Quraysh Ali Lansana

there was a rude boy on my jean jacket. black suit, shades and hat, skanking where orange street met birmingham. two-tone ska a second skin, a way to believe, though unsure why. days on this island with wasted republican frat boys and sorority girls, pompous u.s citizens, northern americanos with trust funds. only white dudes in sight without reagan hair are in the front of the car, a sputtering nondescript, and later pugs, the skinhead in boots and leather below unfiltered sun, unsure if peyote caps or heat is source of glistening blister of a head. an equally overdressed chubby blonde woman at his side who he swears sounds just like janis. on cue, val fills the hotel courtyard where my misfit crew hope for a corner of a floor not coated in puke or recent sex rented by bobcat’s brother’s sigma hate niggas fraternity. her dense wail careens off ten stories like a friday night public address system. so close to another why not join the hollow migration? us, funboy three, avoiding the same people in a different country. tequila, laughter and respect. then border patrol. stinking agave as he checks licenses and cargo space. when he opens the back door, rudy rests beside skinny black sophomore with a flat top. one front pocket open, the other concealing skunk. i consider what dank brick lines the cells, how long i will drink sweat because it tastes better than juarez prison chow. he reaches in the open pocket, returns rude boy to the seat. welcome home, boys. enjoy yourself, he says. it’s later than you think.

john   lord knows you still vexed   reckon me too if my wife stole off durin sleepy night   god an de devil only souls up at dat hour even if i knows she bout to be sold south   even if i knows she was leevin   an you did   you so troubled when i talk about leevin call me a fool   call me cudjo   five years wid you john   yo wife bout to be sold away   jus cus you free dis don’t worry you none you laugh   dunno if i’d miss yo laugh if i was in de south tho thank ya jesus gotta room in philadelphia john   aint big but clean nuf room for us   some chirren too   yo baby   i aint too old jus yet jus round thirty-one   i think   make us a home john    one where we’s both free   free from de lash’s shadow free like de lord mean   got dis suit fo ya john   aint nobody worn dese clothes befo walk proud in dese clothese   dese is free mans cloths

I would have freed thousands mo, If dey had known dey were slaves. Harriet herd on da wind you come back fo me didn’t think you come back fo me didn’t think you come back at all been so long my skin grew tired dis life too hard to know all alone caroline cover me jus fine she a quilt ginst the cold in ma blood she mend de torn spots in ma soul aint got no mind ta leev dis place go on moses   find yo promise lan mines is here beside dis fire wid folks we knows from when we’s born