Good again
It’s put a stamp
On that note . . . not letter . . . and mail it
To a lonesome heart
Don Pullen sought community
Music
He wanted to play his tune
Out of tune sometimes
With friends who had another tune
To play
And if all tunes played
Their own tunes
Then wouldn’t that tune be in harmony . . . wouldn’t it?
He lived across the street
On 84th Street
From my first New York apartment
I don’t play music I listen
Milford Graves, Cornell Dupree lived on that street
Eugene McDaniels down the street
Gregory Hines around the corner and a host of painters and writers
Did I mention George Faison and Morgan Freeman
And Clifton Davis came calling sometimes
What a pleasure to be
Young
And creative
And so sure of the future
We added to that conversation
And Don Pullen added to that song
MAKING A PERFECT MAN
(for Walter Leonard)
Good Morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. This morning we are going to make the perfect man.
Though you come to this enterprise with clean hands, please remember you cannot wash your hands of it. It is wise, however, to push back the wars and disease. We must understand that they are there but we will try not to wallow in them nor will we encourage any playing with them. You all remember what happened the last time we were working on men and all those hate viruses were set free. It practically took a world war to clean it up, then that Bush boy comes along shaking that blanket again.
Yes, well, the first thing to remember, Class, is that mistakes do happen. It is normal and to be expected. I always remind my students, though, to be sure to start with the best, freshest materials. I recommend the soil be flown in from Africa. There are some problems, true, but, mostly because Africa could not afford fertilizers, the soil is uncontaminated. Yes, yes, I know that sometimes the soil is sandy or weedy and a lot of times suppliers will cheat but that’s why it’s so important to go to reliable dealers. You pay a bit more in time and money but look at the quality.
Our task today is not the Perfect Man but The Man Perfectly suited for us.
Now, I always tell everyone, intelligence. I would put that in first. I know there is a school of thought that says “Intelligence can come last” or in the middle or at any time but I’m old-fashioned. If you want it, put it first. Let those other things adjust to it! I like kindly looks. I’ve seen enough of those pretty boys who are cruel and dumb. It may be that cruelty leads to dumbness or maybe dumbness to cruelty but either way I like a good clean sparkle in the eye.
Hold your question for a minute. I think knowing the Creator’s preference helps you to know what you are expected to make. I once made seven six-foot-nine guys for the Los Angeles basketball team and I can’t begin to tell you what a mistake it was. I could never smooth the arrogance out and Boy! Wow! Did we all pay for it. So I urge you on your first times to go a bit shorter. And that is also easier on Elegance. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve turned down commissions from people seeking Defensive Linesmen. There is no way to make them Elegant and I just won’t be part of that. Your Quarterback, Wide Receivers . . . Yes. But the Linesmen, Offensive and Defensive . . . no way. I think football needs to go smaller anyway so that there are fewer injuries but that is not our subject this morning.
Lay out all your ingredients: good black soil, intelligence, elegance, a twinkle in each eye, and now we are getting there. Gently mix them. A lot of you young creators think you need to knock your man around but “No.” Gently mix, prod, and knead. Don’t forget to add ambition and once you have a good mix a pinch of ambition is the perfect elixir. Now, I prefer patience after you have let it sit and mingle with itself. Yes, yes, I know getting patience in with just the right touch can sometimes mean loneliness but that’s why intelligence is so important. Remember what happened to Michael Jackson with all that talent but no balance for the loneliness which led to an overruling of intelligence and all that ugliness that followed. I think a little loneliness is not all that bad.
Some of your older creators will recommend at this point firing him up but, as I say, I’m old-fashioned. Send him off to college, grad school, ultimately let him spend some time in a northern clime with a good harbor and excellent beans. Beans are so essential to growth, both physical and emotional. What you want to do is also remember to reward him as he does the right things. I would suggest a Betty if things are going as we think. A Betty is so easy to make. A good strong piece of chocolate. I prefer chocolate for my Bettys because it’s already sweet and warm. You don’t have to do a lot to give it a good shape and that place in her heart can so easily be filled with both intelligence and love. In all my centuries of creating I have never had a chocolate Betty be anything less than fabulous.
