POEM: HAIKU #63
haiku #63
power for control
is tyranny, the power
to create is life
—kalamu ya salaam
New Orleans writer, filmmaker and educator, Kalamu ya Salaam is co-director of Students at the Center, a writing program in the New Orleans public schools. Kalamu is the moderator of neo•griot, an information blog for black writers and supporters of our literature worldwide http://kalamu.posterous.com/
Kalamu is the moderator of Breath of Life, a Black music website http://kalamu.com/bol/
Kalamu shares his creative writings on WordUp blog http://wordup.posterous.com
Kalamu also shares images of interest on SEEN • What We See blog http://seen-images.posterous.com
Kalamu can be reached at kalamu@aol.com
haiku #63
power for control
is tyranny, the power
to create is life
—kalamu ya salaam
Emilio Santiago
I woke up, slowly, or I thought I woke up. Maybe I was still dreaming. Next thing I knew I had quit my job at the factory, and at the office, and on the assembly line and I was sitting on the warm ground with my father fishing in City Park. We both had on freshly washed jeans and old shirts. His had a torn pocket and a hole in the left sleeve, mine had chocolate milk stains on it from that morning when I went to drink the milk and missed my mouth.
My dad was showing me things he never showed me when he was alive, or maybe it was things he showed me but things somehow I was unable to see then even though he tried to show me. I smile as I see myself learning stuff from my dad. I was 13 and I was learning how to smile like a man.
When the sun started going down we walked home. He walked slowly enough that I could keep up without rushing. I was holding the poles and the empty bucket, we had released all the fish we caught. Daddy had said there was no need to take what we didn't need, we had food at home. I asked him why had we come fishing then, and he put his arm around my shoulder, loosely around my shoulders, and kissed me on the nose.
Fully awake now, I look over at you. You are still sleeping. The windows in our room are shaded but the morning light is spread around the edges like the crust on bread. You make a very light whistling sound as you inhale while sleeping. I don't want to turn the TV on. I don't want to see anymore hostages. If I turn the tv on I will become a hostage too. What does your mother think of me now? I am in the middle of my life and there are no bells on my shoulders, no post graduate degrees on my wall.
I can hear the traffic in the street outside. Where do people think they are going? I wish everyday I could go somewhere I've never been before, touch the doors of houses I've never entered, walk in the wash of seas that have never wet me. I start to wake you and ask you the last time we walked along in the park wandering hand in hand through the flock of ducks or when was it I most recently kissed you in public. Over all I'm pretty satisfied with our furniture, it's just the nagging thought that we didn't really need a leather sofa and glass topped coffee table to be happy, but it's just a thought.
I see the shape of you beneath the thin sheet pulled up almost to your shoulders. The radio has come on automatically, and as the jazz filters into the room and into my consciousness I realize it's on WWOZ and someone is on the radio saying that this is a gorgeous Monday, that Mondays are the best days of the week. I look at him queerly. The music is nice.
Suddenly there is this sound, this song that doesn't quite sound like the average song, it sounds so, so, so I don't know, so lonely, no not lonely, so incomplete, unfinished. It sounds like he is in my head, or I mean that music is music that is inside me, and somehow he saw it. Did my father tell him to play this music? And then the track is over. I listen for who the artist is and the DJ calls my name, but I never made any music. I never made the music I wanted to, maybe he is trying to tell me something.
The next song that plays is a ballad in some language I don't recognize but I clearly see myself singing this foreign song on a red tiled patio early in the morning with five freshly cut yellow roses in my hand.
I stand up to listen to the music better. Both my hands are on top of my head with my fingers interlaced. I am nude. You wake up. I can feel you watching me. My eyes are closed.
When the song ends you ask me what am I thinking. I tell you I don't know and you kiss my hand, the hand with which I reached down to touch your thick dark brown hair.
Is this still a dream? No, my fingers are wet where you kissed me. The music is filling our bedroom. Maybe I am supposed to be an artist. Finally I tell you as much of the truth as I am able to understand at this moment, "I was just listening to that music and it made me think about a lot of things I've always wanted to do...."
—kalamu ya salaam
who would you be, if you weren’t who you are?
