a severely humid night in the summer of 1988 my sister Jackie decided to even the score. That bitch took some money from me, so I am taking money from her. Shirley Ann was drunk and high, but had just received her public assistance monies of about $400.00 dollars. While my mother rested the night away my sister Jacky, brother, Kevin, Nephews Ronald and Matt and I went through Shirley Ann’s pocket and took the $380 dollars while she lied deep in her high. Jacky justified it as "payback and that she does the same shit to other people, etc. We split the $380 five ways. I brought a few packs of chewing gum and a pair of Nike sneakers, but the gum somehow tasted sour verses sweet and the Nike sneakers never fit correctly. Jacky and Ronald shrugged it off as me being afraid that mommy was going to catch us and whip my a**, but I didn’t have the feelings of fear chasing and haggling me, it was a two headed extremist of love and conciseness. The money we took from Shirley Ann was her rent money and money she owed to someone else. The next morning and while sinking low from her high she discovered the money was gone, but was too high to remember if she lost it or not. Half of her stood in the living room of our home questioning why we would do that to her and how … while the other half looked on with the sadness of "was I that high". When my mother intervened we lied and said we saw Shirley Ann buying crack with the money and we didn’t take it. I learned instantly that an addict’s feelings and words meant as much as a candle meant to sunlight. I walked away from the situation untouched physically or mentally, but my sub conscience didn’t feel right. I could never look Shirley Ann in the eyes again without guilt watering my eyes. My mind justified the situation as payback and she’s going to use it for crack anyway, but heart knew we hurt Shirley Ann. My soul agreed with the heart. She somehow got the money for the rent and paid the person back their monies owed. And although Shirley Ann would continue to visit us from time to time; she never stayed overnight again. Her mind might have been crossed up with drugs, but god protected her subconscious. She knew we were the culprits, but never mentioned it.

Shirley Ann became more distant due to health problems, drug programs and other things and died from an overdose in 1997. I was away at school and wasn’t able to attend the funeral, but the day of I sat in my dorm room and bellowed out a few tears of shame, regret and sadness. I thought why so many people allowed that to happen, why no one reached out to help, understand or assist her with fixing the problem. I played PE’s Night of the Living Base-heads a few times as a strange, but special ode to Shirley Ann. It was how I remembered her. Night of….. helps me to remember what Shirley was, but more important for my journey … helps with understanding what of might she become is she had the help she needed and deserved. Since the late 80’s I have been intrigued, motivated and times haunted by the ghost of anyone that I knew or knew (personally) dying of drugs. I always wondered could the story been rewritten for them to beat their addictions like the millions of others that have. Secretly, I went on a mission/quest to identify the survivors of their ordeal and give light to their stories (as I have in some past writings), but to add the twist (non-fictional) of the person staying in love with all the things around them (like Shirley Ann). I wanted to be motived, compelled and more than anything tells an honest story of commitment, fight, gaining integrity and genuine love.

Cake and eat it II (intro 2)

