Wake to find everything black
what was white, all the vice
versa—white maids on TV, black
sitcoms that star white dwarfs
cute as pearl buttons. Black Presidents,
Black Houses. White horse
candidates. All bleach burns
clothes black. Drive roads
white as you are, white songs
on the radio stolen by black bands
like secret pancake recipes, white back-up
singers, ball-players & boxers all
white as tar. Feathers on chickens
dark as everything, boiling in the pot
that called the kettle honky. Even
whites of the eye turn dark, pupils
clear & changing as a cat’s.
Is this what we’ve wanted
& waited for? to see snow
covering everything black
as Christmas, dark pages written
white upon? All our eclipses bright,
dark stars shooting across pale
sky, glowing like ash in fire, shower
every skin. Only money keeps
green, still grows & burns like grass
under dark daylight.
Candid, Warhol
scoffed, coined it
a nigger’s loft—
not The Factory,
Basquiat’s studio stood
anything but lofty—
skid rows of canvases,
paint peeling like bananas,
scabs. Bartering work
for horse, Basquiat churned
out butter, signing each
SAMO©. Sameold. Sambo’s
soup. How to sell out
something bankrupt
already? How to copy
rights? Basquiat stripped
labels, opened & ate
alphabets, chicken
& noodle. Not even brown
broth left beneath, not one
black bean, he smacked
the very bottom, scraping
the uncanny, making
a tin thing sing.
Such church hurts—
all haloes, crowns,
coins ancient,
flattened. Cross-
roads. Money changes
hands stained
like glass. Mirror,
mirage—the dog
a praying mantis at his
feet. Basquiat eyes
the needle, needs
a fix—if the camel fits—
heaven. Gimme
some smack
or I’ll smack
you back. Which side
should he pierce,
where to place
the dromedary
in his vein? Each opening
fills with wine
a wound. Hollowed
ground. Blood
of our blood—
Basquiat trades
Golgotha, skulls
& all, for an armful
of stigmata.
Runs a game,
plays snakes
& ladders, shooting
up. SAMO says: IF SOMEONE
SMITES YOU, TURN
THE OTHER FACE.
Even falling
has its grace—injection
& genuflection
both bring you
to your knees,
make you prey.
Crashing
again—Basquiat
sends fenders
& letters headlong
into each other,
the future. Fusion.
AAAAAAAAAAA.
Big Bang. The Big
Apple, Atom’s,
behind him—
no sirens
in sight. His career
of careening
since—at six—
playing stickball
a car stole
his spleen. Blind
sided. Move
along folks—nothing
to see here. Driven,
does two Caddys
colliding, biting
the dust he’s begun
to snort. Hit
& run. Red
Cross—the pill-pale
ambulance, inside
out, he hitched
to the hospital.
Joy ride. Hot
wired. O the rush
before the wreck—
each Cadillac
a Titanic,
an iceberg that’s met
its match—cabin
flooded
like an engine,
drawing even
dark Shine
from below deck.
FLATS FIX. Chop
shop. Body work
while-u-wait. In situ
the spleen
or lien, anterior view—
removed. Given
Gray’s Anatomy
by his mother for recovery—
151. Reflexion of spleen
turned forwards
& to the right, like
pages of a book—
Basquiat pulled
into orbit
with tide, the moon
gold as a tooth,
a hubcap gleaming,
gleaned—Shine
swimming for land,
somewhere solid
to spin his own obit.
The trees told nobody
what, that day, we did—
we died. Laid down
with our cans
of deviled
ham & closed
our eyes—two
valises full
of Van Camp’s
Pork & Beans—
the city an idea
shining far behind—
& we were not afraid
just terrified
of bears, of basic
black—the night—
white hunters
with their plaid
& pop-guns—
sleep was our bag—
a body—we began
to crave our beds
even empty & unmade
as a mind—
the silence & sounds
of nature scared us—
WORLD WORLD
FAMOUS—
EST 1897
COTTON,
SLAVES, IN MAY A
DERANGED—
this Indian
land given
no heed, taken
back & turned to park—
BEEF PORK SALT
WATER CORN
SYRUP SOLIDS
guns loaded
like a question,
aimed—imagine—
shhhh—be vewy
vewy quiet, we’re
hunting wabbits—
DARWIN.
