a costume.
dark overalls,
handkerchief,
and ugly-ass shitkickers,
clutched like gifts in his outstretched hands
chase the stink of mule dirt back
into my head. now he wants me
to wrap my music in a brown bag of coon
to give them what folks ’spect to see
says i need the genuine look of farm boy
to sow blues’ dirty fingers between their ears
i remember
fame’s promises:
$100 suits is what made me believe.
$50 wing tips made me a convert.
$5 cigars helped seal the deal.
like always,
dog-tongued anger
laps at my palms,
shrinks my bowels
like a clenched fist |
|
an outfit.
new blue jeans,
clean head wrap,
some simple, old, sturdy shoes
are a proper field hand’s uniform,
down-on-the-farm–familiar:
dressing down—it raises gods
dark enough to capture the authentic blues,
bringing southland to a crowd that
says they want to hear how it sounds for a black
to scrape heaven’s dusty starlight out of hell.
to tally up
and close accounts—
$3 for the coveralls, and they were on sale.
$1 for the work boots, sold at half-price,
and here, a handshake serves as contract.
it’s strange, but,
sometimes loathing
bursts from his eyes,
pummeling me—
striking ’cross my face |
i’m parole on parade,
wanted poster on a short leash,
biding time beneath the law
of a master i chose myself.
that faded rucksack of yassuh
growing one load heavier
with each slow grin
stitched across my lips | | i’m an ex-con’s keeper,
something i can’t much forget
in this prison choked country—
i cannot absolve this man of
his greatest crime—the crime of race—
binding us all to blood,
cutting through skin,
burning through history. |
