Etheridge Knight

After explanations and regulations, he Walked warily in. Black hair covered his chin, subscribing to Villainous ideal. “This can not be real,” he thought, “this is a Classical mistake; This is a cake baked with embarrassing icing; Somebody’s got Likely as not, a big fat tongue in cheek! What have I to do With a prim and proper-blooded lady?” Christ in deed has risen When a Junkie in prison visits with a Wasp woman. “Hold your stupid face, man, Learn a little grace, man; drop a notch the sacred shield. She might have good reason, Like: ‘I was in prison and ye visited me not,’ or—some such. So sweep clear Anachronistic fear, fight the fog, And use no hot words.” After the seating And the greeting, they fished for a denominator, Common or uncommon; And could only summon up the fact that both were human. “Be at ease, man! Try to please, man!—the lady is as lost as you: ‘You got children, Ma’am?’” he said aloud. The thrust broke the dam, and their lines wiggled in the water. She offered no pills To cure his many ills, no compact sermons, but small And funny talk: “My baby began to walk... simply cannot keep his room clean...” Her chatter sparked no resurrection and truly No shackles were shaken But after she had taken her leave, he walked softly, And for hours used no hot words.

Exchange in greed the ungraceful signs. Thrust The thick notes between green apple breasts. Then the shadow of the devil descends, The violent space cries and angel eyes, Large and dark, retreat in innocence and in ice. (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) The violent space cries silently, Like you cried wide years ago In another space, speckled by the sun And the leaves of a green plum tree, And you were stung By a red wasp and we flew home. (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) Well, hell, lil sis, wasps still sting. You are all of seventeen and as alone now In your pain as you were with the sting On your brow. Well, shit, lil sis, here we are: You are I and this poem. And what should I do? should I squat In the dust and make strange markings on the ground? Shall I chant a spell to drive the demon away? (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) In the beginning you were the Virgin Mary, And you are the Virgin Mary now. But somewhere between Nazareth and Bethlehem You lost your name in the nameless void. “O Mary don’t you weep don’t you moan” O Mary shake your butt to the violent juke, Absorb the demon puke and watch the white eyes pop, (Run sister run–the Bugga man comes!) And what do I do. I boil my tears in a twisted spoon And dance like an angel on the point of a needle. I sit counting syllables like Midas gold. I am not bold. I cannot yet take hold of the demon And lift his weight from you black belly, So I grab the air and sing my song. (But the air cannot stand my singing long.)

And if sun comes How shall we greet him? —Gwen Brooks The sun came, Miss Brooks,— After all the night years. He came spitting fire from his lips. And we flipped—We goofed the whole thing. It looks like our ears were not equipped For the fierce hammering. And now the Sun has gone, has bled red, Weeping behind the hills. Again the night shadows form. But beneath the placid face a storm rages. The rays of Red have pierced the deep, have struck The core. We cannot sleep. The shadows sing: Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm. The darkness ain't like before. The Sun came, Miss Brooks. And we goofed the whole thing. I think. (Though ain't no vision visited my cell.)

(or a self / sung eulogy) Now, when I / die, dont you bury me On no lone prairie; And dont put me in no plain pine box (cause I left plenty cold cash!); And throw my cold butt in the deep blue see. Whatever you do, dont plant me / in no six feet of dirt; Just mash me, mash me, except for my dick, Which I want wrapped in a white / woman’s skirt. I dont want no preacher / man a-preaching Over me—cause I know where I am going. I dont want no tears, no flowers, No standing around and waiting / up / all hours. Just get a golden trumpet, and have Dizzy blow it. Cause I / wuz / Slick—and you damn well know it. No piano playing, no blues please; No moaning and groaning; Just lay me on the table, mash me Into my two-hundred-dollar suit, Red socks, black patent leather shoes, Polka-dot tie (make damn sure it’s silk— And dont forget it!) Take me out to my pink cadillac Prop me up / under the steering wheel, Tow me out to real high hill, Dig a hole—twenty feet long and twenty feet wide, Place a giant joint of reefer / weed by my side; Then leave me alone— And let me drive to hell in style!

