Dreaming with a Broken Drum

I used to think I was born in a swirl of synthesizers that sounded like slave ankles wading in a thick river. 

In the background, horns were "oh-ooo"-ing and violins were crying so beautifully that nuns would gladly trade their souls to possess such tears. 

A bass clunked in its dirtiest manner. 

Add the symbols of a cymbal and a whip crack of a snare drum and I was born on a rainy Wednesday, a name from my mother and some rhythm from my father. 

All ten fingers and all ten toes. 

All eighty-eight keys and all six strings.        

             

I used to think I lived in a castle, stone and brick buildings hovering over my every movement. 

Water that swept the gutters and curbs were moats and church bells warned us of impending danger. Figures who never left the corners of our dilapidated castle were dragons with pointed Champion hoodies for horns. 

They blew smoke out their noses and kept bruised claws in pockets. 

This was a castle where broken English speech were incantations, cooking pots with soup were spells that lingered with a salty stench, and gold fluid in glass bottles were elixers for eternal youth. 

Music always played. 

Gunshots were fireworks for celebrations and my mother, the Queen to me, sat on her throne, hugged me...

And told me to stay away from the windows... 

              

I used to think nothing could come from dreaming. 

All I could control was my dreams, all soaked in brandy, so I could live with one foot outside of reality. One foot in and one foot out so I wouldn't completely lose my mind. 

One foot in and one foot out so I couldn't hide from how I grew up, where I grew up

Why I grew up. 

And with every sentence I figure out why brandy soaked dreams 

Mean everything.

Performed this some nights ago. WASSUP? (Jay-Z voice)