I
the rachis;
the distal part of the axis
of a feather shows stem cell white;
conspectus of angel conceptus
and the immortal adnexa (unveiled:
anatomical organs of a genus
of prickly shrubs,
the leaves pinnate,
corollas fleshy human and
proximal to the dais
of gestation; goddess light).
II
zero; i adjust the sights of a firearm to hit the point aimed at–a target having no magnitude or quantity–the metrical foot, the trochee
v a c a n t
having no modified inflectional form.
III
at zero hour, the observatory duty scientist watches luminaries
pointing NASA’s Swift telescope at a singular swath of sky
in search of the theorist’s holy chalice:
flashes of x-rays and ultraviolet light indicative of a wrinkle in the universe.
black holes swallowing dead stars.
i saw a romance of person;
mysterious events set in a remote time and place; Einstein’s general theory of relativity foretelling the pyroclastic flow deposits
of her fallout
the federal bureau of investigation’s most wanted
colliding in spacetime
with systems of white supremacy and suspicion:
Angela Davis on trial for collusion in a titillating murder case charged with political valences.
i look like her. fear me.
formed in the image of a black panther party member, my flesh and its historically subversive adnexa conjures
the government’s institutional memory of
an all black branch of the communist party; of militant resistance
(for a limitless time at all times resistant)
against police brutality; against extrajudicial terrorism
always.
and so, this is the reason
why eyes follow me. my past life is
why i can’t buy a candy bar in peace.
the cashier’s afraid i’ll steal the status quo
and exact a revolution.
IV
this is my prayer:
i will not be your negro.
“Negro Slain By Texas Posse: Victim’s Heart Removed After His Capture By Armed Men”
the real headline is this:
in order to kill me
you’d have to kill me in every permutation, iteration of
all time existence
i’ve ever been manifested in.
lynching is not enough.
V
i wrap my head like Congresswoman Ilhan Omar; Somalian angel who wears her hijab like a diadem. a map of the horn of Africa floats on a backlit screen: the central intelligence agency has an online fact book. a black star denotes where Mogadishu unfolds. i see her like i see my father.
complicity and the axis of spin, that rachis on which tangential velocity spirals, twirls like the finger of a goddess touching secret countries–that is the revolution of quiet that allows the CIA to back death squads in lush Ayiti.
orchids of state terror bloom from fertile ebony loam. fifty tons of cocaine (worth one billion dollars) paint the Haitian military regime thunderbolt gold.
secret files contact the dead; speak of Duvalier in whispers, saying,
“he is ‘Papa Doc’ the virtual personification of a voodoo god; to the country’s overwhelming negro population, he has shown himself to be anti-mulatto (i am in awe of the menagerie of
disgusting, divisive
incarnations of jim crow’s one drop
—red, tear shaped—
rule)
and a devotee of black supremacy.”
the special operative called us negroes; thought it odd that we’d think ourselves divine; spoke of the communist threat. i read the agent’s special report, eyebrow cocked convex, thinking fuck this son of a–
Ayiti: near apartheid, tensions viscous between the noir and the subtly mixed; in Papa Doc’s palace auspices glint wetly on coils of goat entrails;
president for life,
vodou spirit Lwa of the dead and his tontons macoutes (the bogeyman) were:
gang; cult; secret police; fascist militia
power: raping; extorting; murdering at will
with a cold (in cold blood) grip.
and the vampire of the Caribbean selling blood by the bag
dealing human body parts;
while mad max mutilated the genitals of political prisoners.
slavery made us brutal
VI
“our Doc,
who art in the national palace,
hallowed be thy name.”
he revises the lord’s prayer.
he rides in a bulletproof Mercedes limousine,
raining money on the people; bankrolls
fall from heaven (our Doc
who art–)
he decapitates a man. the severed head
holds secrets
that can be divined
from blood. the brain will
tell Doc what he wants to know
because he is a god–
when Papa Doc dies, the US is afraid that Fidel Castro will see the witch doctor’s daughter, see
that she is tempestuous beautiful
an emerald window glowing across the sea
calling in low tones to Cuba.
VII
there was an idiot
who called my country
island of the damned.
we are free. we revolted
against the French.
our land a mystery
like naked bodies behind a magic cloud.
the jungle. the starved look to us
for consumption. they want to see
the cannibals;
the blood spilled everywhere
(where is the bleach
for the kitchen tile?) dripping;
hearts sawed
out of stiff bodies, the pink muscle somehow
still beating
with black fire, witchcraft, magic.
the watchers,
they are the cannibals.
oh, the poor refugees.
fuck you.
you’ve failed
to see
the politics of magic.
you are so easily seduced by
blood sacrifice, by brown
bodies, by unrest
large enough to rip timespace.
you are the one running from yourself and thanking god hail mary for the wretched of the earth in this fun episode of escapist media consumption.