ALLAH. BUDDHA.
BLUE RIBBON.
MALCOLM X
VS. AL JOLSON—
whistling Dixie,
we pack up
like meat—ACME—
to the city—
Grace—that’s Miss
Jones to you—
done up
like the devil, old
Kali. Collared,
leopard
skinned—crouched
in a cage
her white photographer
& husband, placed
her in. Big
game. THE MOST
AMAZING DEVELOPMENT
IN SOAP
HISTORY. Butcher,
Maker, Josephine Baker
walked her leopards,
leashed, down
the Champs-Elysées
head high. KINGFISH.
SAPPHIRE. I’m not
perfect
but I’m perfect
for you—keeping
up, Jones goes
wild like a card.
Spade. THEM
SHOVELS. Joker,
queen, deuce
deuce—face
painted blue
by Warhol, her body
done in
white by Haring—
same as Bill T
Jones (no reln)
his cock striped
white, skunked.
Vein.
What a doll—
she wants to wear
Haring’s radiant
babies, pale crosses,
tribal headdress
& all, to the ball. Little
else. Cinder-
ella has nothing
on Grace—
NO SUH
NO SUH
princess
& step-
sister rolled
into one. IL FOOL.
SLOGAN.
If the soft
shoe fits…
Diva, devil
may care—
she’s riding high
as fashion. Love
is the drug
& she’s here
to score.
Slave
to the rhythm, rinse
—repeat—WHITE
WSHING ACTION—
JACK JOHNSON
1982, acrylic & oil paintstick on canvas
Jack decided that being a painter was less of a vocation than he had supposed. He would be a boxer instead. He had the punch; he had the speed; he was capable of moving half a second before trouble arrived in his neck of the woods.
{ DENZIL BATCHELOR }
Jack Johnson & His Times
BLACK JACK { B. 31 MARCH 1878 }
Some call me spade,
stud, buck, black. That last
I take as compliment—
“I am black & they
won’t let me forget it.”
I’m Jack
to my friends, Lil’
Arthur—like that King
of England—to my mama.
Since I got crowned champ
most white folks would love
to see me whupped.
They call me dog, cad
or card, then bet
on me to win. I’m still
an ace & the whole
world knows it. Don’t
mean most don’t want
me done in. But I got words
for them too—when I’m through
most chumps wish
they were counting
cash instead
of sheep, stars. I deal
blows like cards—
one round, twenty
rounds, more. “I’m black all
right & I’ll never let them
forget it.” Stepping
to me, in or out
the ring, you gamble—
go head then dealer,
hit me again.
And there had come into prominence a huge negro, Jack Johnson, who was anxious to fight Burns. In England we had hitherto heard very little of Johnson. He was three years older than the white champion, stood 6 feet and one-half inch, and weighed 15 stone. He appears to have started his career in 1899, and from that year down to December, 1908, when he finally succeeded in getting a match with Burns, he had fought sixty-five contests, half of which he won by means of a knockout.…He was very strong, very quick, a hard hitter, and extraordinarily skilful in defence. He was by no means unintelligent, and not without good reason, was regarded generally with the greatest possible dislike. With money in his pocket and physical triumph over white men in his heart, he displayed all the gross and overbearing insolence which makes what we call the buck nigger insufferable.
—BOHUN LYNCH
Knuckles & Gloves, 1923
THE UPSET { 26 DECEMBER 1908 }
“Who told
you I was yellow?”
I wanted to know
taunted—“Come
& get it
Lil Tahmy”
in my best English
accent, inviting
Burns to dodge
my fists the way
he’d avoided me,
running
farther—Britain
France—than
that kangaroo
I once bet I could
outdistance & did.
Chased down
to Sydney
Stadium, now was nowhere
to go—no more
color line to hide
behind, no lies bout
my coward streak—
I will bet a few plunks
the colored man
will not make good!
That I wasn’t game.
Baited him
like a race—first
round he fell
with his odds,
favored. By two
all bets were even
& I made him pay—drew
blood—pounded
his face into morse, worse
than what Old Teddy
Roosevelt could stand
to hear over the wire. Bully.
“You’re white, dead
scared white
as the flag of surrender.
