Capitalism and militarism, co-morbid effects for targets of
the complicit, and all are illicit, from Oakland to Detroit to
Camden, an underclass breeding bored boys hiding hallowed
handguns, crepuscular boys with five-hundred word vocabularies
riffing rap as humid dusk in D.C. with no air-conditioning to
mask offending odors of sweat and alcohol and fried flounder,
boyish boys powerless to reach for Gold Rings except those
on DeShawn’s calloused fingers or in 2Pac’s cold ears, unlucky
Isaiah mentoring no-one, boys silenced by their own limitations
in the Melting Pot of civic swarms buzzing but orderly,
perhaps not orderly like Reston but patterned like Harlem
where every boy has his place. Feminists ascribe madness to
Patriarchy, induced by confining surveillance choking
maturation to manhood, as luteous fat constricts vessels
made impassable by too much crisp chicken and terra-cotta
bacon on chipped plates swelling with sides—maybe glistening
greens or buttered biscuits—soothing a fundamental fury that
may manifest impulsively in defensive displays of violence
that Fanon exonerated as the privilege of all oppressed
found at micro- and macro-scale.
Ferguson, its colonized people, throwaways labeled coons
and monkeys behind closed doors, led by a passive member
of the Lumpenproletariat, a Captain also demeaned by the
powerful, or by what passes for power in Ferguson profiled
as a civic-state incorporated by Africa whose gold is housed
in London and Frankfurt and Paris, France, repressing memories
of Algeria where Frantz penned manifestos, not “polite statements”
for disconsolate dependents, some memorizing History at the
local college, never reading Fanon or Sartre or Foucault, analyses
imperiling owners and the bourgeoisie, not only white and Asian
but natives, also slaves, not slaves but peasants violated by
authority’s constant gaze barring any wish for sublime
moments save sex, mostly heaving and clammy, not knowing
or wanting a sensuous interlude, too time-consuming for
drudges with songs constantly dulling capacities for focus,
too many distractions and interruptions, experience turned
inward, bodies policing themselves, adding minutes, sometimes
hours, to colonizers’ freedoms, both with leisure time invested
differently, not really differently since, like Michel, both invest
subjectively. Would Fanon consider Ferguson a revolutionary
space, or would its wretched impotence make him weep?
Clara B. Jones practices poetry in Silver Spring, MD (USA). As a woman of color, she writes about identity, culture, & society and conducts research on experimental poetry, as well as, radical publishing. She is author of three chapbooks, and her poetry, reviews, essays, and interviews have appeared or are forthcoming in various venues.
I am not a silent poet 