JAIME ADOFF
*writer*poet*rock n roller*

I am a bullet

screaming to the ground.
The air rushing past me, so fast, I can’t breathe,
I am gasping.
The sound¬¬––like a 747 taking off in my eardrums.
Getting louder, and louder.
The ground getting closer, and closer.
This is supposed to get rid of my pain,
get rid of it forever.
This is my cure.
It
HURTS.
It wasn’t supposed to hurt.
I was supposed to go unconscious,
I haven’t passed out yet, and it hurts.
It hurts ‘cause I can’t breathe.
My chest collapsing against itself.
Squeezing all my insides,
OUT.
Squeezing everything.
The building is an upside down blur, balconies racing past me.
Now I’m going even faster,
my eyes blasted open from the force of gravity.
I try to blink, but I can’t.
My speed
much faster than I planned.
I flip over . . .
Feet first,
I start my re-entry into the next life.
I really hope its better than this one.
I can see a woman pushing a stroller––
a man jogging––
people
living––

Life . . .

Jimi & Me
by Jaime Adoff

Chapter 1


boxes


Everywhere I look, I trip over them,
and land on more.
Our life now -- nothing but boxes.
Everything we own, everything we can grab --
miles of tape close up our past.
Mom cries as Aunt Berny puts her arm around her.
Mom pulls away, cutting another piece of tape.
I watch it all happen, like a silent news reporter.
Taking everything in, not able to really deal.
Not able to deal with it at all.
I'm alone now. Lost without Dad.
All alone, just me inside my head.
Mom says everything is going to be different now.
Mom says everything has changed.
Mom says a lot more with her eyes than her mouth.
Her eyes so sad all the time.
Looking down, looking anywhere but here.
NOW,
this time that came so fast,
snuck up on us and took away my Dad.
Took away our life.
I hate here
I hate now
I hate all these

boxes.



whisper house


Our house used to be all loud and everything.
Music blasting, singing-laughing.
Now we have the Whisper House.
Just whispers everywhere.
Mom thinks I can't hear what she's saying,
but I can.
Like how the bank is going to take our house,
and
what happened to all the money we had?
Our life savings gone in a flash.
And
how are we going to make it?
Whispers drift in on pain and worry.
Mom thinks it's gonna be real hard on me.
Thirteen, growin' up without a dad.
The whispers are so loud.
Louder than the music used to be.
That's hard to believe;
but it's true.



the music


that was everything. This house was music.
Dad downstairs, in the studio.
Dad lookin' for the next big thing.
The new hot band.
A hit, so he could retire.
Always talkin' about retiring.
But Dad did well.
He liked to teach me about the music biz.
"Just a little school for ya," he'd say.
Made his money with his music publishing deals.
Royalties from songs on the radio.
I thought ASCAP was the name of Dad's best friend,
the way he would tear open the envelopes
to get his checks.
Dad had bands that he got signed to record deals.
He got paid from that, too.
Dad did alright for himself
and for us.
I always had the best stuff, the hottest games
and coolest toys.
Dad was in his heyday when I was younger.
He was rollin' in the dough-I can still see him
droppin' to the floor, rollin' around the carpet.
Laughin' like he just said something so funny.
Then he'd get up quick and
deliver one of his famous lines:
"You never know in this business;
one day you're hot,
one day you're not.
So enjoy it while I got!"
Mom said he'd be a music producer till the day he died.
Mom was right.

Boomin' and thumpin' bass
sneakin' through the soundproof walls.
Just enough to make your head start movin'
while you were watchin' TV.
The sound track to my everyday.
Pretty cool compared to what most dads do.
I can still hear that bass sometimes.
When it's quiet.
Like now. I can feel it in my chest.
In my ears-straining to hear the music
from the studio. As quiet as Dad is now.
Still
like Brooklawn cemetery.
Dad's final resting place.



have you ever been
(to electric ladyland)


