American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin

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by Terrance Hayes


  The subject must speak as if he or she is witness

  To a story no one who has lived in the entire

  Tangled future & history of the world has told.

  What if it were possible to make a noise so lovely

  People would pay to hear it continuously for a century

  Or so. Unbelievably, Miles Davis & John Coltrane

  Standing within inches of each other didn’t explode.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  The song must be cultural, confessional, clear

  But not obvious. It must be full of compassion

  And crows bowing in a vulture’s shadow.

  The song must have six sides to it & a clamor

  Of voltas. The song must turn on the compass

  Of language like a tangle of wire endowed

  With feeling. The notes must tear & tear,

  There must be a love for the minute & minute,

  There must be a record of witness & daydream.

  Where the heart is torn or feathered & tarred,

  Where death is undone, time diminished,

  The song must hold its own storm & drum,

  And shed a noise so lovely it is sung at sunset

  Weddings, baptisms & beheadings henceforth.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  A remix of “Pony” by Ginuwine plays

  While half a dozen beautiful black men

  Strut onstage wearing translucent black

  Housecoats then pause with their backs

  To us before a slow twerking as half a dozen

  Beautiful black women walk onstage in sharp

  Alabaster tuxedoes and surgical masks

  But we can see the weeping inside them.

  A white audience member, it may be a man

  Or woman of any age, is invited up to crow

  In the middle of a circle the dancers make.

  I have sent tickets of this show to my white friend

  Who is determined to write about black people

  And to my black friends determined to police him.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  The umpteenth thump on the rump of a badunkadunk

  Stumps us. The lunk, the chump, the hunk of plunder.

  The umpteenth horny, honky stump speech pumps

  A funky rumble over air. The umpteenth slump

  In our humming democracy, a bumble bureaucracy

  With teeny tiny wings too small for its rumpled,

  Dumpling of a body. Humpty-Dumpy. Frumpy

  Suit. The umpteenth honk of hollow thunder.

  The umpteenth Believe me. The umpteenth grumpy,

  Jumpy retort. Chump change, casino game, tuxedo,

  Teeth bleach, stump speech. Junk science. Junk bond.

  Junk country, stump speech. The umpteenth boast

  Stumps our toe. The umpteenth falsehood stumps

  Our elbows & eyeballs, our Nos, Whoahs, wows, woes.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  Drive like fifteen miles along a national parkway

  Where the confederate statues have been painted

  White so often they will probably look like ghosts

  Or men covered in sheets at the speed you pass them.

  Join the bottleneck at the mouth of the tunnel running

  Beneath fathoms of the river. You may recall a bomb

  Was set off there some years ago: Caution tape,

  A rise in cargo takes, a till of bodies bobbed at the piers.

  How much have black people been paid for naming

  Emmett Till in poems? How much is owed? Never mind.

  Never fear, the tunnel under the uproarious river

  Around our lives has been repaired. When you exit,

  Take the second right toward the oldest part of town,

  You will find me bearing a sign on one of the corners there.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  After you turn off Shop Road where the flag leans

  Forward like an old goose contemplating her next step,

  Ride for another half hour or so beyond Bluff Estates,

  Star Light & Harlem Street to find inside

  What is Betty Joe’s Fish & Chicken Shack by day,

  A mobilized after hours juke joint full of the kinds

  Of dancers & drinkers, loners & lovers who have

  Probably never listened to a poem or banjo at length.

  In this we may be alike, Assassin, you & me: we believe

  We want what’s best for humanity. I’ll probably survive

  Dancing with the kinds of people who must find refuge

  Among the sweat & rancor of a Fish & Chicken Shack

  But Assassin, they’ll probably murder you. Do you ask,

  Why you should die for me if I will not die for you? I do.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  This one goes out to DeMascas Jackson,

  Who named his beloved pit bull “DeMarcus”

  Because he wanted a twin & named each part

  Of his body, “nigga”: his ten dirty danglers,

  His fifteen-year-old bully elbows & regions

  Of his mouth running between lunch & bells.