You like to eat
leather?” By twelve I bet
he wished
he was still
at sea, had stayed Noah
Brusso, not Burns
trapped in Rushcutters Bay
about to be smoked
like my finest
cigar. “Didn’t
they tell us this
boy was an in-
fighter?”
By thirteen
rounds he bites
luck & dust—
the police
rush in like fools,
angels, afraid
for both of us
treading this ring
like water,
my wide wake.
There is no use minimizing Johnson’s victory in order to soothe Burn’s feelings. It is part of the game to take punishment in the ring, and it is just as much part of the game to take unbiased criticism afterwards in the columns of the Press. Personally I was with Burns all the way. He is a white man, and so am I. Naturally I wanted to see the white man win.
—JACK LONDON
Jack London Reports
THE CROWN { 4 JULY 1910 }
In order to take
away my title
Jeffries—Great White
Hope—emerged
like a whale, lost
weight, spouted
steam. Said Negroes
have a soft spot
in our bellies
that only needs
finding. Bull’s
eye. He refused
our pre-fight shake—
my eyes clear
like the time, years
later, I saw Rasputin
at the Czar’s Palace
weeks before the Reds
stormed in, & knew that big
man—whom no one could
outdrink or talk—was grand
but finished. Heard
it took five tries
—poison, stabbing, more—
before he went at last
under. Jeffries was cash
by round one. Fresh
from his alfalfa
farm retirement,
only he was fool
or good enough
to challenge me, stage
a bit of revolution—
the Whites
couldn’t have
me running
their show, much less
own the crown.
Called for my head.
“Devoutly hope
I didn’t happen
to hurt you, Jeff”—
my fists harpoons,
hammers of John
Henry gainst
that gray engine
—I think I can—
steaming. Stood
whenever in my corner
facing the sun
after giving him
the shady one.
My trunks navy
blue as Reno
sky, Old Glory
lashed through
the loops—that Independence
Day, despite warning
shots & death threats
before the match,
I lit Jeffries like black
powder, a fire
cracker—
on a breakfast
of 4 lamb cutlets,
3 eggs, some steak
beat him till he
hugged me
those last rounds
& I put him
out his misery.
You could hear the riots
already—from Fort
Worth & Norfolk,
Roanoke to New
York, mobs
gather, turning
Main Street into a main
event, pummeling
any black cat
who crosses
their paths.
Neck tie
parties—cutting
another grin
below any raised
Negro chins—
JOHNSON WINS
WHITES LYNCH
70 ARRESTED
BALTIMORE
OMAHA NEGRO
KILLED—
all because I kept
their hope
on the ropes. His face
like newsprint
bruised. On account
of my coal-fed heart—
caboose red
& bright
as his—what wouldn’t give.
Amaze an’ Grace, how sweet it sounds,
Jack Johnson knocked Jim Jeffries down.
Jim Jeffries jumped up an’ hit Jack on the chin.
An’ then Jack knocked him down agin.
The Yankees hold the play,
The white man pull the trigger;
But it makes no difference what the white man say,
The world champion’s still a nigger.
—TRADITIONAL
THE RING { 13 MAY 1913 }
The bed is just
another ring I’d beat
them white boys in—
double, four
poster, queen.
I’d go the rounds
with girls who begged
to rub my head
cause it was clean
shaven, polished.
Said it felt like billiards
to them, bald
black. Balling
was fine, but once
I began to knock out
their men & sweep
the women off their feet
—even bought one a ring—
well, that was too much.
When I exchanged vows
with my second wife
—before God & everyone—
they swore I’d pay. Few
could touch me anyway,
what did I care. Later
when she did herself in
in our bed, I knew
—sure as standing—
they’d pushed her
to the edge. After
I mourned & met
my next love
& wife—my mama,
Tiny, said
little but worry—
they trumped
up charges, 11 counts
of the Mann Act
so I couldn’t fight. My dice
role came up thirteen—
a baker’s dozen
of prostitution & white
slavery—a white jury
after one hour found me
guilty of crimes
versus nature. Put
me through the ringer.
