Rewriting Stella
Page 28
Much like a mama bird, devout-faced, wing
extended for protection as it ought
to be for fledglings, Tao proceeded share
translations of the newests of the day,
from Yertle’s stonewalls on Obamacare
to hints of some resurgent KKK.
Stel witnessed these events with full remove,
her brain sought only patterns in their moves.
150.
It wasn’t common in the group back then
to force another person to the point
of naming names, specific facts or men
or dates, the backup bullets that PowerPoint
would have to prove a storyline. Therefore
it wasn’t clear how rando’d handle Stel’s
implicit gauntlet thrown to name there four
real people. Stel: “Reps’ loyalty impels
adherence to the highest ranking force:
their party. In exchange, the day they need
that body to in turn their bills endorse
it does so willingly without hard plea.
Take last five years as data, tell me when
some phone bank blitz changed ways of councilmen.”
151.
Debating misstep made of letting an
opponent off the hook by asking more,
Tee rescued him with answer. “That Grand Can-
yon state guy voting down on late-night floor
the health repeal. It stopped, debate expired.”
“Dramatic, sure,” said Stel, “but back one step.
He’d stated age would soon make him retired,
and freed from vote power-seeking. Plus, the prep
was hardly limited to one week’s fuss:
the conversation raged for many months.
Folks lobbied ’gainst a greater blunderbuss
and won the keystone vote somehow, for once.
And then, of course, its gutting happened next
in unrelated tax bill Yertle flexed.”
152.
Forgetting selves, the fireworklike debate
had Stella’s voice both first, and clearly, heard.
The music rescued group’s disputing state
by pouring melodies where further word
was absent. Jazz had ways of speaking to
the topic most at hand. One vicious sax
left Phrygian remorse lines streaking through
progression else devoid malicious tacks.
As even finest compositions played
depended on improvisations that
musicians conjured so to serenade,
so varied quality of their group’s chats
as functions linearly optimized
by knowledge, logic, standing, plot, and guise.
153.
Rendition of the Monk tune “Round Midnight”
brought undulating somber moods enhanced
by lack of resolution Stel’s bid might
erode belief in Tee. Crowd all entranced
by solos virtuosos each exchanged,
with nary any cue from one to next,
the new companion, Darla, soon estranged
the group with flash-on selfies meant for texts
with hashtag labels that the public knew.
Stel joined her friends in judging Dar for this
attention-seeking ritual in view
of real live people seeking sonic bliss.
Cade, next to her, said, “Yo, excuse me, ma’am,
but can you stop?” “Uh, what? It’s Instagram.”
154.
Cade’s face looked like it lost its rhythm. “So?”
The single syllable did same to Dar.
Her pale face was blue screen of death: “Dunno
what’s got your knickers twisted—it’s a bar.”
She clearly thought that selling alcohol
was in itself sufficient cause to pose
for photo stream, “Chill out, pal.” She forestalled
feud by then typing in her phone. “New lows…”
said Cade. Stel: “Darla, you’re here to be seen?”
“I wouldn’t say it that way, but… uh, sure.
A million followers means every scene
is one more chance to show them my allure.”
“Which is…?” “You don’t know? Now I’m taste’s own chef.
I’m sponsored, queen kingmaker in SF.”
155.
Stel recognized Dar somewhat fuzzily
as roaming protest cute girl whose conceit
was smartphone self-absorption. Does ill she
was judged to bring exist at all? To meet
with leftward-leaning group and document
her presence to her followers gave cred
to Opposition’s message. Cadence: “Spent
your life amassing followers?” “Instead,
how ’bout you think about it as pure fun?
I live my life. I share some bits. They flock.
I’ve got some bread. I scatter it for one
and pigeons come in quantities Hitchcock
would fear.” She glanced from phone, “Delight enough,
remake your every act as public stuff.”
156.
Cade’s circuits fried, he gave up argument
and asked if Stel’d make like an Autobot
and roll out. “Walk or MUNI?” Bar crew’d spent
a long night all together, squatter’s plot
arranged around a single table. Tips
solicited in basket weren’t produced
since none of them had cash for more than sips.
Stel privately hoped as she’d been seduced
by music made, so someday she’d repay.
That pay-it-forward ethos quite skipped Cade,
with Kendrick’s Pulitzer in mind replayed:
know what loyalty’s to, use that crusade
encoded in your DNA, then shed
your skin, molt toward a single-cause purebred.
157.
They strode ’neath drooping yellow flowers with
arboreal aroma redolent
of rose like weeping willows’ kin and kith,
an SF version of that red known scent.
They grew in tiny front yard plots, the wind
swept all their better parts into the air—
as face-down blooms, Stel might have had them binned
were they not nasally so debonair.
