Somewhere Lost. Jasen BSL Sousa

      

      Somewhere Lost

      Other books by

      Jasen Sousa

      Life, Weather

      A Thought and a Tear for Every Day of the Year Close Your Eyes and Dream With Me Almost Forever

      A Mosaic of My Mind

      17-24: Selected Poems of Jasen Sousa

      Humming Eternity

      ......…

      Somewhere Lost

      Jasen Sousa

      Special thanks to Wendy Mnookin

      for poem editing and sequence assistance

      Cover photograph by Alex Foster

      A J-Rock Book

      Somerville+Boston+Worldwide

      Copyright © 2011 by Jasen Sousa

      Copyright © All Rights Reserved by J-Rock Publishing

      Photographs by Alex Foster

      Book Design by Dime Designz

      J-Rock Publishing and Dime Designz

      In affiliation with Eudimeonia Entertainment

      and The United Front Company

      All rights reserved under international and Pan-American copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, electronic, mechanical, or by any other means, without written permission of the author. Address all inquiries to :

      J-Rock Publishing

      45 Francesca Avenue

      Somerville, MA 02144

       WWW.JASENSOUSA.NET

       WWW.JROCKPUBLISHING.COM

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

       http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0055-6

      For Chris Ormond

      Author’s Note:

      This is a collection of poems about my relationships with people who have struggled with substance abuse. Writing is all about point of view, and I believe I am in a unique position to tell this story, my story, and their stories. How we both deal with addiction being part of our lives, and being present in our community. Addiction is not a fault or a weakness, it is a disease, and it just so happens that many of the people I grew up with suffer from this disease.

      It is important for the reader to know that I have never had a snort, smoke, sip, or shot of any substance, even though I have been surrounded by drugs most of my life. Not even alcohol or a cigarette. It’s how I have earned one of my many nicknames, URBAN MONK. I am not better, or smarter than my peers who have feel victim to addiction, I am just lucky. We are made of the same flesh and blood, and if I was ever addicted to drugs, I would suffer through the same HELL as my friends.

      Why do I associate myself with drug addicts, and drug dealers? It has never been like that with me. Growing up across the street from a park, and now doing all of the youth work I do, I could never ignore these people, their problems, our problems. I have known most of them since I was five or six years old. They are like an extended family to me, and you don’t turn your back on family, no matter how dirty things get.

      I write about things that are important, these people, these stories, are important to me. After you read this book, I hope they will be important to you too. I think all of us, when we take the time to think about it, realize that drug addicts are not losers, they are just souls temporarily lost, and it’s up to us to help them find their way home.

      Peace,

      Jasen Sousa

PROLOGUE: GREEN FEATHERS

      What’s lost in the streets

      without names and owners

      eventually finds homes, cuddled

      by the flames of loners.

      Listen to those who search

      for temporary treasure on the corners

      where weight is exchanged for

      green feathers

      that float into the pockets

      of invisible street lovers dressed

      in urban sweaters, stitched

      with the letters of their real names.

      Who you be?

      Who can you be?

      Sell more than lies

      that were put in your palm. Search

      for the truth like the man who keeps

      asking for a refill of the juice

      in his arm.

      Check please!

      Full, until I am hungry again. Search

      for nourishment that will fill

      the linings of my stomach’s soul for an entire lifetime,

      or at least until the moment gets old.

      Inner city mining, digging for punishment.

      Do you feel me, how am I supposed to be felt?

      Every time I write, live a line,

      I wonder if I will tell it in the right way?

      Can you hear it the same way I can hear it?

      Echoing inside my rib cage, pulsating

      down my fingertips. If I didn’t write it,

      it would never exist.

      I guess.

      Fresh, like the dozen eggs just placed

      on the shelf, waiting to be cracked open

      to find what’s in one’s self.

ADDICTED TO NOTHING