Fast forward to 2005. While standing outside my work office I exchanged words with a homeless man, Mr. John Belmont. John and I met a few weeks back at Popeye’s Chicken. He became upset that I wouldn’t give him money to feed is habit and addictions. Can you please help me to get something to eat?? Who you feeding your month or arm? What’s that’s supposed to me little man he roared back. Well I see you all the time and you on that hit. I don’t have money for that. If you hungry I can help, but how are you mad at me or anyone else that is not paying for your high. I respect that and dig it, but everyone has a habit or addiction. My shit just louder and more colorful than others So you basically saying we all birds, but your feathers are bigger and brighter That’s what I am exactly saying. Look around you. There are a lot of fucked up people out here and those birds are just as deadly as I am. We all searching for answers… just like you. So you don’t have to buy my crack or heroin, but can I at least get a box of chicken and coffee Awkwardly. I felt guilty. The ghost and karma of Shirley Ann haunted me at that very moment. And to harden the brick, my pocket bulged with $380.00 exactly… I believed as if she was coming back for her money. I tossed Mr. J $40.00 and went on about my day. Use that money for food and buy heroin and crack with someone else’s money. Of course I knew he was going to get a few wings or two, but use remaining balance for the FIX. I’d drop by Popeye’s Chicken a few times out of the week, but I’d never see him. For a short while, I began to think that the money I supplied him was the money that assisted him with death, but other times I thought he was the ghost of Shirley Ann and things wouldn’t be right until I settled the remaining $340.00. Nevertheless a few more years went by and while visiting a client in West Philadelphia Mr. John and I’d meet again. Hey, hey young blood I remember you. You gave me some big money to get chicken with a long while back. I never forget a face. Neither do I. What you up too Mr. John. I am up to getting high. I have my wife of 17 years with me. Donna meet… (He stumbled and stuttered). My name is Kenny and please to meet you." Please to meet you too. You’re very handsome. You remind me of John before the addictions smothered him. I love your smile and you’re very nice. People don’t normally shake my hand or reach for a hug, but what made you do that? Well we all human Mrs. Donna. We trying to get back to North Philly and we short of fifteen dollars, can you help us? I flagged down a cab and helped them with the cart of clothes, few boxes and placed $60.00 into Mr. John’s hands to help with whatever he was trying to accomplish.

A co-worker watched from afar and once the cab pulled off she approached and uttered why you help that man and woman to help kill themselves. They are using that money to get high. "I was flustered with thoughts of my own highs/addictions, Shirley Ann and all the drug program pamphlets that I scanned inside their cart and taken by the reality that they were trying and trying together. I became touched that they called each other names like sweetie pie and cupcakes and more that they tattooed each other’s names on their wrist and chest. I was intrigued and wanted to know more of their love, more than anything else. Honest and real questions such as; how do you feel when your wife does things to other men for money, do you think you two are bringing each other down, what keeps you two in love and a zillion other questions. I admired their strength and courage to face the world with a smile; regardless of how many teeth were broken, missing or rotted out. I respected how he and she placed their hands and arms out for a shake and hug; even if their clothes were soiled and didn’t smell like roses. They were proud that they continued to fight out their struggles. Awkwardly; I stood in the mist of love, triumph, confusion, guilt, a smudge of jealous and thoughts of Shirley Ann and scenes from my favorite movie of all time (tied with Do the Right Thing) Shawshank Redemption. The love and triumph is pretty clear and obvious, but the confusion was that …was I doing the right thing completely, the guilt was the remaining $280.00 tab and the sprinkles of jealousy was that why couldn’t love anyone (relationship wise) as much as he loved her and vice versa.

Is there really such thing as a soulmate and if so…where’s mines. After a thirty second pause I responded to my co-worker and her 10-11 bags filled with todays and tomorrows fashions and responded what’s your high and addiction. She smiled Kenny you so silly. She didn’t answer the question, but we both knew the answer. I vowed if I’d ever see them again I would ask all of the questions that came to mind. Nineteen months later while standing outside of Norman, a childhood friend’s house Mr. John and Donna popped up again… Hey… Kenny how are you. You know my nephew Norman. Yes, we went to school together And the rest was history. I followed the two around for the next seven-eight years on and off. I visited them at their house, shelters, relative’s homes, drug programs and even crack houses and alley ways. One of the most unique –stronger qualities of the two, besides their brutal honesty was that they didn’t allow anything to tamper with the natural undying love they shared for each other. On some days I’d pop up announced to find the two caring for each other’s cold’s, sore feet or diabetic spells. On more than one occasion the two would display sexual expressions and pleasures for each other. The first year or two was always wild, abnormal or awkward, but after a while it became super natural, sincere and a breath of fresh air- I simply admired their honesty, willingness to share it with the world and the undying love. On one occasion the two briefly argued on how she was a bit too emotionally involved in her last sexacpade. She had just given a customer oral sex and Mr. John believed she took it too far, but after a brief argument and killing the air with words, two made up as I looked on. After the two Finished-Donna and I went to the neighborhood store for two loosies (cigarettes) she explained that John does not care about me fucking some man to feed our high… he sees it as they have her body for a few moments, but I have her soul for a lifetime. She went on to say It’s like being in love with a porno star, exotic dancer or actor/actress… its part of the job. When I am home it’s a total new way of life My head dropped, but I must admit it not only put things in perspective, but assisted in the next five-six-year journey – in letting go of the shock factors, but accepting it as a way of life. I continued to be amazed, interested and intrigued, but less wow. Not only moments were great or peaceful, but looking back- I loved every minute and moment.

