by Pat Parker
Bag’s too close.
Star searcher,
Christ had his Judas.
Climb your altar.
Slash your throat.
Let your blood spread
like volcano lava.
Be a partner of death.
Grasp the star.
Hang on.
Clutch.
Then,
See if it matters.
1965p
A sea hawk soars above my head.
Circling, circling, teasing -
the sand.
Goes into a glide and lands.
Its fierceness vanishes in the sand.
Its walk - fast but deliberate.
No longer striking death fears -
A curious sea gull on the beach.
“It’s different - little death & big death.”
“I don’t think so;
There’s life after death.”
The sea gull turns its head.
A beer can is popped.
The gulls scatter off.
Take to the sky - circling.
Sea hawks prowl above my head.
1965p
Confrontation
Stop !
don’t you know what yield means?
yes officer
it means
stop lean back
let the other man
but
my feet
rebelled against me
would not move up or over to
stop for you
but i can not say that —
it’s better
“i did not see you, officer”.
1967p
Berkeley ’66
for Bob
A quietness in this city
lying stretched on spring grass
Motorcycle - scorched streets
burned heretics of the past.
Blinding letters of neon stuttered words
falling
against my window like hail feathers.
bus STOP buy beach B A R gains brick
hut CREDIT cards antiques approved
black&white liquor mountains wheels
bodiespeopleflowers flowers pale
pale
pale leaves rubbed in my hands
oninto my pores
rushing
a shower of sightstouchessmells
calm splashing over my body
washing
raining
licking
a quietness in this city.
1966p
A Voice from Watts
“God gave Noah the rainbow sign,
No more water, the fire next time!”
“Burn, baby, burn, — ”
Black gods have called judgement,
give or burn, baby
black god — a mad mother, him
spilling from ghetto stench,
a mob,
a mad mob without identity —
maybe a race that found theirs,
& what you say in your white,
Protestant, Anglo - Saxon
mother fuck the world church.
God don’t like niggers —
Okay —
throw a little gasoline on
Heaven
Gonna see if it burns too.
Bring your troops back, big daddy —
need em here —
cause Chief Parker ain’t never beat
no Viet Cong’s head.
now you don’t have to worry
about your woman getting raped,
but
I really like to see how
peroxide burns.
1967p
Poem to my Mother
Can you hear me?
I am crying
across invisible barriers.
They are there.
My blood runs
down a lost trail—
My voice dies
against the walls.
I am crying—
I the infant
that suckled your breast
The breast — once full & ripe,
full of pride —
Now hanging limp
like a useless balloon.
I am crying—
I the child
that worshipped you,
for you were beautiful
& without fault.
No God could behold you.
I am crying—
I the youth
that doubted,
confused by suspicion.
You lied—
or made mistakes,
the difference — none
to the heart that raced
like a vehicle of my generation.
I am crying—
I the woman
separate & alien,
bound by visions—
visions too different,
different as our paths.
I am crying—
I want to meet you;
Your blood streams
through my veins.
I cannot deny you this,
your blood —
silent —
tells me nothing of you.
I am crying—
Your ancestors are mine.
Yet, our tongues
cannot form the same words.
Can you hear my tears?
Each weighted by innards.
I am crying—
I cry for the myth—
I wish for the snow
& fields that never were.
I am crying—
Must we be enemies?
I can not fight you.
Emotions make me a coward.
The conflict is not.
Is God so important?
Would He deny me you?
I am crying—
I want to believe.
I want to be,
the suckling babe,
the innocent child,
the youth — the woman.
I want to hear your blood—
to leap over the wall of time,
& claim you
& be claimed by you.
I am crying—
I am immersed
in a river of lost voices.
I am crying—
Can you hear me?
1967p
Costume Party
(for Gene Fowler)
Faces—
I have
fallen in
someone’s head/
laughter loud music
smashes
me thru
bone
cilia
sweeps me
OUT
faces/flesh
lovers tonight
to
night
men’s cries
Does bid their young,
runon / faces
none knew me tonight
I won the prize
BEST
masked/I came
as myself.
1967p
Soldier’s boots are
falling
shaking
Whitman’s ashes.
America has opened her legs
a street walker
to hate
&
the itches
of her black pimps
are knives.
Where is your hidden brook?
More important,
can I bathe in it?
1960s m
With Love to Lyndon
“This is a sad time for all people. We have suffered a loss that cannot be weighed.”
Lyndon Johnson
I dreamed a nightmare,
This big-assed thing,
With a 10 gallon hat
& boots, stepped
& I was crushed.
My blood ran white,
Staining the floor.
I awoke;
& this hound,
without a hat,
or boots,
Not even a gun,
Wore a badge,
A red white blue badge
with big letters:
OUR PRESIDENT.
& I wish he would
go back to his ranch.
You said: “This is a sad time,”
& I
thought you were talking about Kennedy.
I understand, Lyndon.