“most people want younger,” he eyed me with bemusement, but i did not respond to his provocation. “but then you are not like most of our clients.”
i knew what he meant. one, i was african american. two, although on the cusp, i was not yet in my fifties. three, i wasn’t looking to be exotic, or trans-race, or exceptionally gifted physicially--well, actually, in a way, i did want to be a bit more exciting. average is ok, but, you know shorter or taller than normal might be better. but then, i don’t know, and i guess that’s what it is, i want to know something else. my new self doesn’t have to be a special something else…
“your tests results were excellent. you’ve fulfilled all the requirements and then some.” bob was chattering on. i took another sip from the room temperature goblet of wine. it was an excellent sherry. “may i call you arthur?” i started to say something that might vaguely sound smart like, “sure, bob, arthur or art, is fine,” but really it wasn’t fine, or i mean it would have been fine but i have never been an “art” or even “arthur” for that matter. so i said nothing.
my recollections reeled back to my ex-wife. even at our most intimate moments sandra called me by a contraction of my surname; i will always remember: “kenny my legs are wide open and my coochie’s dripping wet, just for you, baby.” but she never screamed nor got wild; i think she was making up that thing about being so wet just to con me, especially after that tryst with royce, which, as hurtful as the affair was, didn’t really lead to our break up because basically we were broke up before she started stepping out…
“frankly, i’m intrigued by your high verbal scores that indicate a philosophical bent. most of the people i see are so average it’s almost boring--please, disregard that last statement. i’m afraid this wine has clouded my judgment. it is entirely unprofessional for me to say anything about any of our other clients, even to generalize. nevertheless, i am intrigued. your undergraduate degree was in theological studies but you went on to earn an mba, top of your class and have spent seventeen years at the bureau of labor statistics. it’s unusual for a person to score higher on these verbal tests if they are not in a field that requires, well, you understand, i don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, i’m just admiring your test results. theology and philosophy are siblings, but add in business and statistics. frankly, arthur, you are an unusual man.”
bob’s steely blue-grey eyes focused on me with an unwavering gaze as though i were a picasso he was trying to decipher. i remember peeping at him while we were auditioning bodies. he didn’t flinched when i wondered aloud: “why would these people volunteer to… ummm, to trade-in their bodies.”
i wondered whether the models were aware they were on view. “self sacrifice is not unusual for the benefit of one’s family. were it not for our generosity to these donors, we could offer this service at much more affordable price point, but frankly, i think it is better to charge those with disposable income than to exploit those who are financially challenged.”
i could have chosen to be any one of them, or so i was told, “but,” and i had surprised myself by boldly offering an opinion in the form of a question, “why would any man want to become a female?” i choose not to be personally offended that there were women sprinkled among my candidates.
without even a hint of sarcasm, bob quietly retorted, “there are many of us who feel trapped in the body of the wrong gender. we at nu-life advancement don’t judge the etiology of desire, we serve to help our clients achieve life lived to the fullest. over and above our commitment to our clients, philosophically,” at that moment bob had paused and softly rested a hand on my shoulder before intoning, “one could ask a fundamental question: what is wrong with becoming whomever we want to be?”
bob’s expertly manicured nails gleamed in the candle light as he waved away the waitress who was holding a water pitcher to top off his glass. “art, i sense you have a question.”
a non-refundable, hundred fifty thousand tab was not so expensive considering that one got a whole new life, except... “suppose, once i’ve made the switch, if i’m dissatisfied, can i obtain a second switch?”
bob smiled cryptically, well, not fully smiled, just sort of barely opened his mouth and clasped his hands with forefingers extended, brought them up to his lips, and then rested the tips of his fingers on the tip of his nose before clearing his throat. “nu-life advancement has a policy of non-serial transfers, meaning, second transfer are prohibited. this is why our selection process is so strenuous. we don’t accept everyone who wants a life transfer, nor do we always perform a client’s initial choice. we once had…” bob inexplicably paused and looked away.
“you once had…?”
bob cleared his throat a second time. “actually, i’m not supposed to engage this line of questioning. our policy pro…” bob abruptly halted. folding his arms as he leaned back in the booth. “i can’t…” he sat up straight.
i could tell he was stalling, waiting for me to interrupt him, but i had read the book on negotiating. i knew to say nothing. absolutely nothing. let him work it out. even if he said he couldn’t, i would say nothing and just wait. i didn’t look down or away, i stared him in the eyes, besides in this dimly lit lounge, neither of us could clearly see the other person across the table.
“you understand what i’m saying?”
i waited. didn’t move a muscle, no lick of the lips, no nod of the head. nothing. i just looked and waited.
bob reached into his coat jacket and took out his fountain pen—the pen he called his “contract” pen. i remember his ritual: “a signing should be done with an instrument befitting the seriousness of the occasion, hence i use a monteblanc. you know there are not that many of these in general circulation anymore.” bob tapped the pen lightly against his palm.
