36 Views of SF: 36+17. American Son: A Chautauqua in Five Acts
July 24, 2018
I.
scratch some bitches
racism spills
all-american blood
blood trying to prove
itself American.
racism is the toxic dump site
of American narcissism, vanity,
discomfort, unhappiness.
the pursuit of happiness,
wealth, status, even beauty,
has practically required racism
since Columbus got here.
it’s also the cheap easy way
to hurt someone
when you want to stay in charge
yes.
she called me a nigger.
and did much worse.
left neural scars with her curse.
(i don’t even think i’ve yet
even lived their lives
been more carried by blacks
than carried them.
But maybe being called names
and treated worse
calls me to honor our human struggle
with this verse.)
let’s just say her growth zone
was a narrow window slit
that led straight to
the overwhelm patio deck
the overwhelm gazebo
the overwhelm pool, fountain and garden,
the overwhelm underground
parking garage
where she parked
all her overwhelmed,
hostile cars.
even a little light
through this window hurt,
because she didn’t like
looking at herself.
truth be told,
i wasn’t blame-free.
sometimes I
couldn’t help but
piss off
a bitch.
but if the blame-game
is your only game
you’ve got more problems
than me.
II.
blaming me was easier, though.
she ate my liver regularly
American Eagle
to my Prometheus,
False God
to my Lucifer.
all she needed was a scapegoat.
i tried to give her antidotes
but so far, have failed.
sooner or later, though
we all have to decide
whether we value
form or substance.
“value substance over form”
even accountants know this rule
if form is emptiness
and emptiness is form
then the only substance
is emptiness
and everything leans
we are all substantial
though our forms deceive
look beyond form
look beyond your
one true enemy
look for the substance
of the thing
look for the soul
of our new machine
bricolage-make
the soul
of our new machine
III.
Saint Francis
would be a good place to start.
His city calls.
start where you’re at
and lean,
San Francisco,
lean.
New York City
can lean in too.
i’ve seen her do it.
this redness between us
on this map of memory
is just witness to our common strife
blood is common law
we all have spilled for life
blood brothers
blood sisters
bloods.
we’ve all leaned
in blood.
we’re born in it.
we die in it.
it’s never run white, yellow, brown or black,
jew or gentile,
muslim, buddhist or christian
agnostic or atheist.
it’s all red.
we’re all in our
red meat bodies.
red.
IV.
just because you’ve
forgotten your blackness, though
don’t ask me to
lose mine,
America,
don’t ask me to
lose mine.
we’ve been black for
150,000 years or more.
we need to go back.
Remember.
anyway,
my skin’s the only way
i know
to help
The American Bitch.
my skin’s
in
this game.
every doctor’s got
their
one true patient
just like every patient’s got
their
one true doctor.
Themselves.
Our one true enemy
has many names:
hate, greed, jealousy, fear,
ignorance.
Suffering.
Ego.
pitiful talents
that eclipse our sun.
against those odds,
in this world,
who can’t be a hero?
even American Bitches
can win
even American Buddhists
can win
(if they remember
they’re black)
V.
We are the Mandela generations,
Black Mandala generations.
Our Sun was Black.
Never forget!
Never give up!
Our Sun was Black.
America,
your Son is Black.
Your Buddhist Son
is Black.
(he would say
Beautiful too,
but he don’t want to
brag.)
Blog pairing: A Trump Presidency: The Empire Strikes Back
MEMOIRS OF A SUPERFAN VOLUME 13.12: “FOR IZZY” – AN INTERVIEW
Video pairings:
Collecting and Recollecting: Poetry, Neuroscience and Psychiatry (July, 2013)
Poem commemorating Nelson Mandela (December, 2013)
Where Do You Come From? A Poem
© 2018, Ravi Chandra. All rights reserved.
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