  “I bit that nigga,” he said once of his bitten lip

  Over cafeteria hair in a salad of withered lettuce

  And shaved carrots. When I called him “DeMarcus”

  In the heat of a game, “That’s my nigga,” he said

  Before shoving me into the same fence I’d stand at

  An hour later holding my father’s crippled pistol,

  With no bullets & no wooden handgrip, so I held

  A little frame of metal in my fist when I pointed it.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  Because a law was passed that said there was no worth

  To adjectives, companies began stringing superlatives

  Before unchanged products manufactured by men

  Who know how to make money, but nothing else.

  After a law was passed that said there was no worth

  To adjectives, the afflicted became addicted to property.

  Because they passed a law that said there was no worth

  To adjectives, all the news was as bilateral as a headline

  In the sand. A racehorse became a horse, a horse race

  Became a race. The race was made of various adverbs

  And adversaries. The relationship between future

  And pasture was lost. Because a law was passed,

  There was no worth to adjectives, there was no word

  For the part of the pasture between departure & the past.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  But there never was a black male hysteria

  Breaking & entering wearing glee & sadness

  And the light grazing my teeth with my lighter

  To the night with the flame like a blade cutting

  Me slack along the corridors with doors of offices

  Orifices vomiting tears & fire with my two tongues

  Loose & shooing under a high top of language

  In a layer of mischief so traumatized trauma

  Delighted me beneath the tremendous

  Stupendous horrendous undiscovered stars

  Burning where I didn’t know how to live

  My friends were all the wounded people

  The black girls who held their own hands

  Even the white boys who grew into assassins

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN
/>   Any day now you will have the ability to feed the name

  Of anyone into an engine & your long lost half brother

  As well as whoever else possesses a version of his name

  Will appear before your face in bits of pixels & data

  Displaying his monikers (like Gitmo for trapping, Bang

  Bang for banging, Dopamine for dope or brains),

  The country he would most like to visit (Heaven),

  His nine & middle finger pointing towards the arms

  Of the last trill trees of Bluff Estates & the arms

  Of the slim fly girls the color of trees cut down & shaped

  Into something a nail penetrates. I admit, right now:

  Technology is insufficient, but you will find them

  Flashing grins & money in the photos they took

  Before they were ghosts when you click here tomorrow.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  This word can be the difference between knowing

  And thinking. It’s the name people of color call

  Themselves on weekends & the name colorful

  People call their enemies & friends. It used to be

  The word for the absence of inheritance. Before that

  It was the word for the feel of burlap. When Lincoln

  Witnessed a slave auction in his boyhood, it was

  The first word to enter his mind. Before it evoked

  A kind of bewildering mothering, it evoked Job’s

  Afro silvering with suffering. It is the difference

  Between cursive, tantrum, assault & pepper spray.

  It is the title of that absurd three-act play

  Where the actors say nothing but “Who can say”

  And who can say “Who can say” for two hours straight.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  Why someone would crowd into a church is beyond me.

  I would remodel Alabama. Why there is a science

  For God is beyond me the way the word wallop

  Is beyond me. And when my id is arrested, I am usually

  Thinking of the tragi-comic implications of the word

  Mall & eyeballing midriffs. Why youth seems to be

  My only requisite for beauty now is beyond me.

  The interiors of the words botox & toy box are beyond me too.

  History is beyond me. I will need a black suit & umbrella now.

  The carpet along the aisles will be so thick, our shoes

  Will never touch the floor. Limousines tinted with flowers

  Will be parked in front of the church. Ma will say “Good God,

  Good God,” dipping money in her eyes. But why

  Give God your money? Why give good money to Death?

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  From now on I will do my laundry early Sunday

  Mornings when all the young tenants are hung-

  Over or worn out, all the old people in church,

  And the elementary parents parked at playgrounds

  With their children inside the “Play At Your Own

  Risk” sign on the fence. I tried to tell the woman

  Who sent me songs, it’s departure that makes company

  Hard to master. I tried to tell her I’m a muser, a miser

  With time. I love poems more than money & pussy.

  From now on I will eat brunch alone. I believe

  Eurydice is actually the poet, not Orpheus. Her muse

  Has his back to her with his ear bent to his own heart.

  As if what you learn making love to yourself matters

  More than what you learn when loving someone else.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  Otherwise home is the mess laid bare,

  The less made air, the addressless there

  Less clear, where the wax in my left ear makes

  Half of what’s said unsaid, on the air the mute

  Newshounds ponder the tweets of a bullhorn,

  A rat in the cabinet beside the liquor. Anger

  Is a form of heartbreak, yes it is. If you can

  Give the world half of what Nina Simone gave it,

  You will have lived an exceptional life. All you

  Have to say is, tomorrow you’ll try to be better.

