ripped out
all the empty parts:
brain, spine, ticker.
What’s left?
And now
it’s up to me
to put myself back together,
to rebuild.
To start from zero.
Storm grabs my hand.
I guess it had to happen, Blade. C’mon. Let’s go.
Leaving LA
I won’t miss
the Hollywood Hills,
the palm trees,
the fake city
and its manufactured lights.
I won’t miss the blood suckers,
those paparazzi,
and the tabloid news,
shame because of my name,
or even
those sunsets over
Santa Monica Pier.
I won’t miss this pain
that will never leave.
I won’t miss
the music under the trees
or the feeling
of finding my own
safe place to breathe.
And now, I won’t miss her.
Before Takeoff
You want me to park and walk you in?
Don’t waste your time.
I can come with you.
Bad idea. Plus, don’t you have another bad album to
record?
. . . .
I’m just kidding.
You’re right, I’m not good. But I love it, and maybe I’ll get
better.
You can have my room if you want.
I’d need to get it fumigated first.
Ha!
Seriously though, if you postpone your trip until tomorrow,
I’ll go home and pack and we’ll meet your birth mother
together.
I should do this on my own.
Blade Morrison, flying solo.
Yeah, something like that.
. . . .
. . . .
Okay, well, get out of my car.
Bye, Storm.
Oh, I almost forgot, a gift for you, little brother.
A mixtape?
I know you still carry that CD player Mom gave you.
Thanks. What’s on it?
Best rock bands ever.
Guns N’ Roses?
Yeah, you’re a Morrison. We’re hard. Time to nix all that
Tears for Fears crap.
What are you talking about? “Everybody Wants to Rule
the World” is Top Five, easily.
Top Five bubble gum rock.
Rock is rock.
Said the boy who dreams of Meghan Trainor.
My big sister is a rock bigot! I had no idea.
I love you, Blade. I wish more than anything, you find
what you’re looking for.
Me too.
Track 6: Welcome to the Jungle
ROCKERS: GUNS N’ ROSES / ALBUM: APPETITE FOR DESTRUCTION / LABEL: GEFFEN RECORDS / RECORDING DATE: JANUARY–APRIL, 1987 / STUDIOS IN LA: RUMBO STUDIOS, TAKE ONE STUDIO, THE RECORD PLANET, CAN-AM STUDIO
They say
Axl Rose wrote
the lyrics
while visiting a friend
and thinking back
to when
he first arrived
on the LA scene.
Before his fame.
Before the temptation.
Before the pain.
A dog-eat-dog world.
I’ve lost too much here,
bled too much there,
among the beasts.
And I’m not gonna die
in this jungle.
You can’t bring me
to my knees.
I’m leaving
all you savages
behind.
Part Two:
West Africa
Cramped
Five hours
after takeoff
I have to give up
my cushy first class seat
with steak
and gelato
to board
a connecting flight
that only had
one seat left.
In coach.
Regrets
I realize
that finding
my birth mom
was a great idea
in theory.
What will I say to her?
Who is my father?
What will she say to me?
Do you hate me?
I listen
to Storm’s mixtape,
clinging to
Sunny’s letter,
wishing I were
in my roomy home
in my own
comfy bed.
Track 7: Enter Sandman
ROCKERS: METALLICA / ALBUM: METALLICA / LABEL: ELEKTRA / RECORDING DATE: JUNE 16, 1991 / STUDIO: ONE ON ONE STUDIOS, LOS ANGELES
This is what happens
when you let Storm
pick your music.
I hate the song,
but it captures me
in its web,
taunts me
like a wrestler
strutting
into the arena
to fight.
Haunts me
like the men
and women
marching
cold blooded
into battle.
I can’t help
but play it again,
to feel the rage.
It jabs me
to sleep
thinking of how
against the world
I feel
flying in
and out of it.
