Postcard from Hell

            For Etheridge Knight

                                   By Rudolph Lewis

We speak of burning moments

a spoonful off a brick, promising flowers 

in fall—the bubbling, the needle waiting.

That rope between lips & teeth

Like smack, blood pushes back 

the walls in which it flows.

Can you follow me? I’m walking—

round the corner at Retreat, a man smeared

in grease—in his open air garage—between

warehouse fire debris & boarded house.

He’s making money—no capital. Hooded

boys hang near, their goods bagged in alleys.

At Francis, toward Pennsylvania,

is Ay Jay Deli & Store. Ma & Pa

made theirs now on a jet

for family & Korea. Her sister left behind

hard plastic with black aliens.

While they point out their desires

folks say why don’t they hire us since

she knows only, "Hi Hon-nee."

People search for dollar a day work

across the globe—Louisiana's all over

the compass, men & women moving 

or being moved. Working people push back

with fire sticks, machetes, and drugs

Surviving some go along—that kid

lives in a single family home, new.

His playmate in an old third floor

apartment, two rooms, five sleep on

roaches—chicken box babies & tv.

Last week the church tore down

two buildings for a parking lot.

I declined the deacon’s invitation

for a sermon on Christ the Savior.

Near the end of Retreat, a white

hand-painted garage owned by

Garveyites from Kingston, but

they don’t show they colors.

They don't play Bob Marley

for everybody can hear his message.

On the side entrances leaning on 

white walls in blue uniforms

—grandmothers, women who’ve

had their running round, pushing

up generations of neglect & terror.

They sit on the stoops—the steps 

no cool on hot laundry July afternoons.

What's their future—food stamps 

& hand-me downs? They

wring their hands & hush a cry.

Atlas hoists no world like these.

Sir Knight of Yesteryear,

today we're all dressed 

in black—2005 is fire & water

mixed with oil—gas prices rising.

Hell is Mississippi is America

for us & He Who Sees Through Stone.

Responses

Mr. Lewis: Good morning. I really like this poem. I think it, in “postcard fashion”, depicts a life of Brother Knight that is captured by the writer. Additionally, I think the stanzas work well.

Please note that I have been reading the posts and I plan on showing my support. The semester is almost over—which means I can focus my energies and resources in other directions. ChickenBones must continue! It allows writers to remain current and sharpen their craft. It has helped my writing tremendously.  All the best, Van G. Garrett

now that's a poem from the field. masterful, griot rudy. -lmsekou

Rahim—Peace! Just a few words of praise for your poem "Postcard from Hell." Well done! The imagery captures the west baltimore scene with all its complexities. It flows nicely and has a interesting stream of consciousness effect to it. I ask you as I asked my moma at sunday dinner—give us more! amin sharif

Etheridge would have liked this poem very much, because you capture the despair of the inner city neighborhood in the same way that he deals with the horrors of prison life. Miriam

Read Etheridge Knight's Once on a Night in the Delta  and He Sees Through Stone -- Rudy

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For Tookie

posted 2 December 2005 /  updated 24 February 2008