Ajay Rogers and the Vampire Bunnies, part 2

Part 2 of 4 parts. Hope you’re enjoying the story. Part 3 tomorrow.

Ajay solo

Experimentation Log – 26 October – Rabbit Study, Ajay Rogers, Just a Kid

First of all, it’s not my fault. I was just trying to make the rabbits tamer. It’s not my fault I can understand what they’re thinking. So, when Charlie first started catching the rabbits, I thought if I mixed them with normal old earth white rabbits, it would make them nicer. It did. That part of the experiment was a success. How was I supposed to know it would make them like being around people? And then imitate them. I even had to google César Chávez.

Note: Make sure the TV remote is nowhere near where Kayotae can reach it. That little bunny’s got issues. Whoever heard of bunny’s rights? What the heck is she talking about?

Double Note: Look up Che Guevara. On second thought: don’t. I liked them better when they were just sneaking out and hunting dogs. I feel bad about Aunt Charlotte’s little Chihuahua.

 ***

 Experimentation Log – 28 October – Rabbit Study, Ajay Rogers, Screwed

I’ve been staring at this stupid computer screen for fifteen minutes. I don’t know how to write this so it doesn’t sound like I’m making it up. The rabbits seem to be planning some kind of revolt. A Coo-Day-Ta (sp?).

I had the bunnies in the backyard playing, and this little brown bunny comes hopping up like he lives here. So Rocky walks over, and the bunny bows to him. It. Flipping. Bowed! To. Him.

What the Heck? Over.

Then they get all whispery, and they’re looking back at me every so often. So I get suspicious and I walk closer to them. Suddenly Kayotae hops over to me, and starts acting friendly. And, get this … she looks up at me and says, “You love me.” I like to died laughing. I told her to go away, ‘cause I’m not Charlie, and that stuff won’t work on me. She got really mad, and started chasing me all over the yard. The little monster bit through my sneaks and made me drop my hat! Then she took the hat over to Buzz. Buzz ate my hat! My grandpa gave me that hat.

So anyway, I still could overhear the rabbits a little. The little brown one was asking, “Bunny swarm now?” He doesn’t talk so good.

Rocky told him no, then looked at me and said, “Need more bunnies.”

I think I might be in big trouble.

Oh yeah, and the stupid dragons’ laughing keeps me up half the night. I don’t know what is so danged funny about hunting raccoons. Stupid dragons.

Note: Give things another couple of weeks, then maybe tell Robin. She’ll keep Auntie Charlotte from killing me.

I’m so dead.

Ajay Rogers and the Vampire Bunnies

(Author’s note: I am no longer allowing “likes” on this blog. Please DO NOT leave any. Thanks.)

Experimentation Log – 6 October – Rabbit Study, Ajay Rogers, Chief Scientist (Age 9)

These stupid vampire bunnies are freaking me out a little. So, like, Rocky has always been kind of weird. Robin says he acts more like a coyote than a rabbit. I think he’s more like a little grizzly bear. He’s not afraid of anything. Last week, he escaped from the basement den. (Okay, I may have left a door open, but that’s not the point.) Anyway, when I found him (before Mrs. Patterson came home—thank God) he was chasing a Pitt Bull down the street. Just little Rocky, hopping like crazy. The stupid dog almost knocked me down. He had a bite mark on the side of his neck, and his stupid dog eyes were about to pop out of his stupid dog head. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, that dog would have been bunny kibble.

I’m getting tired of cleaning up their messes. I’m just a nine-year-old kid. I shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff. Kayotae is teaching herself to read. How is a baby rabbit that escaped from one of my nightmares learning to read??? Aunt Charlotte is gonna kill me. Then, she’ll bring me back to life, like Frankenstein. Then, she’ll probably kill me again.

Oh, and Buzz ate Charlie’s left sneaker.

***

 Experimentation Log – 21 October – Rabbit Study, Ajay Rogers, Head of Genetic Research

Yikes! Please, please, please don’t let Auntie Charlotte find out!!! God, you’re reading this, right? Holy crap!

Sorry God. I meant Holy … something else.