Dream Variation: The Ledge
It’s still red velvet
on the table,
but this time
Chapel’s here
seated in
a white tee
with SB
emblazoned
on it.
That’s an easy one, Scarlet B—, Rutherford says, before
Mom interrupts him
with a look
that says, Behave.
This makes me laugh.
Mom, still slicing
the cookie
into a millions pieces,
doesn’t say a word.
Sunny Bye, he adds,
blowing a kiss
to Mom
then disappearing
with a fork
that looks
like a guitar.
Chapel is crying,
or laughing,
I can’t tell.
When the cookie crumbs
turn into
spiders
and crawl
off the table,
I want them each
to sting her
to make her feel
the pain
I see when
I look
at her.
So Blue.
Sorry, babe, she says,
and then she’s gone.
And then it’s just me
and Mom.
And the dining room
is now an open field.
And a big, red spider
with a dreadful face
is gunning
straight
for me.
Run, Mom whispers.
So I do.
I run
I run away
I run away, fast,
I run away, fast, toward
I run away, fast, toward the end.
There’s an end.
Finally, there’s an end
with a ledge.
And there’s my mother.
And if I can get to her,
and if I can jump,
I’ll be saved.
And the world
will make sense
again.
Blade, how about you play something else?
Huh?
Metal
lica, really. What happened to my kinder, gentler,
little rock and roller?
Wait, what are you doing here?
Sitting
next to me
thirty-thousand feet
over the Atlantic
on a ten-hour flight
to Ghana
to find
my mother
is
my mother?
Conversation?
You look confused.
What are you doing here?
I think you know the answer.
Uh, no, I don’t. Is this real?
It’s as real as you need it to be.
I miss you, Mom. We all miss you so much.
Things are outta control, it seems.
Way outta control.
That’s why you left?
I left to find my family.
. . . .
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean without
knowing, I feel empty.
I can dig that.
I don’t understand. How are you here?
You’re asking the wrong question, Blade.
I am?
You’re at the crossroads, looking for a ride. The question is,
where are you going?
Ghana.
Yeah, but when you get there, where?
According to the website, a village. In the east.
And when you find what you’re looking for?
I don’t know, but it’s gotta be better than this.
It won’t get better, until you help him.
Who?
Who do you think?
I’m done with trying to help him. He’s ruined my life too
many times. I need to move on.
I’d ask you to play me a song, but, well, your guitar . . .
How do you know about that?
A mother knows. She always knows.
I’m still dreaming, aren’t I. This isn’t real.
Youngblood, this is as real as it gets. Just me and you flyin’
through the sky, between the moon and the deep blue sea.
Why’d you call me Youngblood?
That’s Jimi Hendrix.
I knew that. “Angel,” right?
Best song ever. You know why he wrote it?
Probably about a woman.
About his mother. He had this dream, and she was on a
camel, and in it she told him she wasn’t gonna be seeing
him too much anymore, and two years later—
She died.
You figure out who the spider is?
I can’t even say her name.
Try again.
She broke my heart.
Stop running.
Huh? But, you been telling me to run.
Run toward, not away.
Away from what? I’m confused.
Wake up, Blade. Face the spider.
I wake up
as the plane lands,
and my ears pop
like knuckles.
I’m afraid
to open my eyes
and not find her here.
Welcome to Ghana, says the flight attendant.
We exit
onto the tarmac
under blinding sun
and even though
she’s gone
I feel promise.
The heat
swallows
me whole
even my sweat
is sweating.
The sign
in the entrance hall says
AKWAABA.
WELCOME.
But there is nothing
welcoming
about no AC
and soldiers
with AK-47s
checking me out
as I approach customs
drenched
and a little
scared.
Outside
of the airport
in Accra,
what hits me faster
and harder
than the torrid sun
are the loud
taxi drivers
boiling
in anger
who try
to seize
my suitcase
while arguing
like boxers
in a ring.
Lucky me,
I choose the taxi driver
with no AC
who listens
to Garth Brooks.