It’s understood that some rain will fall so send him to a small colored college in the South to help save it. Then make sure they are ungrateful. Excuse me for giggling, Class, but I just love ingratitude. In the beginning I fought so hard against ingratitude with You-Know-Who but He wouldn’t listen. To shut me up He said: “Well, how can we compromise on this?” I said: “A Daughter. The only antidote to ingratitude is a daughter.” I’m glad to say I was proven right on that one.
Oh, we know we’ve had our Adams and Georges and stuff. If this one comes out the way I think, I am planning to call him Walter: A good, strong name for a kind, elegant, intelligent, patient man. You can, at your option, add a sense of humor.
And if for some reason he’s not perfect he’s so close that only the perfect ones will know he’s just a man. That’s it for our lesson this morning.
WHEN MY PHONE TREMBLES
(for D’Angelo)
When my phone
Trembles
After midnight
I never think
of good news:
Someone’s birthday
An overseas friend
Forgetting
The time difference
I never smell
Apples baking
Or nutmeg dancing
On sweet potatoes
Yeast rolls rising
Fish frying
I always look
For a way to hold
Myself
Together
Being a ’60s person
I know
You have to be
Strong
When my phone trembles
After midnight
I take
A deep breath
Reach for my glasses
Think of my son
And I Pray
STILL LIFE WITH CRYING GIRL
Please don’t answer before midnight
I had a dream
Last night
I sleep with earphones to drown out fears
Jazz mostly
Piano jazz
With a little Milt Jackson on the side
Saying it saying it saying it clear
“Save Your Love for Me”
But I was living in a wooded area
Very nice homes
Strange neighbors with kids and dogs and stuff
And I was in the kitchen by my mother
My father was breaking up the table
Throwing things around knocking chairs over
He didn’t seem dangerous
Just mean
I picked my mother up from behind
Sort of like a heavy sack of flour
Or birdseed or even gravel for the pond
And carried her out
Then when I sat her down we were back in the kitchen again
I took her to a vehicle
I want to say a “car” but it wasn
’t a car
No no don’t answer until midnight I won’t be ready until then
And I drove away
It was as curvy as all get-out—a dirt road that was
Actually a lovely brown
But when we stopped we were back
In the kitchen
My sister was looking
And I was trying to say something
Which came out all crazy
So this 2 is not a poem
Because if it were a poem
I would put my head in your lap
And cry and cry
But since it is not a poem it must be
A painting Still Life with Crying Girl
And what we would see is a bowl of half-eaten raspberries
Mint leaves drenched in the sugary liquid
And a little fly
Poised in the corner
At midnight attracted by the fly
The common vampire bat
On the light of a moonbeam
Will come to hold my head
ROBERT CHAMPION
(Who Died at the Hands of His Bandmates)
The ever restless ocean
Beating against sea
And sky
Grinds, no gently rubs,
The bones of Robert Champion
Into the salt
Of his ancestors
Driven into the blue
Through Middle Passage
We know the torture
Of slavery
And apartheid
We know the terror
Of Jim Crow
Who would imagine The Band
Would kill
Are we having too many
Black men trying to sing
A praise song
Too many Black men trying
To show a better self
So many Black men
That we can spare them
I don’t think so
There can be no excuse
For this murder
There can be no I didn’t
Realize he was dying
How could you not know
When you act like nazis
Jesus is crucified
How could you not understand
This child should have lived
How could Black men do this
to each other?