Nigras, you see, ain’t
supposed to have brains
or bodies, our heads just
a bag to punch. But I beat
the rap without fists—
disguised as a Black
Giant, I swapped
gloves—boxing
for baseball—traded
prison stripes for Rube
Foster’s wool
uniform. Smuggled
north into Canada
like chattel, we sailed
the Corinthian
for England, staying below
deck. Fair France
greeted me with a force
of police—turns out to tame
the cheering crowds—
granted me amnesty,
let me keep my hide
whether world
champ, con, or stripped
like my crown.
Jack Johnson’s case will be settled in due time in the courts. Until the court has spoken, I do not care to either defend or condemn him. I can only say at this time, that this is another illustration of the most irreparable injury that a wrong action on the part of a single individual may do to a whole race. It shows the folly of those who think that they alone will be held responsible for the evil that they do. Especially is this true in the case of the Negro in the United States today. No one can do so much injury to the Negro race as the Negro himself. This will seem to many persons unjust, but no one can doubt that it is true.
What makes the situation seem a little worse in this case, is the fact that it was the white man, not the black man who has given Jack Johnson the kind of prominence he has enjoyed up to now and put him, in other words, in a position where he has been able to bring humiliation upon the whole race of which he is a member.
—BOOKER T. WASHINGTON
for United Press Association
23 October 1912
Some pretend to object to Mr. Johnson’s character. But we have yet to hear, in the case of white America, that marital troubles have disqualified prizefighters or ball players or even statesmen. It comes down then, after all, to this unforgiveable blackness. Wherefore we conclude that at present prizefighting is very, very immoral, and that we must rely on football and war for pastimes until Mr. Johnson retires or permits himself to be “knocked out.”
—W. E. B. DU BOIS
Crisis, August 1914
THE FIX { 5 APRIL 1915 }
That fight with Willard was a fix
not a faceoff. Out of the ring
three years, jonesing
for the States, I struck a deal
to beat the Mann
Act—one taste of mat
& I’d get
let back home.
But I even told
my mama—
Tiny,
Bet on me.
Once in the bout—run out
of Mexico by Pancho
Villa himself—I fought that fix
the way, years back, Ketchel
knocked me down
even after we’d shook
& agreed I’d take the fall
if he carried me
the rounds without trying
to KO—crossed,
doubled
over, I stood up & broke
his teeth like
a promise. At the root.
On the canvas
they shined, white
as a lie. But with Willard
that spring, each punch
was a sucker, every round
a gun. Loaded. Still
I fixed him—strung
him along the ropes
for twenty-five
rounds. At twenty-six
the alphabet in my head
gave way—saw
my wife take the take,
count our fifty grand
& leave. Did the dive,
shielding my eyes—
not so much from Havana
heat—its reek my favorite
cigar—as from the ref’s count.
Down, I counted too, blessings
instead of bets. Stretched
there on the canvas
—a masterpiece—stripped
of my title, primed
to return to the States.
Saved. Best
believe I stood up
smiling.
If you tonight suddenly should become full-fledged Americans; if your color faded, or the color line here in Chicago was miraculously forgotten: suppose, too, you became at the same time rich and powerful;—what is it that you would want? What would you immediately seek? Would you buy the most powerful of motor cars and outrace Cook County? Would you buy the most elaborate estate on the North Shore? Would you be a Rotarian or a lion or a What-not of the very last degree? Would you wear the most striking clothes, give the richest dinners and buy the longest press notices?
—W. E. B. DU BOIS
Criteria of Negro Art
EXHIBITIONS
Ticker tape rain
up in Harlem—
my welcome
felt like freedom
after the tuck-tail
of jail. The day’s news
tossed at my feet
the stocks
bonds. Outside
I toured my bass
viol, upright,
playing by ear—wrestling
pythons—selling
ointments & appearances.
Even spoke to a klavern
of Ku Klux
on the golden rule.
Their ovation after
sounded like Spain
& France, the crowds
who applauded
when I fought foes
who never stood
a ghost
of a chance—Arthur Craven
poet & pugilist—
or 2 horses, charging,
held by my arms
padded, wrapped in steel
locks. With Paris
showgirls I showed
off my strength, hoisted
three at a time
over my rotting
smile. But polite
as she was Europa kept me
under her opera
glass—no surprise
a zeppelin only I could see
pursued me across London
with my white
Benz & wife
once the Great War
began. Between
sparring & bull
fights & my show
Seconds Out!
