style="font-size:15px;"> You try to beat loneliness
out of a drum,
searching for a note
of kindness here at the edge
of this grab-wheel,
with little or no dragline
beyond the flowering trees
where only ghosts live—
no grip to clutch the truth
under a façade of skylarks.
—in memory of Richard Johnson
CANTE JONDO
Yes, I say, I know
what you mean.
Then we’re off.
Improvising on what
ifs: can you imagine
Langston & Lorca
hypnotized at a window
in Nella Larsen’s
apartment, pointing at
bridges & searchlights
in a summer sky, can you
see them? Their breath
clouds the windowpanes
one puffed cloud
indistinguishable from another.
They click their glasses
of Jamaican rum. To your
great King, says Lorca.
Prisoner in a janitor’s suit,
adds Langston. Their laughter
ferries them to a sidestreet
in the Alhambra,
& at that moment
they see old Chorrojumo,
King of the Gypsies
clapping his hands
& stamping his feet
along with a woman dancing
a rhumba to a tom-tom’s
rhythm. Is this Florence
Mills, or another face
from the Cotton Club
almost too handsome
to look at? To keep
a dream of Andulusian
cante jondo alive,
they agree to meet
at Small’s Paradise
the next night,
where the bells of trumpets
breathe honeysuckle & reefer,
where women & men make love
to the air. You can see
them now, reclining
into the Jazz
Age. You can hear Lorca
saying he cured his fear
of falling from the SS Olympic
on the road to Alfacar.
But the word sex doesn’t
flower in that heat wave
of 1929, only one man touching
the other’s sleeve, & hands
swaying to “Beale Street Blues.”
CHANGES; OR, REVERIES AT A WINDOW OVERLOOKING A COUNTRY ROAD, WITH TWO WOMEN TALKING BLUES IN THE KITCHEN
Left Column
Joe, Gus, Sham …
Even George Edward
Done gone. Done
Gone to Jesus, honey.
Doncha mean the devil,
Mary? Those Johnson boys
Were only sweet talkers
& long, tall bootleggers.
Child, now you can count
The men we usedta know
On one hand. They done
Dropped like mayflies—
Cancer, heart trouble,
Blood pressure, sugar,
You name it, Eva Mae.
Amen. Tell the truth,
Girl. I don’t know.
Maybe the world’s heavy
On their shoulders. Maybe
Too much bed hopping
& skirt chasing
Caught up with them
God don’t like ugly.
Look at my grandson
In there, just dragged in
From God only knows where.
He high tails it home
Inbetween women trouble.
He’s
