Walking in Daylight
I walk in Daylight, yet coast on Shadows.
Rhythmic pace of falling footsteps echo me.
Faint touches from shoulders bumping, throat tight
from insane, claustrophobic huddle,
Air bombarded with stagnant CO two.
I suffocate and look right, then left, then down.
Down is the curb, my parallel plane.
Down puts me in sleeper hold–dares me to fight.
Down beats domestically with boxer knuckles,
with “polished” dead skin, smoothed over bell time.
I am out for the count. Above me, the ref
shouts numbers “three”, “four”, and when he reaches “five”,
I try to see through swollen, crusted eyes—
so dry they’re parched like rhythm without blues,
like idea without muse, like water-
hole in desert pews…I lay back and
allow Down the prize of winning, defeating
me for I cannot go on much more.
I coast on these shadows and open my gab
and gullet for every snack that’s not nailed down.
Yeah, Down feels right. Down feels downright good.
Down makes love to me and deadens my
reception so no physical pain is felt
other than the wrenching, maddening
desire to be impaled by that fleshly stick.
Daylight began with the promise of
robin’s egg blues and egg yolk skies flutter
out of my reach on their way Up. Up where
I can’t go. Down cuts in on the perpendicular
demonstrating its ability to
become versatile like a good man
whose love comes after a good pounding blow.
“Seven”, “eight”—here comes the final countdown
that absolutely must be labeled K-O.
File-cabinet gray and dog manure brown
pepper the sky in Nighttime. At least at Night,
I breathe and appear full enough to drink
the pain cocktail and prepare for both the
swell of flesh stick and force of knock-out blow.
“Nine… ten…a big fat hen.” The past-her-prime
hen who walks in daylight coasting on shadows.
**
Perpetual Motion in this Alie(n)ation–The Progress of Young Historian
Constantly in flux–moving at a snail’s pace,
Horribly misplaced and searching for our proper place–
A joint that we call “home.”
Denied a precise location, identified as Negro repudiation,
Mystified by our great migration–
This dog still can’t find its bone.
In slavery, our goal was freedom. Thru civil’ry, an equal addendum,
Our spirituals wailed an emblem–
Strangers, nowhere to roam.
Stripped of our identity, tainted by racial necessity,
Dismissed in all practicality–
America, you robbed us of a home.
You offered no incentive and devalued our only lineage, subliminally reminded us that we were banned until we blotted out our dark continent souls.
You raped us by critique, yet judged us as unique only if we refrained from “thinking like a Negro.”
I decree that on this day, this “Negro” thing? This black speech?
This African-American intellect? This American uniqueness…?
…is my counsel, my sanctuary, my comfort, joy, and peace.
My pride, my sensibility, my sensitivity, my Golden Fleece.
My rhythm, my syncopation, my cornrows, and my grease.
My non-conformity, my seniority, my “Po-Po” cowardice.
My hips, my lips, my Temps, Tops, and Doo-Wops.
My ghetto games, my Mary Janes, my pimped-out ride, my “swagga” on the side.
My Tootsie Roll, My Gator, my Stroll.
My Lord, my Savior, my stride, my glide.
My dunk, my trunk, my “lovely, lady lumps.”
My frizz, my ‘Fro, my “don’tchoo want some mo’?”
My ‘naps, my snaps, my peas and buckshots in the back.
My Kunte, my Kinte, my DuBois teacher and my Wright.
My Langston, my Baldwin, my Brooks, Black Dy-no-mite!
My Hurston, my davenport, my Clifton, even Dolemite.
My Ellison, my beef and Wellington, My Smith and my Wesson.
My offense, my defense, my affirmative action, my spiritual distraction.
My fist-in-air, my store-bought hair, my creamy crack, my baseball bat.
My sugar, my plum, my piece of bubblegum.
My right, my reason, my children, my season.
I am free to be charcoal black, butterscotch brown, goldenrod yellow, or Piedmont Clay red.
I am really free to be extra-virgin olive-skinned and alabaster pale.
No longer will I allow to bathe your customs into my being.
No more split-down-the-middle, good Black girl biting her tongue to the point where saliva and blood taste the same.
See us as our OWN culture in Your land!
Your songs of patriotism whose subjective case pronouns exclude us, inspire me to fly.
Abraham Chapman’s ’68 dream was like Martin’s, but it is still
in constant flux… perpetual motion.
A hearty notion for a race, assimilated into a place
where even though, unwanted and sometimes unheard
Lives, thrives, and beats on and on and on and on like Badu’s song,
like Kunte’s handmade drum, that took him from his home
still hearing the tribal, guttural songs coursing through our veins.
We helped build this city, America, and you
recline, relax, and take all credit for it.