 ***

 Experimentation Log – 23 October – Rabbit Study, Ajay Rogers, Head of Genetic Research

I think I may be okay. (Thanks, God.) A truck ran over the last of the squirrel-rabbits. They are fast like squirrels, but the vampire bunny part makes them too stubborn to move out of the way of cars. The one that got into the attic got chased away by Kayotae. Boy, she can be scary when she wants to. I sure hope for Charlie’s sake that Robin isn’t spooky like Kayotae, or he’s gonna be one unhappy guy.

The rabbits act like the people they spend the most time with. I’ve figured out that’s how they are learning to talk so well. At first, it was me, right? But I stopped when I saw Kayotae reading that old Hop on Pop book by Dr. Seuss. She thought it was the funniest thing ever. I guess if you’re a rabbit, hopping on folks is a hoot. She’s always with Robin, and that girl always has her face stuck in a book.

I KNEW books were a bad idea!!

Anyway, I stopped teaching them stuff, but they learn anyway. Turns out all the baby talk was just because they were babies. Not anymore.

Rocky acts just like Charlie. He hops back and forth when he’s mad, and scrunches his face up a lot. We think it’s hilarious, but nobody will tell Charlie. Kayotae is a furry little Robin, always cheerful and bouncy. But she’s the smartest one too, just like Robin.

Charlie thinks I have a crush on Robin, but I don’t. She’s 16 and I’m only 9. So, that’s stupid. I just think she’s smart and pretty.

Peaceful Drummer/Brother

I used to write poems for people all the time, but never let them know. Looking back, I’m not sure why. Here’s one.

peaceful drummer, brother
of intensity
positive density
synergistic energy a
propensity for transcendence
ascendent, though reluctant
demanding transitions
in response to life’s
decisions
and the throes of culture shock
you rejected for past humanities

peaceful drummer, brother
of new directions
fired with the enthusiasm of discovery
extend to the corners
that you see, the corners
full of unkempt secrets, the corners
of my mind that you swept free
of cobwebs with a “did you ever read”
and i wondered when you had the time
before you’d have to take out
your eyes
every night before midnight
you’d call the universe
and later call her God
Sweet Zombie Jeebus spoken in
windswept psalms to an African
backbeat
and the universe did call back
’cause I prayed for the call
but I never told you
so
you’re welcome
and shit.

peaceful drummer, brother
of changing tides and
woe betide they who
underestimate how much you
loved her, and within
your evolution, past
cultural confusion, there was
a revolution of romantic
effusion and you was drowned
in a delusion that she’d
let you love me,
brother
but see, she could have no other–
the mother
of your life’s solution
so in my own mutation
not of your creation
you couldn’t foresee the
situation and my hand-penned
dissertation went unread,
didn’t it?

peaceful drummer, brother
paralleling my transformations
round about ’88 or so
when you found your permanence
and i only permutations of
she’s not her and she’s not
her and she’s not her and
she’s not her and she’s
not
her
but your her was she

and so i lost you
peaceful drummer, brother
to the other
part of your soul
which was cool and
what i’d prayed for
since the day we met
and i’d follow you around
picking up the bits of shattered
glass that used to be her heart
and i want you to please,
brother, please know
i loved the day we parted
because some ships
gotta sail, i said
some ships gotta
sail
some ship got
a sail
and yours only blew
to her.

and it’s still cool
and it’s still my
answered prayer
but some days when
no one understands
i wish we hadn’t taken
that last permutation
of our brother
situation.

never had another
peaceful brother,
my drummer.

Sing a Song of Fake Likes

Sing a song of bloggers
a pocket full of likes
four and twenty photos
most are of bikes
they don’t know you don’t read
politely like you back
so your imaginary friends
can lick along your crack

Why the hell do you care?
Why the fakery?
Click like on all the unread poems
or foodies’ bakeries.
You have such pretty photos
(yeah, right)
They really are a hit
but please, don’t come and visit me,
’cause I don’t need that shit.

Inequality

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He is a ghost.

You can tell by the w1-DSCF3322ay they pass but do not see. He is tethered there, rippled by time and indifference. The tilted shadow of injustice mocks him, as do reminders of the destruction reaped from his passing. This is H Street, NE, in Washington D.C. Things are finally changing–but not for them. Not for the unwanted ones.

