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Loving That Other Man
Former-slaves built Jerusalem with hard
labor.
But for their children today it
is no
sanctuary from misery.
Fog
thickens after a day of showers
&
revelations. A full moon rises high.
Nathaniel Turner knew such an evening
as his
Day of Reckoning came nearer
during
August Revival. Like Baldwin
he
knew men turn away from true being
for
fleshly ecstasy—incest, & pride
in the
marketing of hearts & souls—all
for
small comforts & manliness. I am
no
naturalist. I know evil when
discovered wears the mask that
glumly grins.
11 August 2006
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* * *
Sonnet for 22 August 1831
If we
slipped away unknown into dark
forests often as black men did so long
ago in
secret coves like Booze Island
in the
Loco woods & converse in tongues
dine
on dripping hot roast pig, smoking yams
with
moonshine & brandy, we could win all.
Nobody
will know what we put down or
the
cross we pick up. A faith communion
will
fuel acts heroic—sacrificial.
Beyond
our master’s grasp & driver’s whip,
free
of fears & reckonings, wingéd flights
across
the dark purple skies will birth a
bold
love & a daring defiance. For
seven
determined men can rock the world.
23 August 2006
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* * *
Rivers Run Into Oceans
More
than a month of dangerous nights in
the
dark forest had come & gone since his
six
men fell to bullets or from the rope.
Wooly
heads without eyelids rested on
pikes
at plantation crossroads; skeletons
left
as signs of those pleasures taken by
fastidious insects, birds, dogs & men
lay in
the woods—mothers, fathers, babies.
Those
terrible hours on cool autumn days
still
haunt their kinsmen after almost two
centuries. We’re under fence rails concealed
in a
cave with God—tears fall for the dead.
The
minstrel moments of servitude pass
as we
embrace our turn for martyrdom.
28 September 2006
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Meditations on the Moons
He
hides out in the forest of Cross Keys
alone.
The carnage has ended—only
sullen
silence remains. The 2nd moon
since
August Revival comes into view
from
behind dark clouds. It’s not loneliness
or his
belly that drives him to spy out
farmhouses nightly. He listens at doors
&
windows. Darkness fills the candlelit
rooms.
Masters have rekindled their slavish
routines: truth remains twisted as grapevines.
Soft
breezes are in the autumn leaves. He
knows
his work’s unfinished: he must rescue
sacramental blood that fell to earth by
sacrificing himself on the 3rd moon.
6 October 2006
* * *
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Wanted Alive, Not Dead
He knew his blood must fall to earth like red
dew from heaven on leaves of corn. This debt
due he had to pay. The community
he loved would thrash him like wheat all along
the route—whips with nails; needle punctures; feet
fists thudding on yellow flesh; curses hurled.
This torment he must endure for their sake.
Cross Keys wanted to know the origins—
dust storming brigands on horseback hacking
away at white flesh—men, women, children.
He needed a scribe to re-mark pages—
tales dispersed at home & afar—a means
for his reentry to the human fold.
His vision of Christ was unforgiving.
20 October 2006
* * *
* *
Crickets Sing His Song
Clouds
thicken dark over Jerusalem.
Winds
come & go. A gust—pines dance, their limbs
of
green needles sweeping the air. A breeze
in the
pear tree shimmers the yellow leaves like
sweet
love flesh. Crickets chirp by my window.
In his
cell, the moon will not shine for him tonight
nor
will stars twinkle through the jailhouse bars.
This
is his second night in prison chained—
wrist
& ankles. He desires no escape.
This
was the destiny he freely chose.
His
ruse was at work, & Mr. Tom Gray
had
bought into his scheme—his visions shall
be
broadcast near & far. His final sword
thrust
into the Serpent is his death song.