  Like a mother lovingly calling her son, a son

  Of a bitch. My lover never believed I held a gun

  In my mouth. So I talk to myself like a witness.

  I’d mutter whatever, whatever forever otherwise.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  I thought we might as well sing the fables of sea

  To fill our mouths before sailing out to whale.

  I thought we might sing as well of the feeling

  Of sea moving about the whale like a coat.

  The color of water is always the temperature

  Of a mirror. I thought we might drown

  Our reflections in a swaying like our songs

  Of mother wit & mother woe, our toasts

  With the water a deep dark blue, an almost

  Indigo we paled from the well before sail.

  Whale-road is a kenning for sea. Time-machine

  Is a kenning for the mind. Alive is a kenning

  For the electrified. I thought we might sing

  Of the wire wound round the wound of feeling.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  I’d played silence but later realized my word

  Of the year was quiet. Especially the chasm

  Of quiet in cataclysm, one of those scrabble words

  Played but once or twice in a life. Maybe scrabble

  Is a portmanteau of scream & babble or scrap

  And bramble. Sometimes it is best to sting,

  Sometimes it’s better to scramble away. Sometimes

  Is a good answer to any existential question.

  Moving through the tangle of bramble on your way

  To scrap with Death at the pier, remember to sing

  A battle song. The one I’ve prepared goes this way:

  Come & meet me in the water, swim the twilight by & by.

  Come meet me in the water, swim the mirror of the skies

  Come & meet me in the water by & by. I sing it every day.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  Suppose you could speak nothing but money

  And acrimony. Suppose all the sunflowers

  Van Gogh destroyed, all the stones in Virginia’s

  Pockets & all the stones Georgia painted as vaginas

  Were simply a matter of making something greater

  Than money. Prince taught us a real man has

  A beautiful woman in him. Suppose we cannot

  Forget what happened in Money. Suppose

  You’re someone who celebrates Thomas Jefferson’s

  Birthday. Suppose he was someone whose love

  For a black woman was blinded by blackness,

  Hers & his, yours & mine. I ain’t mad at you,

  Assassin. It’s not the bad people who are brave

  I fear, it’s the good people who are afraid.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  One of the most amazing things about me is

  I know how to cut my own hair. I learned to do it

  After my father moved away. So I’ve done it

  For years, traced the shape of my thinking

  With a motor blade to rewrite the hairline

  A punctuated sentence, a handful of verbiage,

  I could offer a poem for each cli
ppered hair

  And the mole behind my ear & the line I fear

  Above my nape, the rope burn there, the wish

  To snip the jugular is simple fear, I wish to remain

  Here where you will love me simply because

  Of what I say: one of the most amazing things

  About me is: I know how to cut my own hair.

  I learned to do it after my father moved away.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  My mother says I am beautiful inside

  And out. But my lover never believed it.

  My lover never believed I held her name

  In my mouth. My mother calls me her silver

  Bullet. Her mercy pill, the metal along her spine.

  I am my mother’s bewildered shadow.

  My lover’s bewildering shadow is mine.

  I have wept listening to a terrible bewildering

  Music break over & through & break down

  A black woman’s voice. I talk to myself

  Like her sister. Assassin, you are a mystery

  To me, I say to my reflection sometimes.

  You are beautiful because of your sadness, but

  You would be more beautiful without your fear.

  AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN

  A brother versed in spiritual calisthenics

  And cowboy quiet seeks funny, lonesome,

  Speculative or eye-glassed lass. Shopaholics

  Welcomed. Also Prince fanatics, museum

  Cashiers, & pragmatists conversant (lipstick

  Or no lipstick) with a hipness substantial

  Enough to contract around a muscle as well

  As expand around a child. Fear of boredom is ideal.

  Fear of dereliction is okay. Love for the willy-nilly

  And Willie Nelson, welcomed. Crushes, depressions,

  And unsightly hesitations are okay. Must freely

  Expend humor & grace. Amid long Sundays,

  Long drives, long movies, & school conferences,

  Occasional acts of disregard or guardedness are okay.

 

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