On the way to the village, we pass
gas stations
and malls
and condos
and fancy cars
and junksters
and traffic lights
and traffic
and car horns
and road rage
and more traffic
and homeless
and women
carrying kids
on their backs
and tubs
on their heads
filled with
plantain chips,
coat hangers,
pillows, and
everything
you could possibly
ever need
to buy.
Conversation with Taxi Driver
My brother from America? he asks, in an almost-British
accent.
Yes.
Trump country.
. . . .
Is America great again, he says, more like a joke than a
question.
How far is the drive?
Can’t drive too fast on these roads.
How much is the fare to Konko, sir?
Not too much.
Apparently, Ghanaians don’t answer questions.
First time in Ghana?
Yes.
What’s in the east?
I’m going to see family.
Right. That’s a good thing.
. . . .
We have rainy season now, boss.
That’ll be good, ’cause it’s crazy hot.
Sorry no AC. I can get it fixed. You need a driver while
you’re here, then Mr. Easy is your guy, he says, handling
me a card.
I think I’m good.
This is your American music. Like it?
I’m more of a rock and roll fan.
Kendrick Lamar! Yeah, I like him too.
Not exactly, but cool.
LeBron James.
What?
You know LeBron James?
Nah, you’re funny. Hey, do you happen to have an
iPhone charger?
I don’t, but she does, he says, pulling over to the side of
the road, almost hitting a girl with a dozen chargers
strung over her shoulder.
Like I said,
everything
you could possibly
ever need
to buy.
Texts from Storm
1:25 pm
You make it okay?
What time is it there?
Are you awake?
1:25 pm
Dad’s doing better.
He woke me up EARLY
to record. Believe that!
1:25 pm
I think we got a
future hit, Blade.
Hope you like it!
1:26 pm
Lyrics are sad, but
I think it may be THE ONE.
He says it’s perfect
1:26 pm
because there’s real
motion in the emotion.
Chapel caught Van
1:26 pm
with Cammie. Karma
is a beast. Miss you, little
brother. How’s Africa?
Texts to Storm
1:31 pm
This place is
beautiful and dirty.
Sorta like us.
1:31 pm
Kind of a mix
between New Y
ork
and Mississippi.
1:31 pm
Crowded and sparse
at the same time. Desolate,
but not neglected. Anyway,
1:32 pm
I’m headed to a village
called Konko to find
Lucy. Not sure if this
1:32 pm
is all going to work out.
Not even sure I’m
gonna make it to the
1:32 pm
village. These roads are
BADDDDDD! and the taxi
drivers are worse.
1:33 pm
HELPPPPPP!
BTW, good luck
with the song!
Junction
After two hours
of winding
cratered roads
in a beat-up Honda
with no shock
absorbers
to absorb
the shock
of forty-seven miles
of unpaved roads
with scattered potholes,
the taxi driver
finally stops.
Konko, he says, and points
to a long road
on the right
of the junction.
Thank you. Mr. Easy, I respond. How far of a walk?
Not far. Maybe four. Maybe five.
Minutes?
Kilometers.
. . . .
The Morrisons
have fast cars
and drivers
and sometimes
we don’t even walk
from the main house
to the tennis court.
That’s what
golf carts
are for.
But today,
beneath copper sun
I walk
past skinny pigeons
and skinnier goats
for what
seems like
weeks
down a long, hot,
red dirt road
that scalds
through my memories
and seems
to never
ever
end.
Two Hours Later
The girl
getting water
has a smile
that glows
and flows
like the waterfall
her midnight arms
pump
into pails.
Hello, I say.
Hello, she replies
not looking up,
with an accent
so thick
and smooth
it rolls
off her tongue
like butter.
Conversation
Hi, do you speak English?
Yes, boss.
I’m looking for Konko.
Well, you have found it.
Cool.
I am Joy. Welcome.
That’s your name, Joy?
Solo Page 9
