P.O.E.T. are the only
letters behind my name—
So you scowl; scold; spank
my hands with rulers and
switches worn smooth from
serial beatdowns, dare I use
“Where’s the jackboots, the
“Where’s the lil’ funny mustached
fella—the flamboyant baldheaded
buffoon?” you chide
“That’s hot air—not flames—
engulfing Capitalist Hill, the War
House and white Supreme Court!
And the cops chasing protestors
down are FOX-trotting—not goose-
Interrogating, drilling down,
contextualizing, centering my
concerns, my fears; unpacking
My wounds—with checklists
long as Long Star State lists
of lynchings; Magnolia State
lists of black bodies dredged
from muddy waters; Clearing
your throat, you tick off with bean-
counter precision: “irrationality;
most chauvinistic; most reactionary
elements of finance capital merging…”
I listen to you as I listen to low Barr
and Boss Tweet and ask you again:
Are we there yet? Almost there?
May I arm my mouth with the F-word?
Or, must I wait until you have checked
the boxes ALL off; After the $campaign
and “most important” $election “in human
© 2020. Raymond Nat Turner, The Town Crier. All Rights Reserved.
BAR’s poet in residence Raymond Nat Turner is an accomplished performing artist. You can find much more of his work at http://upsurgejazz.com .
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