a) a bag man for a drug cartel
b) a liquor store owner
c) a chicken franchise owner
d) a real estate agent
e) the new neighbor from a war-torn country
Essay on Language 2
before slavery
my people-tongue (drum) was sure. there were no excesses. those who spoke it knew the work of tribal time during which they were not native but simply a history apart in which the cycles of life played out in accordance to the rhythms of that other continent
oh we all speak
eloquently of the introduction of the Atlantic into our speech. the middle passage. remember those who dove from the dutch ship into the deep, sacrificing themselves and their children, who cheated slavery in death. it was at this time a spiritual rending and longing (holler) was introduced into our tongue
so that even now
there are those still throwing themselves into the sea so-to-speak
landed and chained
our metaphor was denied, was first made “sin” against the mores of a slaving race, then “crime.” the english tongue was enforced/whipped into our flesh enough to make our servitude profitable. with the denial of our tongue, our creeds and worships were also denied. (in english our men and women have become genderless/interchangeable as “nigger”) thus a new sorrow was born and it too entered our tongue and created a resonance (blues) which distinguishes ours from all european speech and sets us apart even from those with whom we urge reunion
and so we found
thru deceit, ways to keep our tongue alive. to let it live within us though departed from our source. to become the tongue itself (attitude) so that it speaks even in our bodily movements. so that it seduces english, snaking back to ourselves. so that the dominant tongue, once infected with our hunger will one day succumb without divining what has happened (unspoken)
and even now i
gibber in my diverse postures, cajoling and conjuring. this spelling out. this gospel. it is about being and recognition of being. my tongue alive in my particular vocalizations, chorusing with like others also singing
it be about bones doin’ somethang
to the other Wanda Coleman
—with apologies
the phone rings again. something clicks. it’s dangerous
to touch that thing
day or night
the sudden heaviness of breath/a hiss/a piercing
“bitch”
his voice gone, leaves a terrible resonant
anger
she shudders. why all this? why me? what have i
done? this is the shits
why don’t they get us straight? i’m me
and she’s she
she writes i write she’s black i’m black
but other than that
we’re nothin’ the like
and while in the same place at just about
the same time—we’ve never met
dreaded moment: my name called from the podium
we both stand
double bubble gum
dear world
we know who’s who. when will you? she’s had hers
disconnected
American Sonnet 3
fair splay/pay—the stuff myths are made of
(cum grano salis)
that thoughts become things
words weapons
who gives the african violet the right to bloom
rain the right to be wet
who permits the moon to draw menses
i protest this tyranny of ghosts
who reign in the world of letters
would-be-betters
in actuality
pseudo-intellectuals with suck-holes for brains
so dense even when the light goes on
they’re still in the dark
today i protest the color of the sky
that is not the color of my skin
American Sonnet 5
rusted busted and dusted
the spurious chain of plebian events
(aintjahmamaauntjemimaondapancakebox?)
which allows who to claim the largest number of homicides
the largest number of deaths by cancer the largest
number of institutionalized men the largest number of
single female heads of household the largest number of
crimes of possession the largest number of functionally
insane the largest number of consumers of dark rum
largely
preoccupied with perfecting plans of escape
see you later alligator
after while crocodile
after supper muthafucka
American Sonnet 6
portfolio profligates of creative capitalism
proliferate—wage slave labor intensive
pack up all your cares and dough
here we go interest’s low
bye-bye bankbook
pro rata (whacked-out on assonance
and alliteration)
middle management mendacity
(let jesus do it on his lunch hour)
i hit forty before i got my first credit card
zed-to-zed/the game of bird association
when one’s only credentials are the holes
in one’s tired bend-overs
what does fame do without money?
Notes of a Cultural Terrorist 2
after the war the war begins the war goes on
i am a soldier. look at my boots
soles worn from seeking work. from hours
in unemployment lines
call me a civilian casualty
the war to feed children the war to clothe their backs
the war to meet the rent the war to keep the gas tank full the
war to end the calculated madness keeping the poor poor
what happens to a war deferred
does it implode? does repressed aggression
ravage the collective soul?
(there’s rioting now. i see the blaze red smoke rising.
the city burns. people are looting, taking things. all the
excess denied them. crimes of possession. to have. without
the onus of color or fear of rejection. children carry racks
of clothes. women push shopping carts brimming with food.
men favor liquor stores and gunshops. but what we need is
revolution. bloodless or otherwise. we must go deeper than
lust gratified in one spontaneous torrid upsurge of rage)
i am a soldier. look at my hair
fallen out under stress. the many hours
unappreciated on the job. not even a decent chair
call me collateral damage
and when all the foreign battles are won
will we who battle here at home
have our day in democracy’s sun?
