Inner Spaces

inner spaces

Inner Spaces is born of a parallel world to ours. It is the voice of revolution in a society gone mad, the voice of hope for the hopeless. It is the audio creation of GOODW.Y.N. and Face Mason, set in a backdrop of much needed rebellion and praise for courage.

Treatment One 

  • First Poem as Opener

The Cough





I know what the doctors’ will say,

Do you have a fever? They ask.

No, I just have this cough—this dog cough

That wraps itself around my throat, like a boa.

Digs deep like a rattlesnake and borrows congesting

In every expanse of breath. I don’t have a fever—these are

Just the remnants of dust, the desert lying in my lungs

From sandstorms and kicking up tracks in the middle 

Of nowhere that used to be the mecca of everywhere. 

My inhaler just came in the mail and with it I bid adieu

To the chest cramps and pains at least for a while. Little 

By little each day I collide with a past I have yet to reconcile.

If you love me know this. 

I hate to make a fuss of myself, loath care and crave attention.

I am a willful oxymoron in the flesh fleecing opportunities that flee 

Falling freely like the trees that make no sound these days save for

The cries like children being filmed instead of fed. 

Help me. Understand when one tree carries another

It is out of the duty to protect life and that flies higher

Then any jet can. 

“Introduction:  Hello and welcome, I hope this message finds you well.  This is GOODW.Y.N, broadcasting from the Stronghold, signing on and into your homes. Live from quarantine, This is “Inner Spaces.” What have we been afraid of all this time? Why don’t you wanna connect? Why don’t you wanna create? Why don’t  you wanna be an artist?  Why bother being an artist, if you’re not going to create art at all?

  • Second Poem Break

A Waltz w/ Death

My neighbors just threw a party.

No, not a virtual one. A party party.

A birthday party singing loudly “Happy Birthday,”

@ 0430 in the morning, did I mention they were

Off key? It reminded me of  a post that someone put

Up on Facebook, about snitching on quarantine breakers,

equating that to snitching on runaway slaves. So

I am in a bind, punching my fist against

The wall and again it’s  @ 0430 in the morning!  

But I’m afraid–afraid I might die soon, my chest aches.

I can’t take deep breaths anymore.

I can’t hold my breath and count to ten, and I cough and cough.`

Especially at night to the early morning. And somedays I get headaches…

The other night I had the chills, but my body also felt really hot. 

I’m too afraid to go to the doctor though. Too afraid that this could be real.

So, I take my vitamins with water and hope I can survive another catastrophe.

While they break quarantine, while they throw fucking parties, 

@ 0430 in the morning. 

I hate this feeling in my chest, not the compression. But, the feeling

That my heart is breaking. 

The same feeling on that C-130. 

The same C-130 that would change everything.

On that plane, my heart cried for someone to care, 

it cried for someone to give a damn. 

And it cries tonight.

You can’t stop people from wanting to die. 

Marching to their deaths, ignorant lambs to the slaughter. 

The crabs pull each other down. 

Even when they smile. 

Thus, is the nature of things.

Happy Birthday, kid.

Tapping into the creative “juices” during quarantine. 

I never understood why you would pick and choose to create art, whenever they felt like it. This inconsistency behind thoughts. For me art is more than a hobby. It is the core expression of so many stories to tell.  And everyone has a story to tell. Why do we wait for others to tell it? I don’t need secondhand accounts, or reruns. What I need is your voice. An authentic narrative, with a moment of truth that ends with a relieving sigh. This can only come from YOUR soul. 

How much weight will you be forced to carry in this existence?

Behind those eyes, there must be so many thoughts…

Third Poem Break

So many thoughts


I do not feel like sayin’ hello today.

To the people I know on Facebook.

This is nothing against the platform or them;

It’s just that I am beginning to hate the sound of

My voice as I type in words that don’t seem to matter

To me, anymore.


“How are you?”

“Are you still there?”

“Are you still around?”

Still alive?

Still here?

I wonder this every time I click the keys,

Or mouthed the words, or just breathe.

Be calm. Beeeeeeee ccccccaaaaallllmmmmm…

But I don’t want to be calm, I want to be angry—

I want to hit the walls and knock them down,

I want to scream, I want to shout, I want out!

Let me out!

Of what though…

I keep hearing it’s the same everywhere.



I talk to my friend Beau almost everyday.

We scream and make each other laugh.

I secretly wonder who will the “new normal”

Drive insane first. Him or I? I place all bets

On me see I been there before and there’s no

Reason not to go again. Or are there reasons not

To go insane and I am ignoring them, again?

The city is awful quiet except for the sirens.

And I am tired of sirens and waiting on lines 

Just to wait on lines to buy food. Again, this 

Is the cycle that poverty shows—at least some of us.

The rest that fall through the cracks, well they are just

Forgotten about. 

Except I keep thinking about them.

The little ole Asian lady, that wanders through

The garbage bins on the block. Cutting up the

       blue garbage bags, for cans to recycle

Or anything they can hustle. 

How I miss her face. Just her face as she was always

Small, and always busy murmuring in some language

That I couldn’t quite hear. So, I never understood her. 

Not once. So why now do I think of her? I don’t really know.

I don’t know why I wonder if she is alive—but I do. I worry

If I will ever see her again. 



I saw an article in the paper

About anti-African sentiments

In China. How it’s killing them in the time

Of COVID.  And when I Look up at the sky,

I wonder so intensely. 

How long did it take Nero, to

Set you on fire? 


After the Break :

We turn to art with a dire need to tell stories of our lives. Art is and always will be about survival for me. It’s been this outlet that I’ve always been in love with. But nearing 40 years old, I’ve had time to question my relationship with art–especially during COVID.  I look back on my career, my passion, my dedication and drive and what type of person it’s made me. I look back on my life before this moment, realizing that I took the long way here. Art isn’t a game that everyone can play, and it took me a long time to accept that. No matter what, art will always be considered a “young” persons game. But knowing that I will still build my place in it.  Besides the levels of discrimination that exist—racial, economic, sexual, historical, and of course anything regarding accessibility I have to wonder “Does Art Really Love Me Like Dat?”

But no matter what I still make art, because I still care for the living. 


  • Final Poem

I still care for the Living

To all my friends lost out in quarantine land,

I promise I will call you, and call you, and call

Until you or I are at out wits end and you pick up

The phone. I will call and call and call to see how 

You are, and hope that you will be sick of me enough

To answer “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I’m still here.”

Please do not get sick of my voice and this hoarse coughhhhhhing,


Please if you cannot pick up I understand that these are hard times for all.

I just want you to know that I am missing you like madness, and holding you up

From afar.

May we meet again on the road past sickness, in the valley of otherness and otherwise.