I offered to spy
for the States—or the highest
bidder—but the Continent kept on
serving me orders
to leave. Eviction.
Exile. I tired. Double
agent, ex-con
artist, champ
no longer, I retired
to the States that had tried
blindsiding me like my first
fight against the Giant
at the carny—come one
come all—pay
a worn nickel, win $5
—a fortune—if you last
3 rds. Still standing
by the 2d, I was
guided by the Giant
towards the tent
& his rube waiting
with a blackjack
—I put an end
to that. Quick. Left
his eye dark. Left
town to my own
applause
the way in ’fifteen
when Moran got a good one
in—though not
his Old Mary—
I clapped with my leather mitts
—congrats—
before—left arm broken—
my right broke his nose.
Freed, I had a fancy
to play Othello
—took a fourth
wife, white
—ended up
in film False Nobility
rolling my eyes
like cigars. I star
now in Aida as an Ethiopian
King. They have me
like Selassie, decked
out in skins. In stills
I bow—awkward—
to a blackface queen.
Do they put you
in chains?
“If they can get them
on me, okay & good,
but I got to show up
well—can’t be
a ninny.” Do you yet
know your fate?
“They take me up
to Memphis—not
Tenn., but the old
country—a prisoner. Boy,
I mean to struggle plenty.”
It was on a hot day in Georgia when Jack Johnson drove into town. He was really flying: Zoooom! Behind his fine car was a cloud of red Georgia dust as far as the eye could see. The sheriff flagged him down and said, “Where do you think you’re going, boy, speeding like that? That’ll cost you $50!” Jack Johnson never looked up; he just reached in his pocket and handed the sheriff a $100 bill and started to gun the motor: ruuummm, ruummm. Just before Jack pulled off, the sheriff shouted, “Don’t you want your change?” And Jack replied, “Keep it, ’cause I’m coming back the same way I’m going.”
—WILLIAM H. WIGGINS, JR.
The Black Scholar
THE RACE { D. 10 JUNE 1945 }
Always was
ahead
of myself
my time.
Despised
by whites
& blacks alike
just cause
I didn’t act right.
Gave Negroes
a bad name—
shame. Was
always a swinger
a fast talker—
my rights
the kind that broke
men’s jaws.
Bigot laws.
Only good
Negro is dead
broke—if only you’d
bought less
cigars, suits
—they say—spent less
time chasing
ladies, racing
cars, goggles on
as if an aviator—
back when most
white men walked, not
to mention us. Some
nervous coloreds
half-hoped
I’d lose
so’s not to prove
their race
superior
then act
like it—or not—
or out—or up-
pity, whatever
that means. The man
on the street
knows who
I am—no one’s
Numidian, long
lost Caucasian
as whites claimed
once I won. I am pure
Caromontee stock.
Big bucks. I spent
my life fighting—
crossing color
lines I never drew
up, dreamt. I put
the race on
check—track—no Jack,
no Joe
Louis. My arms still
too short to go
gainst God—
on this last
road, old,
I will
speed, heading
not home
but to another
show & pot
of gold—too late
to see the truck
carrying what—
swerve—
“Remember
I was a man,
& a good one”—
in hospital
interns will think me
another fancy—
only the older doctor
shall know me—dying—
my Zephyr hugging
like an opponent
in the last round
this pole
of power—utility—
my black body
thrown free—
Basquiat paints
the town. PAW.
BWANA. SEVEN
STARS. Night
life—star-struck
Basquiat’s arrived,
brought Toxic
& Rammellzee along
for the ride. Our trio
stomping new
ground—shaky,
kept. Hills,
that is—black
gold, Texas tea—
out west
Basquiat burns
his canvas ochre,
this trinity thin
as their ties. Hip
hop hippity hop—
Sunset Blvd
Walk of the Stars,
streets stretched
like limos. B
at last in the black,
dines out at Mr. Chow’s.
IDI AMIN. 200 YEN.
Put it on his tab—
trading meals
for canvases free
loaded with msgs,
HERO-ISM.