1 Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand- fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins (1st & 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style, they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me; they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee. I have at one time or another been in love with my mother, 1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum), and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece (she sends me letters written in large block print, and her picture is the only one that smiles at me). I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews, and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took off and caught a freight (they say). He’s discussed each year when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in the clan, he is an empty space. My father’s mother, who is 93 and who keeps the Family Bible with everybody’s birth dates (and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no place in her Bible for “whereabouts unknown.” 2 Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr / like a salmon quitting the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birthstream / I hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my packet and a monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks. I walked barefooted in my grandmother’s backyard / I smelled the old land and the woods / I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the men / I flirted with the women / I had a ball till the caps ran out and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother and split / my guts were screaming for junk / but I was almost contented / I had almost caught up with me. (The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker’s crib for a fix.) This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them, they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children to float in the space between.

He sees through stone he has the secret eyes this old black one who under prison skies sits pressed by the sun against the western wall his pipe between purple gums the years fall like overripe plums bursting red flesh on the dark earth his time is not my time but I have known him in a time gone he led me trembling cold into the dark forest taught me the secret rites to make it with a woman to be true to my brothers to make my spear drink the blood of my enemies now black cats circle him flash white teeth snarl at the air mashing green grass beneath shining muscles ears peeling his words he smiles he knows the hunt    the enemy he has the secret eyes he sees through stone

Hard Rock / was / “known not to take no shit From nobody,” and he had the scars to prove it: Split purple lips, lumbed ears, welts above His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut Across his temple and plowed through a thick Canopy of kinky hair. The WORD / was / that Hard Rock wasn’t a mean nigger Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head, Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity Through the rest. When they brought Hard Rock back, Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose, Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status. And we all waited and watched, like a herd of sheep, To see if the WORD was true. As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak Of his exploits: “Man, the last time, it took eight Screws to put him in the Hole.” “Yeah, remember when he Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?” “He set The record for time in the Hole—67 straight days!” “Ol Hard Rock! man, that’s one crazy nigger.” And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had once bit A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphilitic spit. The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was really tame. A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch And didn’t lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock From before shook him down and barked in his face. And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned and looked silly, His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence. And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name, We told ourselves that he had just wised up, Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves for long, And we turned away, our eyes on the ground. Crushed. He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do, The fears of years, like a biting whip, Had cut deep bloody grooves Across our backs.

1 Eastern guard tower glints in sunset; convicts rest like lizards on rocks. 2 The piano man is stingy, at 3 A.M. his songs drop like plum. 3 Morning sun slants cell. Drunks stagger like cripple flies On jailhouse floor. 4 To write a blues song is to regiment riots and pluck gems from graves. 5 A bare pecan tree slips a pencil shadow down a moonlit snow slope. 6 The falling snow flakes Cannot blunt the hard aches nor Match the steel stillness. 7 Under moon shadows A tall boy flashes knife and Slices star bright ice. 8 In the August grass Struck by the last rays of sun The cracked teacup screams. 9 Making jazz swing in Seventeen syllables AIN’T No square poet’s job.

Compose for Red a proper verse; Adhere to foot and strict iamb; Control the burst of angry words Or they might boil and break the dam. Or they might boil and overflow And drench me, drown me, drive me mad. So swear no oath, so shed no tear, And sing no song blue Baptist sad. Evoke no image, stir no flame, And spin no yarn across the air. Make empty anglo tea lace words— Make them dead white and dry bone bare. Compose a verse for Malcolm man, And make it rime and make it prim. The verse will die—as all men do— but not the memory of him! Death might come singing sweet like C, Or knocking like the old folk say, The moon and stars may pass away, But not the anger of that day.

Now you take ol Rufus. He beat drums, was free and funky under the arms, fucked white girls, jumped off a bridge (and thought nothing of the sacrilege), he copped out—and he was over twenty-one. Take Gerald. Sixteen years hadn’t even done a good job on his voice. He didn’t even know how to talk tough, or how to hide the glow of life before he was thrown in as “pigmeat” for the buzzards to eat. Gerald, who had no memory or hope of copper hot lips— or firm upthrusting thighs to reinforce his flow, let tall walls and buzzards change the course of his river from south to north. (No safety in numbers, like back on the block: two’s aplenty. three? definitely not. four? “you’re all muslims.” five? “you were planning a race riot.” plus, Gerald could never quite win with his precise speech and innocent grin the trust and fists of the young black cats.) Gerald, sun-kissed ten thousand times on the nose and cheeks, didn’t stand a chance, didn’t even know that the loss of his balls had been plotted years in advance by wiser and bigger buzzards than those who now hover above his track and at night light upon his back.