ALLOWABLES
I killed a spider
Not a murderous brown recluse
Nor even a black widow
And if the truth were told this
Was only a small
Sort of papery spider
Who should have run
When I picked up the book
But she didn’t
And she scared me
And I smashed her
I don’t think
I’m allowed
To kill something
Because I am
Frightened
FLYING IN KIGALI
Or
War Is Never Right
For some reason
Or perhaps
None
The dew was just lifting
Which is not unreasonable
But something for no reason
Made me walk
In my house slippers
To the little dogwood tree
Recently planted
By the shed
As I watered the tree
And, frankly, took joy
In the grass coming up
Where I had tried
For several years to no avail
To grow this little spot of green
I spotted a furry thing
Without thinking
I turned the hose on it
Assuming it was a mushroom
Or some of the mold
That occasionally forms
On top of the mulch
I know there could not
Have been a scream because
Screams aren’t possible
For little birds
But there was a protest
My heart broke
This little robin was out of the nest
Before she could fly
And I live with a Yorkie
Who was sniffing the yard
I grabbed the dog
Taking her back inside
And returned
To understand
This little bird would die
The mother was overhead now
And I put the bird in a basket
To take her beyond the reach
Of Alex though surely
Into the paw
Of one of the cats that roam
Some will say: It’s Mother Nature’s
way Some will say: It’s Natural
Some will say: It is out of your hands
There is Nothing you can do about it
But it still breaks my heart
To know that little robin
Cannot be saved
TEREZIN: WHERE THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND DIED BUT IT WAS NOT A DEATH CAMP
I don’t want you
To watch me sleeping I don’t want you
To look worriedly
Over me
In some hospital bed
Tied up with tubes
Laboring over my breath
Until I take that last one
And release my energy
There was a deer
In the middle of Highway 81
She had been hit
And could not run
While waiting for some uninterested trucker
She held up her head
And I
In cowardly concern
Turned away
There was
On a cold snowy night
Coming across the West Virginia Turnpike
A rabbit which tried to cross
Four lanes of traffic
The head was hit
But hadn’t yet told the legs
So they kept running
And I from fatigue
And helplessness drove
On
Slavery was not fun
The holocaust happened
People are not good
And yet we go on
Until we stop
And I think
The only bravery available
To us
Is to Remember
Smell—
As we all know—
Is half the taste
TO THE LION WHO DISCOVERED A DEER IN HIS HABITAT:
GIVE HIM KETCHUP!
Because who was knocking on my door
After midnight
I know it wasn’t you
’Cause you said:
This is it. I am out of here. I don’t want to hear it anymore
And I said:
Well go. You think I care?
Ergo I know it wasn’t you
Needing my arms
Or my kisses
Not to mention my roast beef
So who was knocking at that hour
Last night night before
24 robbers at my door
I got up let them in
Hit them in the head
With a rolling pin
All hid?
And the lion pounced
Because it was such a treat
The chance to butcher his own meat
Not that the zoo butcher didn’t cut a fine roast
But hell
He could for the first time in his life
Do it himself
Remember when you were learning to walk
And your mom would hold your hand
Remember when you started dressing yourself
And your big sister laughed at your stripes and plaids
Well that lion didn’t have anyone to answer to now
But himself
Imagine his pride when he carted dinner home
That night
Imagine the good good love they would make
> While she crooned what a lion he is
And then the zookeeper came and said:
Deer is not good for you
Yes, dear, she said, I am
Pass the ketchup, Mr. Zookeeper
You or the antelope?
Fresher Meat, Better Tasting
Papa John
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF POETRY
Poetry is as necessary
To life
As salt is to stew
As garlic is to pasta
As perfume is to summer nights
As shaving lotion is to mornings
As your smile is to
My happiness
Poetry is as significant
To life
As yeast is to bread
As butter is to toast
As grapes are to wine
As sugar is to lemons
How else will we get
Lemonade
Poetry is to me
Your voice
Your touch
Your laughter
That feeling at the end of day
That I am
Not alone
NOTE TO THE SOUTH: YOU LOST
The buzz of the flies
Almost was a lullaby
Rocking the dead
To a restful place
You couldn’t hear the ants
Though they were
Clearly there
In the eyes the mouths
Any wound or soft
Tissue
The worms had come
Understanding those
Which were not
Trampled
Would have a great
Feast
The grasses had no
Choice but to drink
Down the blood
And bits of flesh
That were ground
Into them
In the future
It would be girls
Not field rats
Who would follow
The soldiers
Into the trenches
In the future there
Would be single
Engine airplanes
Dropping bombs
And then
In the scientific imagination
Of the 21st century
There would be men
And women
Pushing buttons
Making war clean
And distant
But today
On This battlefield
The deadliest of This war
The Songbirds had been
Frightened off
The Turkey Buzzards retreated to watch
Deer Skunk Raccoons
Possum Groundhogs gathered
To let the smoke clear
And only the moans
Chasing Utopia Page 7