Fanon
Poem
Medieval like Wallace. Gripping a shotgun. Robert Williams w/a purpose. And now anger is erosion. Like engine wear & tear. A railing rusting & crumbling under city hot & cold & snow & ice & skateboards. Those tracks do it now. Replacing ball fields, courts & my father & other men warned me how angry I would be one day when I saw something like that. & right on yr own block. Mad as hell like Howard in “Network.” Each day wrestling ourselves to the ground choking out the Marcellus underneath all the pulp. Bite your lip raw & red until my children have something that can get them out. Call their own shots like Ruth. Like Jimmy, Richard, Nina or Ollie. & some Black soldiers who went to Korea & never returned, who R.I.P. in Busan. We wait on the butcher here. Waring Cuney the poet somewhere all alone anonymously checking out. & Romare Bearden. I am not Colin Ferguson. I know what I feel & want to do. He was just out & did not compute the rapes. Some crooked pugilist didn’t free him as if he was Solomon Northrup down South not playing his violin. Cotton. Rice. Mosquitos. He took it. & he lived to sing the songs.