31 October 2006
* * *
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Drowning Noise with Silence
His
mind moves to its fullness like the moon
that
glows purple in his dark cell. He prays
without cease. He tracks back over the ground,
the
metaphysical turf & prologue
he
traversed after Thomas Gray stepped from
the
autumn sun to the chirping chorus
of
crickets crashing leaves by his window.
He
thanks God he’s not like his white father
who
sought to resolve slavery between
white
sheets. . . . The pen waits to drum out echoes
of
dead bones in the shadows of madness. . . .
His
tale is silent beats bleeding the stink
of
church men—their death stamp on holiness.
His gospel blues won’t hang on
rotting trees.
2 November 2006
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Eyes Bound to Lies
The
near full moon set & rose behind clouds
on his
2nd interview. The crickets
were
silent. The chilled air sharpened his mind
sharper than the razor edge of his sword.
His
voyage through this hell was near complete.
The
setting sun shone bright & cast shadows
through the bars onto Gray’s pen & paper.
In
blue eyes the slaughter of children made
him
blacker than a million sinister
midnights—children who’ll never sing sunlight
in the
mad luxury of their whiteness.
This
unholy fantasy stilled his heart.
He had
crossed that Nottoway years ago:
black
life falling, ever falling like leaves.
3 November 2006
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Dying Echoes of Dead Words
This
full moon frost night he will leave his cell
slipping from chains/shackles, like dirty clothes
&
stroll the woods where the Spirit who speaks
to
prophets—chastens men to sacrifice.
Hunting dogs will sense his haunting presence
whimper in their pens fearing his grandeur.
He
will pass through fields of boll-filled white fleece
in
purple light. Shadowed tombstones, symbols
of
nigger luck, gained on black backs & blood:
owl
wisdom will sound darkness with “Who? Whoooo?”
His
father lies there. Fires will blaze tonight.
Smoke
from chimneys will bellow to the stars.
They
sleep cozy now with doom at their door.
Small
rainbows glisten from the morning lawn.
4 November 2006
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Birthed in a Conundrum
The
heaven purples with stars twinkling clear
above
this autumn forest. No sound stirs
this
cold full moon silence. Frost thickens white
on
leaves & grass in the blue hours before
midnight. He reads again Gray’s “Confessions.”
He
sleeps soundly without dreams. Mockingbird
sings
a sun overture. Jailers march him
from
his cell. At the courthouse crows rally.
Icy-faced judges are suffused with guilt.
Their
cave eyes are horror without remorse
. . .
mouths rusty hinges that open & close.
This
dark mirror mystery outrageous
is
beyond their scalpels. They are losers—
his
righteous spirit blossoms yet from thorns.
5 November 2006
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Blues in the Cosmos
A star
falls in the southern sky. Dogs bark
at the
rising of the moon. The seasons
flip
through the calendar pages quickly.
First
the glow of autumn, then frost, showers
& then
I’m sweating. The earth is soaked in
cosmic
tears of joy & despair. The noose
shapes
our destiny. Crickets sing. Rooster
crows
before daybreak. Naked vibrations!
These
are witnesses, a greater audience
than
he who walks. They are no clockmaker
withdrawn, sightless, uncaring of a work
begun
at eternity’s beginning.
We
don’t come/go without signifying.
We’re
healed when Mockingbird sings in the sun.
9 November 2006
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40
Days & 40 Nights
We
hovel, we slaves, trembling. It’s been weeks
since
the sun shone clear, or the rising moon
appeared through the trees, when dew drops fell on
the
blown, un-bagged brown leaves. It keeps raining.
The
water keeps rising—the rain keeps falling.
They
should’ve known, we all should’ve known, it’s no
routine stroll—picnic to hang a prophet,
a holy
man, even Ben Turner’s boy.
The
vault of heaven turned black, clouds & winds
gathered & the sky cracked, the earth rumbled
when
he fell from the rope & hung still like
a
scarecrow. In fright the gathering scattered.
The
surgeons keep busy with their scalpels
while
we wade gospel waters of end time.
10 November 2006
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