Wicked Enchantment

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Wicked Enchantment Page 7

by Wanda Coleman


  a) a bag man for a drug cartel

  b) a liquor store owner

  c) a chicken franchise owner

  d) a real estate agent

  e) the new neighbor from a war-torn country

  Essay on Language 2

  before slavery

  my people-tongue (drum) was sure. there were no excesses. those who spoke it knew the work of tribal time during which they were not native but simply a history apart in which the cycles of life played out in accordance to the rhythms of that other continent

  oh we all speak

  eloquently of the introduction of the Atlantic into our speech. the middle passage. remember those who dove from the dutch ship into the deep, sacrificing themselves and their children, who cheated slavery in death. it was at this time a spiritual rending and longing (holler) was introduced into our tongue

  so that even now

  there are those still throwing themselves into the sea so-to-speak

  landed and chained

  our metaphor was denied, was first made “sin” against the mores of a slaving race, then “crime.” the english tongue was enforced/whipped into our flesh enough to make our servitude profitable. with the denial of our tongue, our creeds and worships were also denied. (in english our men and women have become genderless/interchangeable as “nigger”) thus a new sorrow was born and it too entered our tongue and created a resonance (blues) which distinguishes ours from all european speech and sets us apart even from those with whom we urge reunion

  and so we found

  thru deceit, ways to keep our tongue alive. to let it live within us though departed from our source. to become the tongue itself (attitude) so that it speaks even in our bodily movements. so that it seduces english, snaking back to ourselves. so that the dominant tongue, once infected with our hunger will one day succumb without divining what has happened (unspoken)

  and even now i

  gibber in my diverse postures, cajoling and conjuring. this spelling out. this gospel. it is about being and recognition of being. my tongue alive in my particular vocalizations, chorusing with like others also singing

  it be about bones doin’ somethang

  to the other Wanda Coleman

  —with apologies

  the phone rings again. something clicks. it’s dangerous

  to touch that thing

  day or night

  the sudden heaviness of breath/a hiss/a piercing

  “bitch”

  his voice gone, leaves a terrible resonant

  anger

  she shudders. why all this? why me? what have i

  done? this is the shits

  why don’t they get us straight? i’m me

  and she’s she

  she writes i write she’s black i’m black

  but other than that

  we’re nothin’ the like

  and while in the same place at just about

  the same time—we’ve never met

  dreaded moment: my name called from the podium

  we both stand

  double bubble gum

  dear world

  we know who’s who. when will you? she’s had hers

  disconnected

  American Sonnet 3

  fair splay/pay—the stuff myths are made of

  (cum grano salis)

  that thoughts become things

  words weapons

  who gives the african violet the right to bloom

  rain the right to be wet

  who permits the moon to draw menses

  i protest this tyranny of ghosts

  who reign in the world of letters

  would-be-betters

  in actuality

  pseudo-intellectuals with suck-holes for brains

  so dense even when the light goes on

  they’re still in the dark

  today i protest the color of the sky

  that is not the color of my skin

  American Sonnet 5

  rusted busted and dusted

  the spurious chain of plebian events

  (aintjahmamaauntjemimaondapancakebox?)

  which allows who to claim the largest number of homicides

  the largest number of deaths by cancer the largest

  number of institutionalized men the largest number of

  single female heads of household the largest number of

  crimes of possession the largest number of functionally

  insane the largest number of consumers of dark rum

  largely

  preoccupied with perfecting plans of escape

  see you later alligator

  after while crocodile

  after supper muthafucka

  American Sonnet 6

  portfolio profligates of creative capitalism

  proliferate—wage slave labor intensive

  pack up all your cares and dough

  here we go interest’s low

  bye-bye bankbook

  pro rata (whacked-out on assonance

  and alliteration)

  middle management mendacity

  (let jesus do it on his lunch hour)

  i hit forty before i got my first credit card

  zed-to-zed/the game of bird association

  when one’s only credentials are the holes

  in one’s tired bend-overs

  what does fame do without money?

  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 favor 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 papers 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 seep 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 cuffs 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

  we could’ve made it if

  i were flat

  and you were round

  you slept on your left side

  and i on my right

  you had the eyes of an iguana

  i had the lips of a rose

  you had been born under libra

  i had been born the year of the tiger

  if you were the loch and i the fathomless

  creature of your depths if

  your touch were as soft as your eyes

  my flesh were as hard as my heart

  i licked the salt from your neck

  you licked the salt from my wound

  you were my monkey

  i were your jones

  if

  you were taller

  i were brighter-skinned

  American Sonnet 7

  to take the outer skin in. rehumanize it

  is

  swallowing whole the dourness of

  an unremitting scorn and unstoppable cruelty

  the exploitive ambition of pricey looks

  stealing meat off the bone

  is

  to know grief my unnaming tongue

  it reaches for its lyric the mother of

  all pain to birth to know this ugly/an

  abandoned stillborn blued around its eyes and

  bodily bruised. found buried in a dumpster

  beneath the rages of an unsung life

  is

  to know i must survive myself

  feeling

  gives birth to

  movement

  Essay on Language 3

  lately i make sacrifice

  in terms of sweat

  what is the meaning of my thirst?