She liked to pass them by at night, and stop
to sniff, as proverbs so encourage us.
She did, and climbed with Cade up to the top
of slipworn marble steps to home. “Let’s suss
out how we’ll make Dar gone tomorrow, ’kay?”
Too gassed to argue, Stel gave ground: “Sure, Cade.”
158.
“No, really, Stella, stuff like that ain’t right.
We hang together as a group ’cause it’s
a bitch to find new homies. Disinvite
the randos using membership for glitz.”
“I didn’t like her either, Cade. But what’s
she guilty of? Some selfies in drum break?”
“It ain’t frustration she mistimed the cuts,
it’s disrespect to us. Her shots unmake
the reason that we came together.” “Um…
you think that reason’s what?” asked Stel. Cade said,
“To rise up, revolutionize, become
a righting force.” “You think we’ve parlayed dread
toward anything? No, Cade, we’ve talked. You’ve macked
on Mona. Cade, there’s no way to prove act
159.
of meeting up amounts to much when the
agenda’s sit around, drink beer, and bitch,
to use your term.” “Of course it won’t, Stel, duh,”
he pedaled back, “but in that Dar enriched
&n
bsp; herself on her affiliation with
the rest of us. We started this.” “It’s ‘this’
that honestly I think is more a myth
than vehicle for righteous selflessness.
You do by doing. Pick a vision, then
go utilize the freedoms States protect
to get support of neighbor Chad, John, Chen,
Miguel, Vu, Thor, or Aikins, go connect
a dozen peoples’ peoples with a cause.
That’s what your hip-hop says.” Take made Cade pause.
160.
“No, hip-hop raps about the artist’s grind.
They drop own solo story and a beat.”
“You’ve played me dis tracks. Those are well-designed
to piggyback on others, get retweets.”
“You’re missing fact that Darla’s got no core.
It’s hustle lived that differentiates.”
“She’s parasitic, sure. She used us for
mere background props.” “Worse fissure’s when she states
that what we’re doing’s hers.” “Well, she was there.”
“It’s still appropriation.” “Zoom back out:
you love hip-hop ’cause it describes warfare,
a struggle you feel’s shared. Presume a route
from vid to better sense of self exists,
like does for music… then spare Dar the fist.”
161.
Upstairs Stel found her room as it had been
when hours before she left it, nothing new.
So no excuse was there for glycogen,
adrenaline, or ATP to cue
a caffeinated buzz she felt, no fight
or flight, no strangeness physicality
had left as clue. So why on this one night
did she feel jazzed? The musicality
of that quartet? The liberality
of her progressive friends? Vitality
of conversation? Glib mentality
of vexing half-debate? It shall pit Tee
against all things, all times, Stel, saddened, thought.
She took up pen to said conclusion jot.
162.
Some stuff goes on, and you don’t like it. So
you find some folks who think much like you do.
You gather them together and you go
to friendly spots with late or no curfew.
It’s nice to see same faces week to week
and nicer hearing chorus of consent,
and thus you carry on. What makes you weak
is having deviation in convent.
Point one, your in-group’s in if they agree.
Point two, your motto’s chasing from behind.
You hear, refute, and protest. And point three:
you’ll gather no converts of heart or mind
until you paint the pic of what could be.
Find unbelievers, dictate what ‘good’ means.
163.
“It’s not the best,” reflected Stella, eyes
reviewing poem in desktop draft. “But hey,
that’s what I get from any improvised
attempt. The first draft’s meant to just convey
the meaning. Only when the audience
is numerous and worthy does it make
sense to invest the time in gaudiness
to dress the message up.” Then Timberlake
came on downstairs, and bassline racked the floor.
No, wait, Stel thought, that’s J Cole on JT,
and Elvis, Eminem, and Macklemore.
He said blacks quibbled ’bout who’s most shady,
and all the while there’s one gone snatch the crown,
when they look up white people snatched the sound.
164.
Familiarity in course of days
had made it clearer when Cade cued up whom:
he played Talib, Cole, Roots, Jean Grae when fazed,
and Wu-Tang, Buddy, Monch to spark a room.
Embracing for a moment empathy
for how her housemate host felt following
their tête-à-tête, Stel breathed and then a fleet,
seditious thought came toward mind wallowing:
perhaps she had a real-life crown debate.
If what she heard from Darla had been true
and internet thought Dar’s life somehow great,
then masses’ tastes were open to the new
and, with some luck, Stel might just have the knack
to play a different game and tastes hijack.
165.
The smartphone form-fit in her hand, she pressed
the buttons bringing her to marketplace
where backend robots eagerly suggest
which apps to buy for her guessed target case.