As an artist I changed large portions of the story to infuse others stories- I love mixing ingredients and blending lives. But the bases of Crumbs from a Bum’s cake bellow on the love/life of Mr. John and Donna. Documented other than the direct times of the fix, alley way escapades, failed drug programs, children and family issues/let-downs, sickness, fighting with cops and drug enforcements, are times when the three of us fighting/arguing, the two parting ways and other family members dying-although it was prophesied they would die first. In the course of life and of course up and close with Mr. John and Donna it never ceases to amaze how many counted the drug dependent and their addictions verses thumbing through and taking a closer look at their very own. Being addicted to anything makes you an addict. I’d learn and come to grips with no addictions being safe or not important or big as a drug habit. Donna’s youngest brother, Bryce, died from complications of the heart due pushing his body pass the limit in his weight lifting addictions. Bryce was a likable guy with huge muscles and an even bigger heart, but he never believed his big sister would kick her addictions and at times prophesized her death too often. John’s uncle, Mr. Curtis, owned an addiction to gambling. He bet and gamble on anything from the NBA, NFL, poker and even roach betting (which way a roach would run when the lights came on). Mr. Curtis got into a huge debt with a few bookies and was not able to recoup the $35,000 debt he accumulated. He was found dead inside his home next to his wife Catherine (she was murdered during the execution). A few months prior to their deaths/murders a co-worker was fired for misusing the internet while at work. For more than six hours of an eight-hour work day he visited many porn websites. After being fired, he spiraled into deep depression and attempted to suicides. Luckily, after a few intense years of therapy it was reported that he’s living exceptional. By no means I am advocating one addiction or drug over the other-my only hopes aside from penning a great story of love, honest and triumph is to expose many addictions as possible and for everyone to take a closer look at the crumb of all cakes and not be so quick to past judgment or misunderstanding of an addiction. I see thousands of people every day locked into their phones and social media for hours at a time. I’ve watched many people get robbed or missed out on important times to meet important people, but were locked in their phone to take notice…addictions maybe. Loving anything too much could bring about harm- water is the most element of life, but many have died from water intoxications –assumption of too much water. Love moderately. That’s religious.