  there are cookie jars

  and there are cookie jars

  how do i enter apart from myself?

  the alabaster sentinel before the doorway

  halts ascension. “mama sweet mama don’t go”

  but i’m so torn so worn so full of scorn

  having exhausted reality so thoroughly

  will it call on me again?

  how many years in stir

  for fronting off truth as fiction

  where is the spark that promises stars?

  interference/red noise of pre-sex a sonorous

  breathy licking of licker he makes like a dragon

  some beast deranged by a prolonged case of

  blue balls

  who is in my blood?

  funny thing about lingoes

  death is to be fluent in them all

  Dream 1218

  i snap out of my distraction and hurry from the

  bus and

  realize i overshot the melrose exit. it’s a cold

  clear winter’s

  night and i’m stranded on a Hollywood street corner

  lights on

  buildings and marquees make my eyes feel brand new

  people are

  going about their commerce, in and out of buildings

  and numerous

  construction sites. i’m freezing, no coat, and

  anxious to

  get home. i seek out a phone booth and begin dialing

  frantic

  actually i’m at a casual affair and am immensely

  enjoying

  my dance with a guinean gentleman. he is very polite

  and makes no

  moves. the music stops. he thanks me, then escorts me

  over to a

  quiet corner where he introduces me to a British

  Shakespearian

  actor. we begin chit-chat

  still dialing i can’t get through i can’t get through

  i’m tired

  i want to go home and wonder how long it’ll take me to

  hoof it

  maybe twenty minutes. after a few persistent rings he

  answers

  sleepily distant. he’s been napping again, i think

  angrily, then

  ask him to come pick me up and he says, yeah, of course

  where are you?

  i look around for street signs and say, the corner of

  Selma and

  Hill. he doesn’t understand. “Where’s that?” i

  repeat it

  anxious over our apparent miscommunication. to

  complicate

  matters the vista begins to shift as i talk. suddenly i’m

  at the

  corner of Fountain and Nietzsche, then La Brea and Sunset

  which is easy

  for him to find. he yawns, “Okay” and i hang up, still

  angry, waiting

  i decide i may as well walk to keep warm and am suddenly

  joined by the

  British Shakespearian actor and Kat, my old runnin’ buddy

  from twenty

  years back. they appear out of thin air to accompany

  me with chit-chat

  and we’re suddenly home which is my parents’ house

  Kat and the

  actor bid me farewell and vanish as my lover comes

  out on the

  porch surprised to see me. i cuss him for not

  coming to

  pick me up. the car is still parked in the driveway

  he has no

  excuse and no apology

  then we’re in the laundry alcove next to the washing

  machine

  which is rapidly filling with hot water. i’m preparing

  the wash when

  my lover comes over to kiss me. i attack him, knocking

  him to the

  floor with the weight of my body. i begin to bury him

  head first

  in his own pile of dirty shirts

  i awake, my eyes focused on the levelor blinds. it is

  raining. i

  remember the letters i forgot to mail yesterday

  Want Ads

  40% of women who separated recently while

  in their 30s will never remarry

  long straight hair that hangs to the small

  of the back hangs to the hips dimples

  to the ankles gets in his face when

  she’s on top

  nor will about 70% of women who separated

  when older than 40

  flies in autumnal wind. jostles

  and bounces with each confident step

  mirrors sunlight. the youthful stuff sonnets

  and prayers are made of

  altho 72% of recently separated women will

  eventually go to the altar again, half will be single

  seven years after the split

  silk that hides the modest maidenly pubis

  inspires the bridal train

 
; represents tresses. 100 strokes of the brush

  to keep it glistening and tangle free

  a 46% remarriage rate for black women contrasted

  with 76% for white women

  no kinky snarls

  racial differences have been found before

  but the reasons

  are not understood

  moon goddess/the less that is more

  Neruda

  few quiet hours

  i spend them soaking in the tub with my neruda

  in a dream a bearded moreno stranger

  approaches me along a dark street in the plaza

  as we pass he whispers hoarsely, “neruda”

  on sunset boulevard a beggar accosts me

  for spare change. i hand him my collected neruda

  while my lover takes siesta i walk down to

  the neighborhood bar for a game of pool solo. i order

  dos besos. i put a quarter in the juke and notice

 

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