My Sister-in-law, the
Artist, propped her last
painting up, as high
as she could reach…
My Mother-in-law, the
Lion, placed, important papers
in plastic containers;
removed lox from the
refrigerator, schmeared
pumpernickel faces;
bagged them for she and
her Nosh-keteers.
Evacuation mastermind,
JoB, grabbed ‘Go Bags,’
locked doors, stroked mezuzahs—
Got the hell out on I-75—
trekking forty hours
through deserts of Dixie:
Florida
Georgia
Alabama…
…parting the Red Sea,
where the Tide turned
out for a football game!
They got out before
Gouging began; capitalist
competition against ‘others’ for gas,
Water, food at inflated prices
My sister-in-law, the youngest,
wondered as they wandered:
What’s making this hurricane different,
acting like Elijah—
A no-show—
veering away from
Haitians who hang out-
side Heat games with upturned palms;
concession workers at Dolphins’ games;
Mexican day laborers and
Inmates at Miami-Dade County
and other gulags?
Maybe Irma’s a
yellow Caterpillar already
Bulldozing our belongings—
A drone striking our homes
with Hellfire Missiles,
Reducing them to dust?
What if
She’s as cruel as
Her cousins in West Africa
and South Asia; will we
suffer ‘survivor’s guilt?’
What if
Black, Jew, Mexican,
Muslim, LGBTQ-hating
Assault Right storm troopers
Grabbing tiki-torches,
Strapping on their balls,
swastikas, bandoleers,
A-Rs, Glocks, grenades,
practice
‘Stand Your Ground’ for the 1%?
What if
Rum-sipping, swamp-dwelling,
Plane-bombing gusano,
tonton macoute terrorists
and cracker sheriffs, like
“Wrong color tags,” who
Harassed us on
our way to the
Airport,
Profile Irma?
What if
The ShootaKidforLoudMusic
Tribe’s outraged by her
Sonic footprint and
form a firing squad?
What if
She’s encircled by
nazi guards encircling
an African-American inmate
and growling, “This is Florida,
We’ll kill your black ass
For protestin' down here?”
What if
a vigilante
mistakes her cone for a
Hoodie; her debris for
junk ‘food,’ shoots first,
Then calls for backup:
“Calling all lowlife
lawmen like sheriff joe,
sheriff stephen judas clarke,
shit-slingin’ sheriffs of Santa Rita;
FOX-box foot soldiers;
Trolls from cubicles
misdirecting, dis-
rupting discussions;
attorney general come to
Capitalist Hill, circumcise
Yourself with Mexican-
made scissors on the senate floor;
Climate-denier oil-ligarchs,
War-profiteers, banksters and
Subprime-slime gather on the
Golf course,” at an infamous
Money-laundering resort—
maybe Irma drains the swamp?
Raymond Nat Turner © 2017 All Rights Reserved
Raymond Nat Turner is an acclaimed poet and performing artist. Find much more of his work at http://upsurgejazz.com.
"War Crime Cafe" is the latest from BAR's Poet-in-Residence.
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