I really do sympathize.
You have a problem,
but, I didn’t tell you to marry it.
I know this poet
He says we should love one another.
So, I love you
love you
love you
love you.
Now, the next time,
you get mad,
maybe,
you should hit her.
It’s cheaper than
shipping men to war.
1963 ? m
white folks
don’t think too much
about themselves
Always seem to be chasing
causes
“of poor oppressed folk”
like when the people
of Montgomery
took to their streets —
next thing you know
half the south was covered
with white feet—
Used to sit and watch
white folks pay money
to be hollered at
sit & purr in their guilt
like contented cats
one day SNCC said,
clean up your own house
go home
people’s jaws got so tight
thought their mouths would foam.
Then there was
the panthers,
chicanos,
indians,
russian Jews,
vietnamese—
any oppressed hues
wonder when yall gonna start
unoppressing you—
yeah, white folks
are definitely strange
running round healing
other folks pains
hey — look at your homes
there’s work to be done
you got pains of your own
a personal battle to be won.
1960s m
Summer
It’s summer in San Francisco.
The weather offers no hint,
but license plates flood the city.
Texas, Kansas, Michigan, Washington.
Tourist charge the cable cars.
An observant child shrieks,
“Look at the funny people, mommy.”
A world wise mother sneers;
“Those are hippies baby.”
My companion smiles at me,
but I’m not so sure.
His beard gleams in the sun.
His hair much longer than mine.
Christ had long hair.
In his day he was a savior.
Today, he’s be a hippie
or maybe a queer.
Summer in Sanfrancisco
Marijuana bust in the Mission district.
An undercover man is a hero.
I ask my companion,
“How can you tell a copy?”
“They’re big and tall.”
But the draft cop on the corner
is only five feet - two.
I look at my companion.
Maybe he’s a copy.
Paranoia Time in the city.
That’s a good song title,
but they’d bust the composer,
Or send him before HUAC.
It’s un-American to be paranoid.
There’s nothing to be afraid of—
At least that’s what the president says.
It’s summertime.
There are more poets here
Than any other city in California.
I’m sure that’s important.
But there are more baseball fans,
& baseball players make money.
Poets only make music.
Some people call it noise.
It’s summertime.
The presido is beautiful at sunset.
The beach is crawling with swimsuits.
My roommate’s dog shit on the rug.
But oh no — I didn’t step in it.
My cat did.
Now it’s on my bed.
You can’t make love in catshit.
1965m
From the Wars
Black soldier
Marched home
home to his woman
home to his boss man
home to his rack.
Hung up his balls
Black soldier
Turned in his gun
Should have kept it
Enemies not dead
Waited for him
with installment plan
& 20 - year mortgage
A broad smile
Pats for his back
a foot for his ass.
Black soldier
Can you speak
of a freedom
you’ve never had?
You’re the nation’s
greatest con man.
Why don’t you
run for president?
1967p
To a Deaf Poet
Your words tumbled out.
I listened, but could not hear
No,
Heard, but could not understand.
And I felt guilty.
Your words stumbled out.
I tried to concentrate,
to change your song to my key.
I could not understand.
And I felt anger.
Anger, first at myself,
then you.
I said, “it was your fault”.
I could not understand.
Your words stopped.
I had missed your song.
I wanted to say, “Let me
read your poem, please”,
But I was ashamed.
1965m
Two people walk
into a park.
She carries a branch
torn from a tree,
caresses it
like a lover.
His hands hide
in the womb
of his pants.
He offers to
carry her branch.
Two people walk,
fade into the
night of the park.
I watch
passing unseen,
& wonder of
a raped tree.
1965m
Why burn a candle in daylight?
as the sun weaves like a needle
through clouds and fog.
my days are hued shades & changes —
among these,
darkness comes —
not dimming,
but casting nets before me.
For this, a candle
to eat nets;
to receive me through.
1966m
Going to the bridge now
gonna jump off and drown
Going to the bridge now
Gonna jump off and drown
Cause my baby left me
Lord, she put me down.
Took her to a new bar
Prettiest dykes around
Took her to a new bar
Prettiest dykes around
When it was time to go
She could not be found
When I got to our house
she had packed up and gon’
When I got to our house
She had packed up and gon’
called up her mama
She hung up the phone.
I went down to her job
to ask her to come back
I went down to her job
to ask her to come back
Said she would not return
till niggers ain’ Black.
Said I�
��d kill myself
if she’s away from me
Said I’d kill myself
if she’s away from me
Said she didn’t care what
long as she was free.
1960s m
all
the sounds
moving
swinging
past
me
& you
moving
swinging
drift
in/out
fear not little children
sounds
beating a fast tempo
and
you
and i
caught
dancing
between the light
1960s m
the streets
lying in union
with dark lovers.
we, three
bearers of visions
moving
stopping
moving, across
beds
street lights
are ,
not torn