TOBACCO in purple,
palimpsest. Toxic
& RMLZ cool, eyes
shaded by goggles,
hats with zs. Snores
ville. GANGSTERISM.
SELF-PORTRAIT
AS A HEEL #3. Hail,
hail, the gang’s all
heels—no winners
or winters, just
wanderlust
amongst Oscars®
& MOVIE STAR
FOOTPRINTS
like an astronaut’s.
Rock rock planet rock
don’t stop—POP
CORN—SUGAR
CANE. Academy
Mammy Award
& another for Butler,
Rhett—To the moon
Jemima—PAW—
Basquiat rockets
NEW!—hands pressed
fresh into pavement,
permanent as a rap
sheet, booked.
ONION GUM
MAKES YOUR
MOUTH TASTE
LIKE ONIONS
ONION GUM
MAKES YR MOUTH
TASTE LIKE ONIONS
INGREDIENTS:
ENRICHED FLOUR
Bunion gum makes
your mouth taste
like bunions
Bunion gum makes
your feet taste
like bunions
NIACIN, REDUCED IRON
Union gum
makes your
mouth taste
like Lincoln
Union gum
makes your mouth
head south
RIBOFLAVIN
engine engine
Injun gum
makes your
mouth taste
tobacco Injun
gum makes your
mouth taste
lottery
union gun
onion gun
Ink gum
makes your
mouth taste
calamari
Ink gum
makes your
mouth turn
negro
cuttle gum
colored gum
Bubble gum
makes yr mouth
pink & sore
Bubble gum
makes yr mouth
blow sugar
über gum
bazooka gum
THIAMINE
MONONITRATE
MADE IN JAPAN©
Redhot gum
makes yr mouth
taste like pepper
Redhot gum
makes yr mouth
taste like love
SNAKE
SERPENT
“HARMLSS”
ur-gum
anti-gum
ONION GUM
MAKES YR MOUTH
TASTE LIKE
ONIONS ONION
GUM MAKES
YOUR MOUTH
TASTE LK ONIONS
LANGSTON HUGHES
LANGSTON HUGHES
O come now
& sang
them weary blues—
Been tired here
feelin low down
Real
tired here
since you quit town
Our ears no longer trumpets
Our mouths no more bells
FAMOUS POET©—
Busboy—Do tell
us of hell—
Mr Shakespeare in Harlem
Mr Theme for English B
Preach on
kind sir
of death, if it please—
We got no more promise
We only got ain’t
Let us in
on how
you ’came a saint
LANGSTON
LANGSTON
LANGSTON HUGHES
Won’t you send
all heaven’s news
For Prestige
Bird records
a few sides
(for contract
reasons) as Mr Charlie
Chan—no matter
the name his blues
sound the same,
same alto blaring
ALCHEMY,
licks exotic
as Charlie Chan
in Black Magic—
Chan’s dark sidekick
Birmingham Brown
(a.k.a. Man-
tan Moreland)
seeing ghosts,
fleeing. Feets
do yo stuff—
THRIVING ON A RIFF,
Bird on a run
(in one place)
eyes bugged out
blowing
like Gabriel.
Solos snorted—
in one nose
& out the other.
Gone. Number one
son—don’t they know
Charlie Chan
is a white man?
Fu Manchu too.
(Bless you.)
Parker play
your horn, not
no coon
no coolie in a white
suit. Bird’s shot
his way to the top—
made a fist, tied off
& caught
the first vein
out of town.
Laying tracks—
NOWS THE TIME
NOWS THE TIME
BIRD GETS THE WORM—
Now dig
this—Basquiat
lit, lidded, does
a gravestone—
CPRKR
in the Stan-
hope Hotel,
the one Bird bit
the dust in (ON AIR)
high. TEETH.
HALOES
FIFTY NINE CENT.
Who knew how well
Basquiat would follow—
feet (six deep) first.