By April 5, 1968, he’d left this mortal coil, and so did the hopes of those he left behind. Washington did not explode so much as self-destruct. It tore through its heart, killing Anacostia, burning small businesses in the purge of the ‘almighty whitey.’ It killed H Street too, shattering Kay Jewelers and the

1-DSCF8479one real department store chain that had serviced its people. They never returned–not to Anacostia, not here. Certainly, the city flourished, but not for those at the bottom of the economic ladder. The view from the bottom never changes and it smells a lot like ass.

Martin’s people, you see, had missed his point. So he lingers here, watching, across from the reminder of the anger of his raging people. “You can’t kill whitey,” he would tell them, if they listened, “because whitey never existed.” They raged against boogeymen, but the true weapons of inequity are fear and indifference. In their futile rage, they’d wielded the first and foredoomed themselves due to the other.

So, the 20th century passed, with Martin being canonized, but his real legacy ignored. Chocolate City had melted into a puddle of economic futility, and no one noticed; no one cared. The businesses never returned, and the people there never prospered.

1-DSCF3341The century died, was buried, and only the liquor stores noticed. That’s what ‘hoods’ are for, aren’t they: guns and liquor? Well, guns, liquor, empty lots, and shattered hopes. But things are changing, now. Can you see it? The trucks roll in and carry with them the winds of economic prosperity and gentrification.

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It’s no longer H Street, but Gentrification Boulevard, the big G Unit. Gee, and that rhymes with flee, and that means for good. Get thee the f**k out, poor ones.

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So Martin sits along the wall, watching the tide turn for H Street, but not in their favor. It already smells different, with down-home cooking replaced by uptown fare, and the light is brighter, the streets more colorful, and the century has been upgraded to Twenty-one. And it’s all good … except that nothing ever changes for the poor ones.

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No business plan for them, you see, except for what they can hustle on the streets. No one stepped in during the 80s when the city tried to murder itself. No one noticed during the Raygun years or the Clinton Bubble or the Bushleague Fiasco or the Old Bama Drama. No one ever notices … them.

With the influx of the Washington Nationals major league baseball team, the creeping edges of Anacostia have begun to blossom, driven by the millions poured into the local economy. Likewise, the wealthy few knead their hands over the prime real estate along H Street, walking distance from Union Station and the National Mall, and wait. The cable cars will come, albeit late.

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And Martin will disappear, when someone tears down the metal gate from which he watches as a new, improved H Street appears: one without his people–not the blacks or the whites or the latinos–but the poor, forgotten, separate, and definitely unequal.

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This is going to be a nice place one day. 1-S0038485

Invisible

Bill Jones, Jr.:

A poem, from M, for Blog Action Day

Originally posted on Diary of a Person Being Human:

Invisible Me

I am not black.

I am the wrong shade of white.

I speak with no accent,

Yet people shout at me,

To help clarify their words.

My hair is too dark,

My nose is too hooked.

I am too female,

So my mind must be faulty.

I am too small, too short, too young,

Therefore I must know less.

I am not feminine enough,

I use masculine words,

I must be a threat,

Unfriend, delete, deny access, exterminate!

I am invisible,

Yet everybody notices these things.

But what they don’t see,

Is Me.

*In participation of Blog Action Day. If you would like to participate, register your site via the link provided. Remember also to include ‘inequality’ in your tags.

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Grace y los Naguales

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Bill Jones, Jr.:

The book is no longer available, but this snippet is.

Originally posted on Just Me:

This is my from favorite chapter from Awakening, my most emotional book. I won’t explain the context of the scene; you’ll have to read the book. I promise you’ll like it if you do.

Grace crouched in her seat, still peering at Charlie, then, ever-so-slowly, rose up, her knees against the seat back and leaned forward. Instinctively, Charlie himself leaned forward as Grace did, both kids moving at the speed of a drowsy slug. As they grew closer, now almost nose-to-nose, Charlie’s forced smile became genuine, and his dimples deepened to their full depths. Grace, for the first time, burst out in a rapturous smile of her own, and stuck one index finger in each dimple.

Robin laughed out loud, then immediately clapped her hand to her mouth. No one had heard her but Grace, who looked at her with a huge grin. “I do that all the time,” Robin…

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