* not a crummy thank you-not*

Thank you’s

First and foremost, I have to always give special thanks to GOD first and foremost. Thank you to MOM, Erica, Rae Kenniya (Love you to pieces!… Kenniya & the red cake monster coming soon), Terry, Ms. Saniya… I am so proud of how you’ve grown. From one artist to another…" keep growing and stay bold as you R. God Pop loves you, Jizz, Dru, Royboy, Brother Calvin & the Misses (best of luck on the newest business venture), K’Ron and other family members for HOLDING me together. Big thank for Mr. John and Donna for the inspirations and pushing me further. To M.J …rest in peace. You are missed greatly/thank you for inspiring me greatly (physical and spiritual realm). Special thank you to Hector I for giving me the opportunity of a life time (I am really appreciative for the chance to continue to assist in changing lives), thank you to all CO-workers, friends and supporters in some way/shape and fashion. Special, Special thanks to Author HOUSE, all fans/supporters of Kenny Attway’s body of work. Writing wouldn’t mean much if you didn’t support in buying AND reading. Thank you to Ghetto English Rock for the spices of life. Crumbs…. is dedicated and for any and all that have died or suffered from the misuse of drugs (any and all), Crumbs…. is dedicated and if for all the lovers of the world; which should all of us. Love YA, keep reading/supporting and changing lives one smile, hug, touch, read and understanding at a time. Remember everyone deserves to be love; even the love haters. And a bigger thank you to Terry- Thank you SOOOO much big brother for pushing me more than anyone else in my life in the realms of the penmanship. Thank you for the calls and check-ups on the projects. Thanks for hearing my vent my frustrations, but giving an answer and reply. Thanks for the all the times when I’d doubt was writing really worth it anymore… you always stepped and not only READ it with an honest ear, but gave feedback and playback. It means more than I could ever write- so I going to stop and yell across these pages…. thank you a ZILLION times. To Shirley Ann (RIP) thank you for inspiring me to hear the inner whispers of karma- it made me a better man. I am still sorry for taking what didn’t belong to me. Thank you for your forgiveness. Thank you to all the people that gave their interpretations of what CRUMBS meant to them. Place your name here ________**** /thank u!!!!!

Special thanks and gratitude to Public Enemy, Nas, Ghostface Killer, Eryka Badu, Meshell Ndegeocello for laying the ground work- in my mind that is. Whenever I began a project my soul and psyche reaches out to a plethora of things that inspires me-then I am locked in a box with a lid with all the inspirations around me to create and get life from. But without the foundation being laid by Public Enemy’s Night of the Living Base heads track, from It Takes a Nation of Million to Hold us Back. No one could ever deny how serious Public Enemy is to the culture of hip hop music. But Chuck D’s insight/story of how crack and crackheads destroyed not only their lives in the NOTLB, but others around them. Chuck’s voice gave Crumbs the attitude, the truthful/upfront, but loving spirit like how your mother would chastise you if found you were using drugs. Thanks again Chuck (Flava too). Eryka Badu’s New Amerykah Part Two (Return of the Ankh) would most likely not go down as her best album, but my favorite. It not only artistic fueled me, but inspired me to tell write crumbs in vivid markers, crayons and angelic pens-in a nutshell she mellowed out Chuck D. The cover, title, message and attitude of New Amerykah Part Two (Return of the Ankh) is a smoothie on a hot summer day after a long shower. The Bitter album from Meshell Ndegeocello is a very dark, but sweet album that reaches the soul in an instant. A testament in many different aspects of love, most either beginning or ending in a state of melancholy or depression. The lyrics in all of the songs are washed and dried in an honest depression, a honest fight and honest love of the honest truth. I needed and fought to be very artistic, but honest-as the Bitter LP is-thanks Meshell. Nas’s Life is Good LP, his 11th studio album came at an important time in my life. Life at the time was hard, discouraging and painful at the time, but relentless the LP reminded me and assured Life is Good no matter what. And for Crumbs I desperately needed the characters to be honest in their struggle, but a bit unsure and disappointed in their struggles-that’s honest/that’s the stroke that pushes the paint brush and sharpens the pencils. Like Mr. Jones sharing his stories of disappointment, heartache and heartbreak, but finding the good in it and keeping it-I needed the characters to do and feel the same. Thanks Mr. Jones. Ghostface Killer’s Supreme Clientele, released in the winter of 2000, was a pivotal and closing to/for Crumbs. Supreme is not only witty, funny, remarkable and one of my top ten albums ever-but poetic, colorful and nostalgic. To tell or write such a dark story as Crumbs- I needed Supremes’ sound to paint the grey clouds with a little joy-in short the album inspired the inside jokes and reality that at times we need to laugh at our pains-I do believe it laughs at us. Last, but not least Stevie Wonder – Keys of Life says it all.

dedicated to the memory of

Whitney Houston, Bobbi Kristina, Shirley Ann, John, Donna and all that have struggled with addictions of any sorts (this is for you)…..

