Little Words

Charlie spoke with 

a tongue that didn’t belong to him.

He was a fifthteen year old rocker cholo

that sounded like he held 

pages of the dictionary in between his teeth .

There was no slang on his breath.

I watched words cascade

down his conversation,

like stars streaking across an otherwise lightless night.

I was eight years old

It was a language I’d never heard before.

But I knew it was English because I understood

the prepositions that braided his sentences together.

( I didn’t know they were called prepositions then.)

We called them little words

Iike “in”

or “to”

or “a”

or “nah”

All his homies expressed themselves with little words.

They used to ask him

“ Aye, Charlie, why you always talking rich and shit?” 

You live in the projects just like the rest of us.”

As if certain palabras were only reserved

for those who could afford to stretch 

their mouths wider than 

people who had less to eat.

Charlie would laugh and say

“I read my brothers.

there is a freedom that lives there.”

They would laugh

Take a swig of their beers

and respond with a “Fuckin’ Charlie”

Not me.

I heard the whisper beneath his breath

Begging to become a scream.

A drunken slur that broke me open

my ears remembered how to listen when I heard him speak

It inspired in me a wanting.

A need to know how to make music with my words

Something deep in my being 

Heeded what I pieced together

The message i deciphered 

in between the spaces in all those little sentences.

A truth,

that little words never belonged in my mouth.

Frank Escamilla aka The Bus Stop Prophet

https://www.busstopprophet.com/

@busstopprophet

If you enjoyed this piece, you may also like Spitting Out Rhymes and Equations and Where Masks are Not Allowed

Previous
Previous

Indigo Plants

Next
Next

Thinking Wider