Lady sings
the blues
the reds, whatever
she can find—
short
changed, a chord—
God bless
the child
that’s got his own
& won’t mind
sharing some—
“BILLIES BOUNCE”
“BILLIES BOUNCE”
Miss Holiday’s up
on four counts
of possession, three-
fifths, the law
—locked up—
licked—the salt
the boot—refused
a chance to belt
tunes in the clubs—
ex-con. Man,
she got it
bad—Brother
can you spare
a dime
bag? MEANDERING
WARMING UP
A RIFF—
she’s all scat,
waxing—
SIDE A
SIDE B
OOH
SHOO DE
OBEE—
detoxed, thawed
in time
for Thanksgiving—live
as ammo, smoking
—NOV. 26 1945—
Day cold as turkey—
Behind his father’s house,
woodshedding—
head burning
TIN LEAD
ASBESTOS
like a conk—
THERE’S A RAINBOW ROUND
MY SHOULDER
THERE’S A SMALL HOTEL
THINGS AREN’T WHAT
USED TO BE
THINGS TO COME—
locked in—
trying to kick
what’s boiled
his veins—
SERUM CHOLESTOROL
CRUEL AZTEC GODS
HORSE PILL.
He’s turned himself in
side out, traded cool
for cold
turkey, sweats.
1. A DRUNK
2. A LIAR
He’s rid
of his reeds
like Moses in the bulrush
discovered, cover blown,
made a stepchild
adopted. TORY
TONCILLECTOMY
TOO BAD.
Left
in the dark
for days, visions—
THERE’S A FLATFOOT FOLLOWING ME
LINKY HE’S JUST
AROUND THE CORNER
GO GIVE HIM THE
ONE TWO.
Here, outside Saint
Louis, far
3. UNINHABITED BY WHITE MEN
from the scales
he climbs, sheds
like skin—
HORSE RACE TRACK©—
He’s laid out
like a bet,
father
-ing himself—
giving birth to God
in a toolshed—
TRUMPET PLAYERS LAMENT, THE
UP AND ATOM
UPTOWN BLUES
US ON A BUS
CACTUS
CACTUS
Removed this stabbing
from his skin slow
as spit. Valve.
Heart.
A PISTOL VERSUS
A DINO
SAUR. He’ll exit
3 days later
a new
known man—
clean. VI VIGOR
VO-DO-DO-DO-DE-O BLUES
WAITER AND THE PORTER
AND THE UPSTAIRS MAID
WATCH OUT (WATCHA TRYIN TO DO)—
His voice forever
hoarse, from one day
too soon after surgery
hollering
like a horn—WA WA WA
WELL GIT IT.
WE SHALL OVERCOME.
WELL YOU NEED’NT.
2005
Doesn’t everyone die
a dozen
times, ready
or not? ZLONK!
KAPOW! @;#$%*!?!
The cancer
slow, or sudden
as heart’s failure—
desire desire—whether
suicide or mass
murder, we all
share final
breath. Rites.
Residuals.
To the Batetcetera
Robin! driving
crazy, the panicked
power pole he wraps
his car around—
is ours,
that last prayer, even
if only a shopping
list, some milky
thing. Must—
reach—
utility—
belt—too many
spinoffs in the works
too many arch-
villains going
makes things easy for.
HO HAHAHAAHAHAA
HEE—hear
them now.
Reruns. Side
kicks. So riddle
this, Batman—
with the water
in your tank rising
risen, the sharks
unfed, slandered
& anxious
what tricks lie up
your mask? what
geniusy grab-bag
will you open
after this word
from our sponsor?
LINK PARABOLE
Now back
to our show, to our
question marks & fish
hooks—what
suffering shark
repellent
Batty, what holy
torpedoes
will rescue you
high, dry?
The bit
of bones beneath
him, reined—
he mounts
Death
’s bleached back—
a brown body out-
lined on linen.
SPINE. TORSO. SIN
HUESO. He’s
too through
with this merry-
go-round—the clowns—
the giant stuffed
animals to win
or take your picture
with—the pony rides
& overpriced
food. There’s always
a unicycle.
His hands turned
forks, tuning,
feeding what hunger
held him together
this long. Trawling
his own stomach.
Tripe. The snipe hunt
he’s begun has come
up empty—left holding
the bag—trick,
nickel—this cat’s
gotten out, crossed
the path. Curious—
his horse
turned back
from our foxhunt,
this possum run.
Given in—SAMO©
AS AN ESCAPE
CLAUSE—found face
down
like a payment.
