by Pat Parker
taunts me
mocks me
words drift through
it’s always by consent
we are oppressed by other dykes
who don’t understand
and I am back in the bar
furious
the poll is complete
no, no no no
this is not why we did it
this is not why we continue to do.
We need not play at being victim
we need not practice pain
we need not encourage helplessness
they lurk outside of doors
follow us through the streets
and claim our lives daily.
We must not offer haven
for fascists and pigs
be it real or fantasy
the line is too unclear.
my brother
for Blackberri
I
It is a simple ritual.
Phone rings
Berri’s voice
low, husky
‘What’s you’re doing?’
‘Not a thing,
you coming over?’
‘Well, I thought I’d
come by.”
A simple ritual.
He comes
we eat
watch television
play cards
play video games
some nights
he sleeps over
others
he goes home
sometimes
he brings a friend
more often
he doesn’t.
A simple ritual.
II
It’s a pause that alerts me
tells me this time
is hard time
the pain has risen
to the water line
we rarely verbalize
there is no need.
Within this lifestyle
there is much to undo you.
Hey look at the faggot!
When I was a child
our paper boy was Claude
every day
seven days a week
he bared the Texas weather
the rain that never stopped
walked through the Black section
where sidewalks had not
yet been invented
and ditches filled with water.
Walk careful Claude
across the plank
that serves as sidewalk
sometime tips into the murky water
or heat
wet heat
that covers your pores
cascades rivulets of
stinging sweat down your body.
Our paper boy Claude
bared the weather well
each day he came
and each Saturday at dusk
he would come to collect.
My parents liked Claude.
Each Saturday Claude polite
would come
always said thank you
whether we had the money
or not.
Each Saturday
my father would say
Claude is a nice boy
works hard
goes to church
gives money to his mother
and each Sunday
we would go to Church
and there would be Claude
in his choir robes
til the Sunday
when he didn’t come.
Hey look at the faggot!
Some young men howled at him
ran in a pack
reverted to some ancient form
they took Claude
took his money
yelled faggot
as they cast his body
in front of a car.
III
How many cars have you dodged Berri?
How many ancient young men have you met?
Perhaps your size saved you
but then you were not always this size
perhaps your fleetness
perhaps
there are no more ancient young men.
Ah! Within this lifestyle
we have chosen.
Sing?
What do you mean
you wanna be a singer?
Best get a good government job
maybe sing on the side.
You heard the words:
Be responsible
Be respectable
Be stable
Be secure
Be normal, boy.
How many quarter-filled rooms
have you sang your soul to
then washed away with
blended whiskey?
I told my booking agent one year
book me a tour
Blackberri and I
will travel this land
together
take our Black Queerness
into the face
of this place and say
Hey, here we are
a faggot & a dyke, Black
we make good music
& write good poems
We Be—Something Else.
My agent couldn’t book us.
It seemed my lesbian audiences
were not ready for my faggot
brother
and I remembered
a law conference
in San Francisco
where women
women who loved women
threw boos and tomatoes
at a women who dared
to have a man in her band.
What is this world we have?
is my house the only safe place
for us?
And I am rage
all the low-paying gigs
all the uncut records
all the dodged cars
all the fear escaping
all the unclaimed love
so I could offer my bosom
and food
and shudder
fearful of the time
when it will not be
enough
fearful of the time
when the ritual
ends.
georgia, georgia georgia on my mind
I
It came at first
like a rumor
traveling through
Black pages
of Jet and Ebony
children are missing
children are dead
in a southern metropolis
the common denominator
Black and young.
It comes again
now a nasty gnawing truth
Black bodies float up
from rivers and ditches
each week
more missing
more dead.
II
Now let the circus begin.
Proper politicians
come to town
reporters run from
family to family
look and see
the crying mother
at her child’s funeral
look and see
the scared commissioners
‘We’re doing all we can.’
III
Fear raises its head
the unspoken belief
the killers
white,
the Klan, the Nazis
maniacs, crazies
genocide
eliminate the young
stop the breeding
Black friends angry
bitter scream
‘those lousy bastards’
‘those racist fiends’
white friends afraid
better to be quiet
and hope it’s one insane fool.
IV
The lessons are
slowly slipped out
it’s a shame but
if the kids were
not in the streets
Mother
/> why weren’t you home
with your child?
the President says
he’ll send more money for
investigation
two weeks after he
announced his budget cuts
the police psychologist
swears the killers
are Black
‘the kids wouldn’t trust
a white’
and half the nation prays
he’s right.
My anger rises
I know who the killers are
and how the killer will go untried
see no court or judges
no jury or peers
the killers wear the suits of
businessmen
buy ghetto apartments
and overcharge the rent
the killers lock Black men
in prison or drive
them from their homes
the killers give the Black woman
a job
and pay her one-half of what she
needs to live
the killers scream about
juvenile crime
and refuse to build child-care centers.
it won’t matter what
demented fool is caught
for society has provided
the lure.
