Author’s Note:
I feel beyond privileged to consider CP Maze a mentor, as well as a friend. From the moment I first heard him perform, he had me: you can’t read or hear his words without walking away stirred. The passion, dexterity, and authenticity with which he wields his pen commands reverence.
So, when he broached the idea of a collab, I immediately leapt at the opportunity.
The following poem—born of hours spent writing and months spent revising, perfecting, reciting, and rehearsing—means a lot to me. I hope it means something to you.
- Jackson Riley
I.O.A
. One Day, we’ll go out and play. But until I say so, don’t bother me while i’m working, I refuse to multitask. I do it perfectly the first time; if I ever settled for less, I’d be beside myself. But, e’en a wealth of perfect can never last. Perhaps, that’s why my boneless ass is always high, strung-out— addicted to high-strung hopeless ro- mances in the form of one night stan- zas, to hold tightly every panned bare- ly laid moment before they slink away and go extinct, or I doff this skin and I’m off again to greet sleep’s shady cousin. Oh, last smothered flame, please know when e’er I’d say it’s black and white to me, I re- fuse to try and see another way. This blue and green life is too short not to record and hoard tightly every black and blue second. When we met, I was a wreck and regretful and hardly sober; but, so were you. I felt sincerely in your sighs, the day we met, the fear of being; And saw it clearly in your eyes, the day you left, the fear of me. Does this guilt I feel, visceral, make me a criminal? A’leas’, you found your true heart there, somewhere in the liminal—astray as well. Funny, I always thought they say non- opposites repel; but, maybe in Hell, it’s backwards; Well, at least that’s my conjecture. Hell, but I came not to lecture; I just thought I’d paint a picture, fuller, ‘fore I wipe the pretty slate clean; when I thought I had already, you came, heady, to me in a late dream early the other mourning. You looked perfectly lovely, lass. But, even your perfect set in rosy glass could never last. Alas, I had to admit it before I croaked; y’know, “someone had to:” an inside joke, on my shriving stone, inscribed specially for you. But I hope you’re thriving, out and about, And I doubt you’ll ever hear it. And besides, we shouldn’t tock, these tick bites whis- per in my right ear. You know it quite well, oh fine Belle, the longer that I pine here, in a past tense, keeping thy near, the more that, your pres- ence, my dreams’ future eyes, blear. It’s a long road to a stone’s throw from a sheer drop to the frontier. I don’t wish for you to disappear, but I’m sick; this too, you know, my dear Godot. Wait, don’t leave now! The ticking’s ringing out clear! I take it back, I must abort; I like it more in this sphere! I don’t want to go, I’m terrified: The show arrives, and my fear’s A bomb’s about to go off. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Before Miss Stake mistakes my trip wire faith for anything less than “What Would Jesus Do” with a “What the Fuck, Maze” stays fresh out of give a fucks, cheap fucks, and for fuck’s sakes, How come Manna taste like Maker’s Mark When my heart aches? How come Jesus Christ won’t cash out my black outs and cover all his past due rent I unselfishly spent freeing this junkyard Halo from all of its cracks dents and dirty fingerprints My BiPolar’s not magnet It's Manic and I’m attracted to damage when I’m pissed Windpipe bomb I am this … One glance is sometimes all it takes to fall in love, catch the bug, and get all choked up, choked out, sputtering on a Rug- rats plays on the TV. We’re not allowed to pace freely ‘long the corridor while she’s placed under in the OR. Baby sis plays Operation whilst our mother’s sick, inpatient. I’m impatient, gripped by the grim chance that she may very soon pass on. Meanwhile I can’t even choose to pass down the hall to unwind with a candy bar and a can of soda. I do not miss at all those quiet summers in Minnesota, spent crying at the Mayo. I’d rather spend my funds on Mustard. Custer, I trifle tithes on shiny trinkets and truffle custard. I’m a moth, drawn to luster, lustful, in heat, on the hunt for purple weed, blue blood- red wine, violet rain and pink pussy—really anything that can shush the skeletons riding front-seat. Fuck me. Don’t push me when I’m pissy. Here, again, comes the ticking! How the fuck can you not hear it? Far too lusty, This noise. Trust me. I would never wish to share it. I can barely bear to bare it. ’This point, I don’t even care if A bomb’s about to go off. And I’m about to go off and get my flint on… Five. Four. I am a Three. Trinity away Two. Heaven for One way or another today… A bomb’s about to go off! And I’m about to go off and get my flint on Kid Icarus I am with Wind Pipe Bomb I am mooning the Sun with Gucci wings on Like fashion could keep us both up and fly She said I do, I said I do when in all actuality I should've said “I’ll try” when we both should’ve said "I will try" Red wire green wire why When my I’m blue wire guilt trips wires Together a pair of dice While without you I was die Broken heart Freely hitting billy clubs Where I was always recognized by wire strippers Showering me with C - P M - A - Z - E Tonight let us set you free From y’ur lapses in judgment dances a tip drill where none of us screwed but none- the- less a screwed up into my memory True Story One life is all we get, so it ain’t shit to say I wish to claim someday, I’m one of the best to touch a pen and mean it. As I grip it, I feel the rush again. Mother, for give me, for your sin‘s a bad man; avert your gaze; his pages are a murder den. Impatient in my nascence, just imagine the amazement: Maze went up to me, said I’m in good company and have the thing, a chance to print in con- crete more handsome than I could ever be. I owe it to him to ‘volve into a titan of this artistry. And I promise, on the lives of those be- fore me, that to this I’ll see. The two of us, we’re untouchable; he’s Prometheus, I’m Gulliver. The bar’s been raised; vault it, or v fuck off and eat your Lunchable. Been a long road from the fat kid sat lonesome in the lunchroom drawing comfort in jotting prose and penning poems to nod his head to. When and where he let himself go, I’m not quite sure. First birthday, premature, thirty-four and four ounces. What in the world are the chances that he’d make it for a chance at preaching freely to the masses! And, did I mention that he’s Manic? Want a taste of what that feels like? Think that you can man it? Try drowning in Two tabs of acid, Ten shots of Jack molasses, Six bags of shrooms, A Xanax, And just let go fucking spastic. I take the form And stretch it ‘til it breaks my brain- ‘s elastic. It’s Not grown yet; so, a sure bet’s every new day that passes bears, upon its back, new talents. The godhead, I just channel and wield it to challenge candidly the status quo. The truth is what you make it, though some truths are less subjective. My manifest objective is to follow my predilection past the cusp it runneth over. The end is nigh, and I’d like if I’d enjoyed this moment sober. So, I s’pose it’s time to stop the flexion. Without deflecting, I drop the ink an’ plink the bullet where my mouth is. Mull it over, ’son, don’t have a cow, it’s going to be Awesome. Or simply awful. But at this point, I can’t stop it even post this poem’s drop. Shit. so, for now, just relish the view. I heard A bomb’s about to go off. Five. Four. Three. Two