Is it beautiful like … the residue of a bird’s hum? The last pound of the blind man drum. The rum of the scum, Is it the scent of a baker’s thumb? The beautiful of the slum? The gift of the innocence/ confusion in the solution. A something of nothing or the nothing of something. The surrendered of superficial / is the hug from a poem. The kisses of an I miss you. The leftover dew from a long exotic night…The last twisting on an erotic knot. Is it the cream that rose to the top/or the sugar rush from the last drop. The simmering of a rainbow’s nose/ snowflakes unfroze. Is it birds freed/ or insanity caged …The teaspoon of humanity’s first and last flavor /Drowning of a thought/ or the life saver. Now… ask yourself this …. Crumbs of a bum’s cake/Washing your face in midnight’s rage/ waking up with the good in morning caged …..Laying down and sharing your heart with if, possible and maybe…Erecting to the world aggression. Is crumbs from wanting the love /but Accepting the Mmmmm’s on the F’s between the liberations of breaths …..Crumbs of a bum cake … where desires are lit or destiny blown out…Where the softest flowers grew into hard like rocks. To taste the crumb of a bum’s cake / where all senses radiate…Sparked by a revolution / and the most angelic earthquake partake… Accepting the lost in winning/winning to not lose/ still confused by when you win -you still lose."

my morning jacket smothered in crumbs….

01

To understand my crumbs… I’d have to share a brief moment of one of my worst and best days of life. Period.

The distance between a frown and smile were miles apart; especially when realizing several of the kids were black Byrd’s. They recognized me and was hurt that I’d let them down. The fiend on me "Fiend on me, when you’re not strong, And I’ll be your fiend, I’ll help you smoke on, For it won’t be long, ‘til your gonna need-Somebody to Fiend on was payback. Some of the negative parents argued I wasn’t shit, but the Byrds fought and argued back in my honor. But I proved their parents right. They were disgusted. I understood. Dirty, funky, soiled with grim piss and shit I found my way to the Salvation Army to beg for clean clothes, but was denied. You can’t come in here smelling like that. One of the workers tossed me a blanket and threatened to call the police if I didn’t leave. I found a close by alley and dumped the clothes and went on my just blanketed. My head was now filled with cries from Haiku and Poetry and mean, but inappropriate chants of Mr. Tears Fast from the heart, Fast from the heart. Stop being a coward. I saw showed you light. Fast from the heart". Two alleys away I took notice to Mr. Parker’s parrot box being trashed and the coroner transporting his body in the ambulance. He committed suicide. The non-stop parrots that lived in his head mad him believe the squirrels, seagulls and sewer rats were coming for him. The streets were covered in blood and insanities. Seemed nothing was going right and I feared for the worse. Mr. Parker’s story was much like ours. He found drugs at a tough time in his life and never made peace with good. He never recovered from the love he couldn’t get over. The heavy use of drugs ate away at his neurological system and then entered the parrots with baggage reading schizophrenic. Mr. Parker’s suicide shook up all F.O.A.D residents; especially Drakes and I. And even for the DJ, the music stopped. Ironically, Drakes and I met up at the scene of the crime. "I saw what happened to you last night, but I was too fucked up in my high to do anything. You can get cleaned up at the woman’s shelter. I got you some clothes out the dumpster. This lady about your shape and size threw a lot of things out and saved them for you. The dresses were spring time attire and her panties had a few rips/holes and shitty skid marks in them. At least she washed them before placing them in a dump and anything beats a blank. The lady, Mrs. Ardois, left a few of her business cards in her old shoes (a half of size smaller than mines). She was a beautician that specializes in house calls and street calls.

