The Complete Works of Pat Parker

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The Complete Works of Pat Parker Page 10

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

 

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