I have.
Dad took me once.
Electric Lady Studios, downtown on Eighth Street.
Used to be a club, then Jimi came along,
waved his magic wand
and turned it into one of the greatest studios ever.
Jimi
Hendrix.
The greatest guitarist
who ever lived.
Dad's favorite artist of all time.
I could listen to Jimi all day and night.
Jimi and me are a lot alike:
left-handers who love to write
poetry and music.
Both of us falling in love at a very young age.
Falling in love with our
six-string girls.
Jimi was part Cherokee.
Dad said he was, too.
I can hear Dad tellin' me to get close;
"Check out my high cheekbones."
Dad's voice in my head
sounding so
clear
so
close
so
real.
Dad and Jimi were like brothers
who never knew each other.
Black hippies with big souls and even bigger smiles.
Peace and love and all that other stuff
nobody talks about anymore.
Both died
way before their time.
Jimi at twenty-seven.
Dad made it to forty-nine.
Still, way too young to die.

Jimi did it to himself.
Or so they say.
(I think it was just a tragic mistake.)
Dad never saw it comin'.
Guess in the end it doesn't matter, does it?
Dead is dead.
And Jimi said:
"The magic carpet waits for you
so don't you be late"
Is that what you ride when you die?
I know Jimi was talkin' about love;
but
I'm talkin' about death-on my mind
all the time, now.
Maybe Dad and Jimi are up in Heaven,
havin' a big-ass jam session.
Or
maybe
Dad's just dead.
Cold and dark.
No
sound
no
air
no

nothin'.




reality sucks


that's probably why we dream.
Why our bodies need sleep.
So we can escape.
Escape this earth, at least for a little while.
Every night, we get to go away.
Sleep is the only time I feel safe.
The only time I can leave this place.
This reality that feels like needles
sticking into my flesh.
This hell that is so hot it makes my hair sweat.
Makes my mind melt.
In my sleep I hear music, I see faces,
songs and
smiles
and
Dad hugging me tight.
Never letting me go.
Telling me to be strong.
Telling me not to give up
hope.
Sometimes I wake up crying.
Sometimes I wish I didn't wake up
at all.



it comes in waves


like the ocean.
No.
More like electricity.
Shocking me,
making me want to
hurt myself or someone else --
"We interrupt this regularly scheduled program
to bring you
Keith James, destroying everything in his path . . . dubbed the hurricane of death. . . .
James is described as a seemingly shy kid who,
by all accounts, just snapped.
More on this story at eleven. . . ."

See, that's what I'm talking about. That was a wave.
More like a tidal wave.
Always hits when I least expect it.
Thinking about death and revenge.
Making someone else feel my pain, my hurt
makes me feel
better

worse

makes me feel

something.

More on this story as it develops. . . .




dad's words


"You have to channel your energy . . .
Turn a negative into a positive."
Dad's voice in my head
all the time now.
Freaks me out
but I like it, too.
"Channel your energy/your pain/your hurt.
Violence never solved a thing. Just listen to what Jimi sings. . . ."
Violence never solved a thing.
Maybe not,
but it might feel good.
Who am I kidding?
Don't have the stones to really do something.
Not like in Rolling
but
balls/"cajones."
I'm not a lover or a fighter.
I'm just a singer in a rock 'n' roll band.
Well, not exactly. I try to be a singer.
Guitar player, too. But no band.
Need to talk to people, make friends to start a band.
"Life isn't a spectator sport. . . ."
Dad talkin' again.
Givin' out wisdom from beyond the grave.
See what happens when you get in the game?
You get yourself shot.
Shot dead.
That's what happens.
Sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that.




sometimes it hits me


It was my fault.
I killed my dad.
It hits me hard
and takes so long
to go away.
Hours trying to justify
that I had nothing to do with it.
Hours trying to understand how I could have let this happen to him.
I couldn't even save my own dad.
I didn't do a damn thing.
I should have woken up;
Mom should have woke me up,
told me Dad was going out.
I shouldn't have gone to bed that night.
I should have just stayed up.
Should have just stayed up until everyone was safe;
until I knew for sure
Dad was
okay.
I should have stopped him,
I could have stopped him.
Guilt
stops me cold.
Hits me hard.
It was my fault.

I killed my dad.

Copyright (c) 2002, 2004, 2005, 2006 Jaime Adoff

Poetry in motion . . .