My very first encounter/episode with dealing with what I called/named a crumbling cake occurred I was only 15 years and a few months old. I was slender-young petite thang that always got the attention of little horny boys that walked around trying to release their hormones and nasty little bastards that wanted some young thang. But later on the for that … I remember being sent to the store by my Pops to get his once favorite cigar King Dutch and a few bowls of banana nut yogurt. He and my mother were together 18 years at the time, but fighting the one of us is no longer in love, but we staying together for the sake of the kids; my sisters Traci and Erica, big brother Otis and me’ Latte (li-ta) aka La-la and early on Cakes (due to my love for pancakes). Oddly, I’d eat them with ketchup and not syrup. I hated sweet things when I was a younger. It wasn’t until I was 10-11 that I’d eat and swallow my first piece of candy loving and willingly. But by the age of 12- I needed anything that was sweet. Life was becoming bitter. Mom and Pops were growing apart like flowers and weeds in the garden of love. In their once secret love garden; something had to go for the other to grow. Seeing the two pretend as if everything was OK slipped pass Otis and Erica’s eyes and ears, but Traci and I knew better (so we thought). Despite our age difference and how differently we ate our pancakes, we were a lot alike on various levels. At times we teased we were sis-mates. We could see the two love birds flying in opposite nest. Pops’ slept on the couch pretty frequent pretending he fell asleep in knowing mom was pushing him away. Mom seemingly always had a headache and needed to be left alone. To us he was Pops, but to our friends and the rest of the world he was Mr. Cliff aka the Nutcracker (for his frequent playing of instruments and his squeeze a guy by the balls attitude). He didn’t speak much with his mouth and lips, but his aura and eyes kind of told it all. Pops was a writer and musician and on most times he wrote how he felt in a song, bellow out a strange yell from a guitar or drum or simply allow Steve Wonder to let us know how he was feeling (played a song that shared/explained his feeling). He was kind sometimes, but most times very difficult and cold to the boys in the neighborhood that dared to look in his daughter’s directions. He always believed that little boys was always looking for a place to play their flute at or stuff a trumpet with bad notes. "Stay the hell away from any of them is what lips and eyes repeated. Mom on the other hand was a little more understanding and exceptive of us "hanging out with boys

Mom was very comfortable and confident that the family talks of the birds and bees had sunk through and landed in the right place. Cliff leave those girls alone; they can handle themselves and conduct themselves like the little ladies we taught them to be. At least she was right about one of us. Tiptoeing around sins and staying out of troubles way with the boys were quite easy for long stretches at a time. I enjoyed those moments of being stuck in the abyss of a crush or two, but most boys 14-15 are very silly, immature and don’t know the difference between a diamond or sharp piece of class. It was easy liking them for their cute looks and cool clothes, but the immaturity and stupid things they’d enjoy laughing at was an immediate turn-off at the time. Besides my mind was trumped between being an on becoming therapist, going college, taking care of Pops and Whitney Houston’s music. I always a fan of Whitney’s music since her song The Children R the future. I was introduced to Whitney thanks to my mother, Cello, and Traci. Traci loved the Saving All my Love for You song; while mom liked the All at Once song from the Whitney Houston album. My mother loved Whitney Houston, but had a love hate thing for Chaka Kan, due to one my father liking her and her music and people saying she was a knock off version of Chaka Kan. And that my father only married her because she was the knock off version. My mother rarely used derogative words towards girls or women; if she was upset with a female species she’d refer to them as weeds or unattractive flowers. Despite her playful jealousy towards Chaka Kan and sometimes fickle arguments with her nursing female co-workers; she rarely called them any derogative names. Her mother aka Grandma Mable believed that women should stick together no matter what because in the end we only had us. Grandma Mable loved men, but from a distance. She and my grandpa stayed together for the sake of the children, but secretly hated each other. Dinners, family functions and other things were we all were together was always lovely, but awkward like when it rains on one side of the street. Nevertheless, I loved my family and awkwardness very much. Awkwardness and I always had a keen and unbootable relationship that at times pull us