Notes of a Cultural Terrorist 2
after the war the war begins the war goes on
i am a soldier. look at my boots
soles worn from seeking work. from hours
in unemployment lines
call me a civilian casualty
the war to feed children the war to clothe their backs
the war to meet the rent the war to keep the gas tank full the
war to end the calculated madness keeping the poor poor
what happens to a war deferred
does it implode? does repressed aggression
ravage the collective soul?
(there's rioting now. i see the blaze red smoke rising.
the city burns. people are looting, taking things. all the
excess denied them. crimes of possession. to have. without
the onus of color or fear of rejection. children carry racks
of clothes. women push shopping carts brimming with food.
men flavor liquor stores and gunshops. but what we need is
revolution. bloodless or otherwise. we must go deeper than
lust gratified in one spontaneous torrid upsurge of rage)
i am a soldier. look at my hair
fallen out under stress. the many hours
unappreciated on the job. not even a decent chair
call me collateral damage
and when all the foreign battles are won
will we who battle here at home
have our day in democracy's sun?
(i am laying on the gurney in the hallway. there
aren't enough beds. he's been here with me for hours and
we came in last night. and they still haven't been able to
tell us anything. they wanted money up front before they
even talked to us. luckily we had assistance but still had to
borrow from mama to make the cash co-payment. the pain is
real bad and i'm thirsty. but they said not to drink anything/
nothing by mouth. and we had to wait forever just to get this
far. too many patients and not enough doctors)
i am a soldier. but my back is broke
battling the paper i push all day. my hope
is broke too. how do i love
call me politically correct
(we sat in the bar in the late afternoon trying to figure out
where all the men had gone. the ones that weren't dead or
in jail. who loved women. the ones who weren't junkies
weren't alcoholics weren't already married. the ones who
love our color. and one sistuh took a tall swig and said
she'd be satisfied if she lived to see her refrigerator full
just once before she departs this planet)
what happens to a war deferred
does it deep down into the skin a rash
of discontent to erupt again and again?
i am a soldier. that i live is a lie
no one stares' cuz no one cares. grasping
for a nip of pleasure a toke of sanity
call me a victim of victims
(the cuff are tight. i can feel them rubbing against my
wrists behind my back. we're taken out to the squad car
in front of all the neighbors. the kids stare at us. they
knew we were different all along. we didn't belong in this
'hood. he's angry. he wants to know who ratted. i can't feel
anything but numb. they shove him into the back first and
then i climb in behind him. it's a short drive to the
precinct. we're broke. we'll have to borrow money for
bail. we're about to find out who our real friends are)
whatevah you do
don't look me too long in the eyes
Wanda Coleman, "Notes of a Cultural Terrorist 2" from Wicked Enchantment: Selected Poems. Copyright © 2020 by Wanda Coleman. Reprinted by permission of The Estate of Wanda Coleman, Black Sparrow / David R Godine, Publisher, Inc., godine.com.
Source:
Wicked Enchantment: Selected Poems
(Black Sparrow Press (Godine), 2020)