(i am laying on the gurney in the hallway. there
aren’t enough beds. he’s been here with me for hours and
we came in last night. and they still haven’t been able to
tell us anything. they wanted money up front before they
even talked to us. luckily we had assistance but still had to
borrow from mama to make the cash co-payment. the pain is
real bad and i’m thirsty. but they said not to drink anything/
nothing by mouth. and we had to wait forever just to get this
far. too many patients and not enough doctors)
i am a soldier. but my back is broke
battling the papers i push all day. my hope
is broke too. how do i love
call me politically correct
(we sat in the bar in the late afternoon trying to figure out
where all the men had gone. the ones that weren’t dead or
in jail. who loved women. the ones who weren’t junkies
weren’t alcoholics weren’t already married. the ones
who
love our color. and one sistuh took a tall swig and said
she’d be satisfied if she lived to see her refrigerator full
just once before she departs this planet)
what happens to a war deferred
does it seep down into the skin a rash
of discontent to erupt again and again?
i am a soldier. that i live is a lie
no one stares ’cuz no one cares. grasping
for a nip of pleasure a toke of sanity
call me a victim of victims
(the cuffs are tight. i can feel them rubbing against my
wrists behind my back. we’re taken out to the squad car
in front of all the neighbors. the kids stare at us. they
knew we were different all along. we didn’t belong in this
’hood. he’s angry. he wants to know who ratted. i can’t feel
anything but numb. they shove him into the back first and
then i climb in behind him. it’s a short drive to the
precinct. we’re broke. we’ll have to borrow money for
bail. we’re about to find out who our real friends are)
whatevah you do
don’t look me too long in the eyes
we could’ve made it if
i were flat
and you were round
you slept on your left side
and i on my right
you had the eyes of an iguana
i had the lips of a rose
you had been born under libra
i had been born the year of the tiger
if you were the loch and i the fathomless
creature of your depths if
your touch were as soft as your eyes
my flesh were as hard as my heart
i licked the salt from your neck
you licked the salt from my wound
you were my monkey
i were your jones
if
you were taller
i were brighter-skinned
American Sonnet 7
to take the outer skin in. rehumanize it
is
swallowing whole the dourness of
an unremitting scorn and unstoppable cruelty
the exploitive ambition of pricey looks
stealing meat off the bone
is
to know grief my unnaming tongue
it reaches for its lyric the mother of
all pain to birth to know this ugly/an
abandoned stillborn blued around its eyes and
bodily bruised. found buried in a dumpster
beneath the rages of an unsung life
is
to know i must survive myself
feeling
gives birth to
movement
Essay on Language 3
lately i make sacrifice
in terms of sweat
what is the meaning of my thirst?
there are cookie jars
and there are cookie jars
how do i enter apart from myself?
the alabaster sentinel before the doorway
halts ascension. “mama sweet mama don’t go”
but i’m so torn so worn so full of scorn
having exhausted reality so thoroughly
will it call on me again?
how many years in stir
for fronting off truth as fiction
where is the spark that promises stars?
interference/red noise of pre-sex a sonorous
breathy licking of licker he makes like a dragon
some beast deranged by a prolonged case of
blue balls
who is in my blood?
funny thing about lingoes
death is to be fluent in them all
Dream 1218
i snap out of my distraction and hurry from the
bus and
realize i overshot the melrose exit. it’s a cold
clear winter’s
night and i’m stranded on a Hollywood street corner
lights on
buildings and marquees make my eyes feel brand new
people are
going about their commerce, in and out of buildings
and numerous
construction sites. i’m freezing, no coat, and
anxious to
get home. i seek out a phone booth and begin dialing
frantic
actually i’m at a casual affair and am immensely
enjoying
my dance with a guinean gentleman. he is very polite
and makes no
moves. the music stops. he thanks me, then escorts me
over to a
quiet corner where he introduces me to a British
Shakespearian
actor. we begin chit-chat
still dialing i can’t get through i can’t get through
i’m tired
i want to go home and wonder how long it’ll take me to
hoof it
maybe twenty minutes. after a few persistent rings he
answers
sleepily distant. he’s been napping again, i think
angrily, then
ask him to come pick me up and he says, yeah, of course
where are you?
i look around for street signs and say, the corner of
Selma and
Hill. he doesn’t understand. “Where’s that?” i
repeat it
anxious over our apparent miscommunication. to
complicate
matters the vista begins to shift as i talk. suddenly i’m
at the
corner of Fountain and Nietzsche, then La Brea and Sunset
which is easy
for him to find. he yawns, “Okay” and i hang up, still
angry, waiting
i decide i may as well walk to keep warm and am suddenly
joined by the
British Shakespearian actor and Kat, my old runnin’ buddy
from twenty
years back. they appear out of thin air to accompany
me with chit-chat
and we’re suddenly home which is my parents’ house
Kat and the
actor bid me farewell and vanish as my lover comes
out on the
porch surprised to see me. i cuss him for not
coming to
pick me up. the car is still parked in the driveway
he has no
excuse and no apology
then we’re in the laundry alcove next to the washing
machine
which is rapidly filling with hot water. i’m preparing
the wash when
my lover comes over to kiss me. i attack him, knocking
him to the
floor with the weight of my body. i begin to bury him
head first
in his own pile of dirty shirts
i awake, my eyes focused on the levelor blinds. it is
raining. i
remember the letters i forgot to mail yesterday
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long straight hair that hangs to the small
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flies in autumnal wind. jostles
and bounces with each confident step
mirrors sunlight. the youthful stuff sonnets
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altho 72% of recently separated women will
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silk that hides the modest maidenly pubis
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a 46% remarriage rate for black women contrasted
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no kinky snarls
racial differences have been found before
but the reasons
are not understood
moon goddess/the less that is more
Neruda
few quiet hours
i spend them soaking in the tub with my neruda
in a dream a bearded moreno stranger
approaches me along a dark street in the plaza
as we pass he whispers hoarsely, “neruda”
on sunset boulevard a beggar accosts me
for spare change. i hand him my collected neruda
while my lover takes siesta i walk down to
the neighborhood bar for a game of pool solo. i order
dos besos. i put a quarter in the juke and notice
Wicked Enchantment Page 7
