Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'fore I Diiie Read Free

red-shoed priests riding
    palanquined
    in barefoot children country.
    the plastered saints gazing down
    beneficently
    on kneeling mothers
    picking undigested beans
    from yesterday’s shit.
    I have waited
    toes curled, hat rolled
    heart and genitals
    in hand
    on the back porches
    of forever
    in the kitchens and fields
    of rejections
    on the cold marble steps
    of America’s White Out-House
    in the drop seats of buses
    and the open flies of war
    No more
    the dream that you
    will cease haunting me
    down in fetid swamps of fear
    and will turn to embrace your own
    humanity
    which I AM
    No more
    The hope that
    the razored insults
    which mercury slide over your tongue
    will be forgotten
    and you will learn the words of love
    Mother Brother Father Sister Lover Friend
    My hopes
    dying slowly
    rose petals falling
    beneath an autumn red moon
    will not adorn your unmarked graves
    My dreams
    lying quietly
    a dark pool under the trees
    will not carry your name
    to a forgetful shore
    And what a pity
    What a pity
    That pity has folded in upon itself
    an old man’s mouth
    whose teeth are gone
    and I have no pity.
My Guilt
    My guilt is “slavery’s chains,” too long
    the clang of iron falls down the years.
    This brother’s sold. This sister’s gone
    is bitter wax, lining my ears.
    My guilt made music with the tears.
    My crime is “heroes, dead and gone”
    dead Vesey, Turner, Gabriel,
    dead Malcolm, Marcus, Martin King.
    They fought too hard, they loved too well.
    My crime is I’m alive to tell.
    My sin is “hanging from a tree”
    I do not scream, it makes me proud.
    I take to dying like a man.
    I do it to impress the crowd.
    My sin lies in not screaming loud.
The Calling of Names
    He went to being called a Colored man
    after answering to “hey nigger,”
    Now that’s a big jump,
    anyway you figger,
    Â Â Hey, Baby, Watch my smoke.
    From colored man to Negro
    With the N in caps,
    was like saying Japanese
    instead of saying Japs.
    Â Â I mean, during the war.
    The next big step
    was a change for true,
    From Negro in caps
    to being a Jew.
    Â Â Now, Sing Yiddish Mama.
    Light, Yellow, Brown
    and Dark brown skin,
    were o.k. colors to
    describe him then,
    Â Â He was a Bouquet of Roses.
    He changed his seasons
    like an almanac,
    Now you’ll get hurt
    if you don’t call him “Black.”
    Â Â Nigguh, I ain’t playin’ this time.
On Working White Liberals
    I don’t ask the Foreign Legion
    Or anyone to win my freedom
    Or to fight my battle better than I can,
    Though there’s one thing that I cry for
    I believe enough to die for
    That is every man’s responsibility to man.
    I’m afraid they’ll have to prove first
    that they’ll watch the Black man move first
    Then follow him with faith to kingdom come,
    This rocky road is not paved for us,
    So, I’ll believe in Liberal’s aid for us
    When I see a white man load a Black man’s gun.
Sepia Fashion Show
    Their hair, pomaded, faces jaded
    bones protruding, hip-wise,
    The models strutted, backed and butted,
    Then stuck their mouths out, lip-wise.
    They’d nasty manners, held like banners,
    while they looked down their nose-wise,
    I’d see ’em in hell, before they’d sell
    me one thing they’re wearing, clothes-wise.
    The Black Bourgeois, who all say “yah”
    When yeah is what they’re meaning
    Should look around, both up and down
    before they set out preening.
    â€œIndeed” they swear, “that’s what I’ll wear
    When I go country-clubbing,”
    I’d remind them please, look at those knees
    you got a Miss Ann’s scrubbing.
The Thirteens (Black)
    Your Momma took to shouting
    Your Poppa’s gone to war,
    Your sister’s in the streets
    Your brother’s in the bar,
    The thirteens. Right On.
    Your cousin’s taking smack
    Your Uncle’s in the joint,
    Your buddy’s in the gutter
    Shooting for his