A rich kid is not tempted
by candy
a rich kid is not tempted
by movies
a rich kid is not tempted
by attention.
Long after the murders of
Atlanta are solved
the killer will remain free.
one thanksgiving day
One Thanksgiving Day
Priscilla Ford
got into her
Lincoln Continental
drove to Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died.
One Thanksgiving Day
Priscilla Ford
got into her
Lincoln Continental
drove to Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died.
Priscilla, Priscilla
who did you see?
what face from your past?
Was it the waitress
who waited to wait
on you?
Was it the clerk
who tried to sell you
only the
brightest colored clothes?
Was it your child’s
teacher who tried to
teach her that she was
slow?
Was it the security guard
at the bank who guarded
you from the bank’s money
with his eyes?
One Thanksgiving Day
Priscilla Ford
got into her
Lincoln Continental
drove to Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died.
Screams filled the street
Panic ran through the crowd
like a losing streak
at the blackjack tables
and the state of Nevada
was stunned
A tired middle-aged Black woman
was not thankful that day
not thankful for her job
wrapping gifts at Macy’s
not thankful for the state
taking custody of her child
she was not thankful
for her Lincoln Continental.
Priscilla Ford
got into her Lincoln Continental
and hurled through the streets of Reno
the killer made in Motown factories
swept down on tourists
looking to make a big hit
hit by a navy blue
steel bludgeon
screams dying beneath its wheels
and the state of Nevada
was angry.
She went to trial.
Insanity
her lawyers pled
she was crazy with anger
she was crazy with fear
she was crazy with defeat
she was crazy with isolation
no sane person kills
strangers with their cars
Priscilla Ford said yes
I drove my car
into the whiteness
of Nevada streets
she would say nothing more
and the state of Nevada
was frightened.
If Priscilla Ford could do it
who else?
How many Black faces
that emptied garbage
waited tables
bagged groceries
wrapped presents
were capable?
Reaction was swift.
One entrepreneur
printed a card
it said Happy Thanksgiving
with a picture of Priscilla
on its front
inside it said
Sorry I Missed YOU.
Priscilla Ford
got into her
Lincoln Continental
drove down Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died
and the state of Nevada
was vindictive.
You cannot be insane
to be enraged is not insane
to be filled with hatred is not insane
to lash out at whiteness is not insane
it is being a nigger
it is your place in life.
Priscilla Ford
got into her
Lincoln Continental
drove to Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died
and now Priscilla Ford
will die.
The state of Nevada
has judged
that it is
not crazy
for Black folks
to kill white folks
with their cars.
Priscilla Ford
will be
the second woman
executed in Nevada’s history.
it’s her highest
finish in life.
aftermath
For Marty
Did you know I watch you
as you cuddle with sleep?
Propped on my elbow,
close, your breath brushes
back silence
like a swimmer parting water.
your lips are tight
now.
If I close my eyes
they become a cool drink
full and wet
house an active tongue
that travels my body
like an explorer
retracing familiar ground.
If I close my eyes
I can feel your tongue
dart
from my ear
to my neck
to the crevice
a prospector
pause to take samples
inspect the ore
then move on.
If I close my eyes
I can feel your tongue
wrap around my nipples
tuck them
deep
in the corner
of your mouth
and suck them
suck them
parched flowers.
If I close my eyes
oh love
if I close my eyes
I become once again
your hopeless captive
ready to submit.
I think of the
straight person who
asks what do you
do in bed?
Oh
how many times
have I
asked the same thing.
breaking up
You’d think after spending
two years with a woman
you’d know her
you’d know what she likes to eat
and when
what she likes to wear
how she likes her hair
you’d know her favorite colors
her favorite TV shows
her favorite author
and so much more
you’d know when she’s pre-menstrual
you’d know when she’s uptight
you’d know when she’s angry
and when she wants to fight
but then
you break up
she never liked the color blue
she never liked your gumbo
your snoring drove her crazy
she can’t stand bar-be-que
she doesn’t like the way you drive
she doesn’t like your friends
she hates the way you comb your hair
she doesn’t like her steak cooked rare
she doesn’t like your politics
or anything you do
the truth it seems
in this time and place
is she really can’t stand you.
You’d think after spending
two years with a woman
you’d know her
but it seems that love
like everything else
is relative.
maybe i should have been a teacher
The next person who asks
‘Have you written anything new?’
just might get hit
or at least snarled at
or cursed out.
I got a week’s vacation
from work
the first
in at least two years.
The first day of vacation
I cleaned my house
scrubbed walls and floors
prepared it and me
to write.
The second day of vacation
I bought two reams of paper
a new ribbon for my typewriter
groceries to last the week.
The third day of vacation
the dog comes home
from his nocturnal run
he doesn’t eat
his nose is dry
off to the vet
parvovirus
he’ll die, no doubt,
but I doubt
been my dog
for twelve years
and I’m not ready
for him to die
so antibiotics
and broth every
