the commemoration of sixty-nine slain in Sharpeville
the militia swarms down on the marchers the township
and disenfranchised children become
“angry bands of roving youths” throwing rocks and epithets
at billy clubs automatic machine guns tanks cannon H-bombs
sanctioned slaughter
two cops transform a protestor’s head into mulch on the
6 o’clock news
within minutes the patriarch of America II
appears via satellite
will he increase his “hard-line” policy
toward South Africa?
no.
the situation (apartheid) is deplored by all
but these were rioters
and some of the police who stopped the violence
were black
video pornography
the slave is blamed for slavery
he whitewashes and soft-pedals
genocide
i am out of my senses—splib splob
home of the lynch mob
land of the vigilante
World War III is now taking place—an economic holocaust
who remembers Mary Smokes?
who remembers Wounded Knee?
who remembers The Night of the Long Knives?
Kent State? Jackson State? Attica?
The Greensboro Five?
Geronimo?
(in 1819 i was stoned to death in the streets of Philadelphia
by three white women. who am i?)
*
hello from months later
i am fighting to stay in the classroom—
no open minds
i am teaching Lord of the Flies
telling the youths about Manson &
Jim Jones’ temple of doom
Sympathy For The Devil / Altamont
Hell’s Angels
and this girl looks up to me and says
“are you making this up?”
who remembers the tongue of the man who has no tongue
How Does It Hurt
tell me, how does it hurt
let me heal your wound
tell me, how does it hurt
i can heal it soon
i have any number of cures
many ways to improve
so tell me, how does it hurt
tell me, where does it hurt
let me ease your pain
tell me, where does it hurt
what have you to gain
hiding all your feelings inside
only makes it worse
so tell me, where does it hurt
refrain: pain. you can’t avoid it
pain. can make you grow
love. you must embrace it
if love you want to know
show me, where does it hurt
let me ease your ache
show me, where does it hurt
there’s so much at stake
hiding all your troubles from me
only makes it worse
show me, where does it hurt
Dream 924
the trip starts on the limitless freeway of my thoughts. the
tank is full. i am behind the wheel moving with undisturbed
swiftness. i feel the sigh of the engine, emanations through
the floor, my foot against the accelerator rises and falls as i
pass first on the left then on the right, swooping. lights
bobble in the fluid ink of night, amber, white and red street
stars. there is other life out there. i sense it, a smell, a
heat rising from my skin. i’m hugged in my black leather
jacket a perfect fit and fingerless black calfskin gloves. my
black kinks porcupine my scalp thickly, wild. my ears are
clamped in gold. my big hips hug the contoured seat and i
reach for the fake gearshift (because this vehicle really has
an automatic transmission) and i’m flying as the speedometer
needle presses urgently against the edge. ah—the power. i
am looking for the answer. and i move forward, my eyes
scoping the horizon as though a pinball course and i know
he’s out here somewhere dead ahead enemy and lover. i am armed,
the beretta snug in the confines of my jacket. i think briefly
of the law. what if they give chase. but i’ve outrun them before.
i did not wake up today
Nosomania
lawyer fever doctor flu
early symptom: inverted nipples/an unwillingness
to respond
tongue of the jester—a lexicon of smiles and
entertainment styles/callus webbings of gossip and
misgivings—licks and slowly divests my mind
of protective soothe
there’s a gene for jealousy
there’s a gene for lying
there’s a gene for betrayal
there’s a genius for pain
so
lately my mad scramble has escalated to killer routine:
wake at cockcrow wash dress try to create comb hair drive
car get to the office slave slave steal an hour’s break to
try and cut some slack slave slave go home walk in grabbing
food out the fridge to cook. cook. listen to the news listen
to his day return all calls serve dinner the kids need time
the mail begs the day’s news listen to his day the phone
rings and rings and rings the thang breaks the what’s it falls
over the dojigger collapses that craves that must i listen
to his complaint his day his need his time
ours
aftersex too spent to push it. i lay in the wet the
night the dark thinking i’ll do it tomorrow there will be
enough time tomorrow fuck it tomorrow. stall for tomorrow
something good maybe
now
yawning hands to face listening to shower run hot
water listening to how i listen knowing there’s a limit
to this a pound must be paid flesh his body and mine
his body against mine
burnt
periodic intermittent identity crises (mid brain anomaly)
this scrunch i’m trapped in/suffocates/an accumulation of
miseries doesn’t allow stretch/cramps my smile/leaves no
bleeding space i’m walled in by skin a stifling cell
so tight
when i turn around i bump into myself
then
what must be found is the power to shake to cure
to return me to me
like ultimately
what is seen in the mirror
is all what is
as in
form dictates fate—
all the philosophy i need
Notes of a Cultural Terrorist
angry. angry for days years decades. going to
explode so angry. born angry. why am i so
angry. talk about three piece suits and
polite silences
a staggering flood of images/impressions as
my tongue fails a bold and attention-getting statement
recollected statistics (4500 rejection slips)
racial incidents, socio-political conflicts, someone
maimed or dead
remember San Ysidro. remember Harvey Milk. remember
Eulia Love. remember move
apparent senseless violence/the man and his wife
who went toe-to-toe blow-to-blow with The Law taking
school children hostage
not engendered to promo dialog and understanding
incidents i’ve personally experienced/penned the sordid
confessions of a shell-shocked bystander
seconds short and dollars shy
why/who do i keep threatening to kill? t
his
anger i carry within
rejection as intellectual as nigger as woman
as artist as fat as lotus lander as dirty
dick-licker as nigger as lover of black boys white boys
and jew boys as nonconformist as nigger nihilist
as a
person of such extremes. emotional violence
bitter. pending self-destruct
these are my fake pearls. i have no real ones
Invitation to a Gunfighter
you rode into town on a mighty tall horse, Durango
and now it’s time for that last showdown
and the townspeople who sired you
have all turned against you
in their arrogance ignorance and fear
and the subject of your love
is as fickle as the wind
and you’re punch-drunk as a skunk in a trunk
looting and shooting for pleasure—tearing up
their peace of mind
and they’re all too scared to take you on—
the gutless lot of ’em
and you’re too bitter and fed up with the bad hand
fate has dealt you in the form of black skin
and deadly aim
it’s time to get out of town, Durango
time to get the first thang smokin’
go on and get on
to whatevah is waitin’ in that wild wild way out yonder
time to take that long slow technicolor ride
before they ambush you in the saddle
and leave you face up in the sun
American Sonnet 2
for Robert Mezey
for outshining the halos of heaven’s greedy archangels
the sensitive nightfall with her dazzling teeth
is sentenced to the eclipse of eternal corporate limbo
the exquisite isolation of endless neon-lit hallways
for the miscegenation of her spirit to earth’s blood
for giving her moonrises to tropical desires
powerful executives syphon off her magic
to face the consequences of devilish exploitation
towards the cruel attentions of violent opiates
as towards the fatal fickleness of artistic rain
towards the locusts of social impotence itself
i see myself thrown heart first into this ruin
not for any crime
but being
Hand Dance
this is the ritual of the hand becoming
the whole. a body of itself
the gesture that allows
possession
if i am not all, who am i
if i am i how am i all?