A touch or two, some seconds, then voilà:
her Tricorder was now equipped like Dar’s.
All folks from Pakistan to Panama
could follow now Stel’s poetic memoirs.
She held her face up to her phone and screen,
iambic fourteen measured lines behind,
adjusted wrist and zoom for centering,
then clicked the pic for internet to find.
She nudged her friends to follow her with text,
hoped format wouldn’t leave them too perplexed.
166.
Though inspiration’s moment never would
come back to Stella, she guessed sonnets came
from want of structure. Fledgling adulthood
had freedoms more than younger years had claimed.
If Darla brought the internet delight
with live streams of her life, then there was hope
iambic oddity of Stella’s might
find patrons for its word kaleidoscope.
She brushed her teeth and switched the lights and crept
beneath the silken comforter of bed
and wondered if, that night, while she there slept,
commemoration poem would stay unread.
The weight of covers ushered weight of lid,
till into hopeful slumber Stella slid.
CHAPTER 22
167.
With sun a honey lemon, chili cloud
drew contrast with the grape-in-season sky,
the evening periwinkle pooled to crowd
out other hues as darkness stretched beside.
As setting sun illuminated sand,
its angled tiny dunes like Tatooine,
the grains turned somewhat beautiful from bland,
alive in limelight looking tangerine.
The evening’s fog avoided let sands play
a role in sunset scene at Ocean Beach,
Pacifica, or down in Monterey,
as equals to blue waves and humpbacks’ breach.
When mist and murk diffracted direct light,
the lowly sand stayed unremarked as sight.
168.
The Opposition crew were in the crowd
invited for Joe’s birthday, folks B-side
to back the headline bonfire pit. Smokes cloud-
ed minds in twilight. Man-bun poured the SKYY
with splash of tonic so to not be bland,
and dressed red cup with wedge of tangerine.
Guests drank, some polished figurines with sand-
ing paper, some did Henna tattooing.
Flat grill kept burgers cooking, Monterey
Jack bubbling atop, grease dropped through breach
’tween slats. The People Under the Stairs played,
preventing anxious Cade from feeling beached.
He hadn’t sought to let Dar in his sight,
but Stella hoped he’d come to see the light.
169.
Stel walked with Cade and Mona down the shore,
a northward stroll to watch sun light the cliffs
not far. The oceanside brought stevedores
from coastal Dar (t
he city), fishers’ skiffs,
and seafood barbecue aromas back.
Cade took his phone from pocket, waggled it,
raised eyebrows, looked at Stella: “Something wack?”
Stel shook her head. Mo, looking rattled: “Sit.
Sure? Stuff goes on, and you don’t like it, so
you find some folks who think much like you do.”
“Is this an intervention?” Stel smiled. “No,
we don’t think that you meant this as our cue,”
replied Mo. “Great. So whatcha think?” “You’re nuts.”
“Nah. But if so, I blame your rap.” “The cuts
170.
aren’t what I’m used to,” Cade admitted. Mo
said, “We’re just checking. It’s the first time I
got late-night notes from you and – I dunno –
the stuff you sent all made me wonder, ‘why?’”
“You, actually,” said Stella. Mona smiled
as if she had suspected so, “The name?”
“Yep. Didn’t think you’d guess. You came off mild
till taking Tee to task on Oppo’s aim.”
Cade looked at ladies quizzically, “Please clue
me in to cipher you appear to share.”
“Sure, cutie. Think back to the night when you
kept Stel alive post-party, when I dared
to tell Tee she was wrong.” “Ah,” Cade said, terse,
and pieced together Stella’s sonnet verse.
171.
“You saw my oratory didn’t work.
No listener seemed keen enough to stand
for reason: ‘Opposition’s no framework
for change. Of course, it makes a heady brand.
It taps the verve they like in Tee, the fire.”
“Which drove me crazy, Mo. That’s why I wrote.”
“It’s fun to read, but really won’t inspire
as her invective does. The antidote
is something else.” No one spoke up. Cade looked
as if idea backed off tip of tongue.
Mo went on, “I think Tee’s got crew well-hooked
on anger train, pushed out debate among
us. That said, we weren’t on track to get clout
regardless, and we’re friends. And friends hang out.”
172.
They stood and brushed the sand from off their bums.
Stel looked toward party: “Creepy! I’m not fond
of scene back there. Looks wicked.” “Those props? Dumb,
ignore them. They’re a statement.” Folks had donned
Guy Fawkes masks someone brought, all faces gone.
“What are they?” Stel persisted, spotting Dar
now ’midst the revelry. Cade: “Costumes spawned
from revolution. Benny’d know.” “So noir,”
said Stel.” Mo: “Here they’re probably a farce,