by BAR poet in residence Raymond Nat Turner
I.
The scent of sulfur, scandalous Skippy-Gate brew—
With an arresting officer; some shit ain’t neurosurgery
or rocket science—ain’t as nuanced, or complicated as
Some claim.
Negroz are in the Way Back Machine—a moral morass—
Slipping into darkness at the speed of light, since the
‘08 date, November deal, with the Devil…
Behind the Lead Curtain
by BAR poet in residence Raymond Nat Turner
I.
The scent of sulfur, scandalous Skippy-Gate brew—
With an arresting officer; some shit ain’t neurosurgery
or rocket science—ain’t as nuanced, or complicated as
Some claim.
Negroz are in the Way Back Machine—a moral morass—
Slipping into darkness at the speed of light, since the
‘08 date, November deal, with the Devil…
A deal to “look away” in thundering silence as
Children are charcoalized for Tuesday Takeout—
Hospitals haphazardly bombed with precision!
A deal to “look away” when white phosphorus-shrouded
Weapons testing slaughters thousands, “look away” if the
Triggerman’s tanned, the butcher’s brown, if the police
statesman’s articulate and sings “Amazing Grace…”
A Strange Fruit deal disconnecting carnage, nightmares,
Crimson rivers behind bloodshot eyes and a Pacific of tears
Staining mourning cheeks; disconnecting “Precious Lord”
loops— funeral after funeral after funeral from endless
Wars coming home—connecting shots: behind the Lead Curtain…
A deal was done locking Negroz in cells under bassackwards spells—
Melanin madness, pigment politics—1% playthings of Strong-Arm
Williams-Thom-Ass Clarence Tribes; in cells under bassackwards
spells of a Negro Attorney General named Lynch, snorting thin blue
Lines off the Lead Curtain; and I
I wanna scream that this…
I wanna scream that this…
I wanna scream that this…
I wanna scream that this…
Smacks of spades of symbolism: a slick, false-fingering
‘saxophonist’ from Arkansas, in his shades on Arsenio,
Bamboozling celebrity-worshipping Negroz
He knew Negroz swoon over speeches, go ga-ga over
Talk, rap; Love promises, don’t check facts, don’t look
Ugly numbers in the face
I wanna scream that this…
I wanna scream that this…
I wanna scream that this…
I wanna scream that this…
Smacks of refusing to remember how hot lead ballots
Voted Medgar, Malcolm, Martin, Fred from office—
Leaving just a bloody mule’s head from empire’s deathbed…
Leaving Lenox Avenue Negroz cheering flat screens,
Wishing a Wall Street warlock spoke secret, color-coded
Language—in frequencies his handlers couldn’t detect.
Wishing ‘wink-wink, Nod-Nod Code,’ some claimed the
Commander communicated in, was black cat dander, goober
Dust, Jon de Conquer Root, combined in a supernatural ESP
(Empire Slave Patios) so subtle that:
If he winked, he wouldn’t close 50 schools in Chitown and Philly,
In The Race to the Slop; if he nodded, Negroz could be sure of
Single Payer Healthcare, with none perishing under ‘Pay or Die.’
If he lifted a beer, it meant he’d back po-po off slo-mo genocide.
If he stroked his chin, he and Holder were jailing killer cops.
If he cleared his throat, he’d take out the terrorist KKK.
If he licked his lips, he’d roll back Black incarceration across the nation.
If he touched his left ear, it meant he’d smash elephant-eared walls, pull
Down eagle-eyed poles, back FBI, CIA, NSA, off our phone conversations,
emails, texts, tweets—and redacting the 1st and 4th amendments…
If he lifted his left eyebrow, it meant no more “boots on the ground”
Slogging over Africa—Africom would be shattered into a thousand
Pieces and scattered into the wind; wars one after another like chain
Smokers lighting cigarettes with cigarettes would stop.
If he tugged at his tie, it meant Negroz family wealth would return
To pre-2008 levels, and Wells Fargo-foreclosed homes returned and
Criminals who stole them would be dressed down in orange jumpsuits!
If his nostrils flared, it meant mobilization around green jobs for solving
Negroz Massive Unemployment! If he adjusted his Johnson, rapper-like
With his left hand, the Congressional Black Caucus would left-adjust—
Rhetorically…
…I must admit that this complex shit was over my head…
II.
Negroz operate on superstition & emotion
That ol’ black capitalist, imperialist potion
Loving bling, sizzle, symbolism, trappings
Forget the gifts—give ‘em the wrappings!
Foolin’ Negroz is more a craft than art No need to be brilliant—or even smart Foolin’ Negroz really isn’t that hard— Using that old, crumpled, ‘race card’…
Negroz are vulnerable to slick oratory
Enchanting—like a bedtime story…
Promising them the moon and sun—
Negroz never check to see what’s done
On Negroz, the world will not wait
Behind The Lead Curtain, slave state—
Pigmented politics of “no contest”
For Wehrmacht’s world conquest
Negroz narcoleptic, mulehead spells—
Letting down Douglass, Tubman, Wells!
Raymond Nat Turner © 2016 All Rights Reserved
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