at the tip of each finger a separate universe
if i am you
then why aren’t you me
and if you are me
then why the deep silence
this is the ritual of the whole becoming the hand
shaping a certainty
to complete the cycle. to share my life
with my man. to feed my children. my hands
(they dance this anger. they sing it, paint it
make it pay. it is bigger than mere hands can hold)
born in slavery died enslaved
yet not a slave
born in misery died miserably
yet not miserable
hand story: once upon a time i laid hands in love
the sinister and the dexter
in the hope of a man. to give him
light by which to see me. once
upon a time i laid hands in love
to cure his flesh in the fire of
mine. burning together. once upon
a prayer
these hands
i am rooted in a tree of hands where i nest
give birth. stretch my arms to take the wind
here. a forest of hands where the only fauna
are my eyes
—Los Angeles
August 3rd, 1983
Chair Affair
the chair bites me. angrily i kick it
the chair wheezes every time
i sit down on it
i have decided i hate this chair
even though i need its support
the chair moves into an awkward angle every
time i get up so i am forced to look at it
before i sit down again
hard little round metallic doo-doos
keep coming out of the chair
causing me to watch my step
i have offered a truce. the loss of 25
pounds. the chair scoffs
the chair doctor states it will take
3 months and over four thousand dollars to
cure the chair
today my horoscope said avoid
recalcitrant chairs
when i came in from lunch
i found another butt in my chair
“chairs are the true plague of mankind”
—Chairman Mao
We Meet the Black Rimbaud
as we exit the elevator we step into the
Santa Cruz of 1981. the dark inebriated hallways of
Hotel St. George call my name and ask who allowed
me in. we sense a sudden spasm in our direction.
it is he. he lurches outside our lovers’ suite.
he stumbles besotted besnotted
in purples blues and browns—he of the deeply
cratered psyche toast-colored skin and lunar eclipses
half-Negro half-Jew all reeking devastation
(having spent ten years in a notsolongago lifted
self-proclaimed silence) having that afternoon been
booed off and having been carried from the stage
in the tender adoration of saxophone and
double bass. he spies us recognizes us and invites us
to the party in the court of the king of beatitude
(Harry Silver and the gang are there)
where coverts rasp eloquently on the exasperations
of those sobered by the enthused applause of failed
versifiers and a doggerel pursuit that nets only
the promise of a hamilton and a rubber check.
as we watch, the legend staggers wall-to-wall
sloshings from his glass splash to the hungry floor
and are quickly drunk. and while we know who he is
we are reintroduced as fellow spooks to this specter
dancing on marbles. and when he hears his name he
looks askance shudders hisses and asks
“Bob Kaufman? Who is Bob Kaufman?”
February 11th 1990
—for Dennis Brutus
This year the leaves turn red green black
freedom colors each leaf
each stitch of grass. I am amazed
at my sweet harvest. The prison door has opened
and a nation’s heart is released. I am full
having spent my greediness in a ritual of joy.
Aptitude Test
three black men standing on the corner are
a) a riot
b) a street gang
c) winos
d) a do-wop trio
e) all of the above
three black women standing on the corner are
a) Jehovah’s Witnesses
b) whores
c) angry mothers chasing down errant sons
d) on their way to a bake sale
e) fighting over a man
a white man driving thru a black neighborhood is
a) a child molester
b) an undercover cop
c) a government agent
d) a truant officer
e) a john
a white woman seen in a black neighborhood is
a) a prostitute
b) poor white trash
c) a social worker
d) an undercover cop
e) a mental hospi
tal escapee
a white couple driving thru a black neighborhood
a) took the wrong freeway exit
b) are delivering turkey dinners on Thanksgiving
c) are on their way to open up the shop
d) are visiting their mulatto grandchild
e) are missionaries
a black man walking thru a white neighborhood is
a) a burglar
b) a gardener or factotum or chauffeur
c) making a delivery
d) bourgeois
e) on his way to score
a black woman walking thru a white neighborhood is
a) a domestic
b) a kept woman
c) making a delivery
d) bourgeois
e) a door-to-door cosmetic sales lady
a black couple driving thru a white neighborhood
a) are entertainers
b) are going to the boss’s dinner party
c) are visiting their mulatto grandchild
d) are house hunting
e) took the wrong freeway exit
a foreigner walking thru a black neighborhood is
Wicked Enchantment Page 6