And we who for ages
whaled, blubber
& wonder
why he’s thrown
ashore, rowed
himself here
hallelujah—answered
out the blue
whale some unseen
call. A siren—
the ambulance
racing a sea
of cars—emergency—
family only
beyond this
point—our fists
against his breath-
less chest.
BEAM: TO LOOK
BEAN: TO SUN
BAT: AN OLD OLD
WOMAN
MAN DIES.
MAN DIES.
AIRCOOLED
CONDENSER
BAGPIPE: 1940S
VACUUM CLEANER
B.O.A.C. : BUREAU
OF DRUG ABUSE
CONTROL
BALE OF STRAW: WHITE
BLOND FEMALE
BALL & CHAIN: WIFE
BALLOON ROOM:
PLACE WHERE
MARIJUANA IS SMOKED
MAN DIES. MAN
DIES. MAN DIES.
BALLS: TESTICLES
BAM: (FROM BAMBITA)
BANANA: ATTRACTIVE
LIGHT SKIN
BLACK FEMALE
BAND: WOMAN
BAND: JAZZ
BANG: INJECTION
OF NARCOTICS
OR SEX.
MAN DIES.
BANJO: INSTR
FRM WEST
AFRKA
BANK: TOILET
TNT
(—6H2 CH)
MORNING GLORY
SWEET POTATO
MAN DIES.
MAN—
FOR BLUES
FIXIN TO DIE
BLUES
BARK: HUMAN SKIN
Back on Great
Jones
his face
against the façade
fronting the carriage
house rented
from Warhol—
inside, his suits
stiffen from starch,
spilt paint.
He’s bought
the farm whole,
enchilada
& all—August
& the heat
covering everything,
needle-sharp,
asleep. No more
feeding
his habit art—
he’s gone
& done it
this time, taken
his last dive.
Exit, stage right.
A broken
record—his black
skin thick,
needled
into song—
a swan’s. Upon
graffitied brick—
INSIDIOUS MENACE
LANDLORD
TENANT—
folks pile
candles flowers
photos notes
to God & lace—
anything TO REPEL
GHOSTS, keep
his going at bay
before memory comes
early, snarling
& sweeps him
into the mouth
of euphemism—
sanitation worker, waste
management engineer,
garbage man, dumpster
diver, trash
heap, heaven.
HENRY GELDZAHLER: You got rid of your telephone a while ago. Was that satisfying?
J-M BASQUIAT: Pretty much. Now I get all these telegrams. It’s fun. You never know what it could be. “You’re drafted,” “I have $2,000 for you.” It could be anything. And because people are spending more money with telegrams they get right to the point. But now my bell rings at all hours of the night. I pretend I’m not home…
Making It New
HAVENT HEARD FROM YOU IN AGES STOP LOVE YOUR
LATEST SHOW STOP THIS NO PHONE STUFF IS FOR BIRDS
LIKE YOU STOP ONCE SHOUTED UP FROM STREET ONLY
RAIN AND YOUR ASSISTANT ANSWERED STOP DO YOU
STILL SLEEP LATE STOP DOES YOUR PAINT STILL COVER
DOORS STOP FOUND A SAMO TAG COPYRIGHT HIGH
ABOVE A STAIR STOP NOT SURE HOW YOU REACHED STOP
YOU ALWAYS WERE A CLIMBER STOP COME DOWN SOME
DAY AND SEE US AGAIN END
I met Jean-Michel Basquiat a few days before he died. Before or after, it doesn’t really matter.
—DANY LAFERRIÈRE
In the dark, the nasty
night, mother of million
nights, you return
looking, not for fame
but ducats, not begging
but collecting
on what was
owed you, getting back
what you sharked.
Lien.
Let us guess
JMB—you can see
everything clear
as your complexion,
as composed. COWARDS
WILL GIVE
TO GET RID
OF YOU. Even when
your skin gave in
to the heroin, you still
looked young & beautiful—
yet you confess
you feel much
better now, got
a handle on things,
the drugs fled on
out, left cold
turkey. THE SKY
IS THE LIMIT©.
Wings
& white meat.
Spleen still
missing, but not
quite missed.
If only
you’d said so
long like a television
station, signed off
the air—Star
Spangled Banner
blowing before bars—
red, yellow,
more—color—
before brief
black—the static—