| Waking It is somewhere in the darkness between dreams and dread of waking in the folds of gray sheets once white and crisp. A thought descends like bad breath or a storm rolling over hills and mountains before coming to rest in the valley of dreams simultaneously terrifying and sweet. Incessant clanging of alarm clock cymbals, vapid brass hats brought to life by the unwinding of the spring wrapped around his ankles yanking him out of bed to dangle over the window ledge of the third floor tenement that overlooks the glistening streets after a fleeting, sleazy New York winter rain. A brother nods below against a yellow Coupe de Ville with twenty tickets in the windshield, three flat tires, one hubcap and a mangy kitten sleeping on a bed of pearls of broken glass on the dashboard. It is almost time for another shift at the factory. He bends to kiss his daughter's fat belly between the Huggies and nightshirt with the picture of Nelson Mandela. The room fills with stars. If miracles such as she can be then others are there for the dreaming. There is slight movement underneath the sheets in the other corner of the room followed by a hoarse and barely audible "bye baby" before the snoring resumes. There is rumbling in the street, the yellow Coupe de Ville is moving, the once-nodding brother is driving, the cat jumps into the passenger seat and sticks her head out the window like a dog and yells, "c'mon or you'll be late for work." I guess magic is where you find it. Lines from an Unwritten Play There are no good times or bad times in this place Just times we laugh and times we cry Giving thanks for river views from cells of rooms Behind steel project doors painted green and Peep holes that shrink the terror on the other side Garbage shafts with hellish flames outside the A apartments Tile floors polished slick with bacon grease, eggshells, beans and rice Reminders that our lives are not unlike the stuff that feeds the incinerator shaft As "Pick Up the Pieces" blares from two apartments at the same time With a whisper of a Mongo Santamaria tune three floors above I smile as though long fingers reach inside to move my mouth I drink gin to feel the burn, smoke Kools to see my breath In these not-so-grand canyon-projects of Jacob Riis, Cabrini Green, Henry Horner and Robert Taylor before they tore them down Hi-rise experiments in subsistence with storybook names With gardens and lakes in them When there ain't no gardens or lakes for miles around Hey brother, want to buy a Rolex or some train tokens? I hope I find a job tomorrow My kid has grown tired of tales of Huey Newton and Kathleen Cleaver My black beret crumpled and dusty on the floor Next to a book by Frantz Fanon and a broken Gil Scot-Heron record Ode to Arrogance You said whatever you wanted to say Did whatever you wanted to do Since you set foot on stolen, blood-drenched land Way back before you could remember In the way people usually think about remembering Impunity was your birthright Firing will reap even more money and power Consequences for you are different than pay-back for me But a tamper-proof reckoning is imminent In fact, it has already happened Just waiting for you to see it In non-linear time It's Just That I'm Tired I'm tired of telling you my stories Then having you prance away As though you understand Scathed only temporarily By truths that will Fade away with the Next review of your stock portfolio Handed to you at birth by your great-granddaddy With my grandfather's tears as the watermark I'm tired of your fingers on my sleeve As you tell me how badly you feel For the horrors imposed on my people By your people long before your birth, and I say to keep your bad feelings to yourself Because I have enough of my own I get nauseous from hearing Stories about the black guy you knew Who kept his yard so clean Who planted pretty flowers Who had such smart children Who served in the Army with you Who served in the Marines with you Who served in the Airforce with you Who served in the Navy with you During some war or other How brave he was How crisp he kept the crease in his pants How he should have been an officer How you would have served under him proudly Except the officer was you Must be related to the guy Who was such a good farmer Such a good writer Such a sentient human being Such a peaceful person Such a wise person Such a caring person Such an intelligent person Such a conscientious person Such a trustworthy person Such a kind person I am tired of hearing You say that you didn't know how it was and Your self-flagellations with whips made of feathers I am tired of hearing about the few instances When you felt out of place In France because you mispronounced words In the housing projects the day you visited with your sociology class At Beneatha's parent's house the Thanksgiving she took you home and You tasted your first sweet potato pie Do you expect me to believe that you were unaware That somebody else paid for your privilege? Did you honestly believe that the collective grimace On faces that resemble mine were due to mass indigestion? Congratulations on your emerging conscience Let me know when you are done unraveling and Then, maybe, we can have a conversation Maybe Don't take it personally It's just that I'm tired |
| Simple things: Poetry by Lang Kenneth Haynes |
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