“mr. kennedy we once had an african american female who wanted to transfer into a white male. although she was otherwise fully qualified we declined. after we declined she threatened to sue. bottom line, he/she now works for us.”
was he saying what i thought he was saying, which was that bob had once been a black woman? i mean that’s not what he said but that was just the feeling i was getting, especially from the way he doodled on the pad with the ink pen. drawing a circle and then slowly filling it in. i wanted to ask a plethora of questions, but, holding to my plan, said nothing. didn’t even act like i heard him.
bob slowly screwed the cap back on his pen and gently lay the pen down next to the small notepad on which he had been noodling. “mr. kennedy do you have any other questions?”
i just looked at him. and then he folded his hands atop the table and stared back at me.
“hearing no further questions, once you sign…” bob reached into his brief and pulled out a paper. “this is a release form. remember, the contract you signed previously gave you a two week wavier period during which, for any reason whatsoever, you could change your mind and be fully released from your contract with nu-life advancement with no penalty whatsoever.”
bob placed the single sheet of paper before me. there was only one short paragraph printed on the nu-life advancement stationary.
“this is your acknowledgement that you have not changed your mind and that you hold nu-life advancement harmless should the procedure turn out other than you expect.”
bob proffered me his pen.
“i didn’t know i would have to… i mean i thought this was basically a follow-up session and…”
“take this home with you and read it at your leisure. if, for any reason whatsoever, you do not wish to sign, simply return this release to us unsigned and we will refund your payments. we at nu-life advancement understand that this is the single most important decision you will make in a lifetime. we want you to make this decision without any compulsion or pressure. if you have any questions, please ask them. if you feel any hesitancy, we understand. do not. i repeat, do not feel you must sign this release. if you do not want to proceed, if you feel uneasy, or just have a premonition that this is not what you should do. please do not sign this release.”
bob’s steely eyes were boring into me the whole time he mechanically unreeled his spiel. it was almost like he was challenging me to stand down. i looked at the paper. who was i kidding. i’d come too far to turn around now. i took the pen from bob and signed.
“thank you, mr. kennedy.”
bob gently retrieved the signed release, spun it around, extended his hand asking for the pen. after i gave it to him, bob signed the release in my presence.
“we will mail you a copy of this release.” and then bob put the paper back in his case, screwed the top back on his pen and smoothly replaced the pen into his inside breastpocket.
“we’ll see you on the 25th. good luck mr. kennedy.”
bob rose, extended his hand to shake. i firmly clasped his hand. “thank you, bob.”
* * *
“how did it go?”
“how does it always go? here’s the release.”
“robert, this is unbelievable. that’s what, the third one this week? one hundred fifty thousand a pop. what people won’t pay for physical enhancement.”
“it’s advancement, not enhancement. we are not some hollywood surgeon firming up tits and lipo-sucking stomachs. we are personal development specialists who help our clients achieve a higher state of life through physical and mental advancement. we are selling dreams, fulfilling desires, everybody wants to be more than they are. we’re just offering a process for our clients to achieve…”
“everybody has a right to be the person they desire to be. robert, that was great ad copy you wrote.”
“i didn’t write it, i stole it. mind you wants because someone wants your mind.”
“what?”
“george clinton.”
“who?”
“i grew up in d.c. used to be one of the few whites at clinton’s p-funk concerts. one day my father pulled me aside: robert, son, you are attracted to all those eccentric people—how many of those whom you follow live a good life after they reach fifty? i couldn’t think of one of my musical heroes who was over fifty—even clinton has lost most of his music publishing, so in that sense i no longer admire him. i can hear my father now: ‘son, it’s ok to enjoy yourself, but please think about your future. don’t end up penniless in your senior years. there’s nothing hip, as you call it, about being old, poor and uncared for’.”
“for sure you’re not poor.”
“poverty is boring—i have no intentions of ever being poor. simon, send mr. kennedy to barbados for his procedure. he’ll die happy.”
“robert, you are a genius.”
“no. i’m not a genius. it’s just that so many people are dissatisfied with who they are. for a fee, we help them out of their misery. they think they’re getting a new life, and in a way they are. it’s just not in this life. after all, who knows, there may indeed be life after death.”
—kalamu ya salaam
my eyes wide open:
an open letter to my executioners
if you
catch me, so be it
my dark face knows
bush joys
i laugh at your square world
alternatives, everything you offer
smells like jail
my hair has been clipped
many, many times
but i continue to let it grow
choosing my beard over the edge
of your razor
track me with your dogs, spy
my toe prints on the mud
where i ran, where i danced
catch me if you can
and if you do
so be it
but before i'd dine on your
stolen feasts
i'll drink rain,
wash myself in the streams of life
and keep steppin'
keep steppin'
keep right on steppin' down the road
past my people's martyred bones
broken and stacked in irregular piles
by the wayside, past skulls
perched on poles, cruel totems
which i decline to heed
even if i have to go
totally nude to fight your dragons
you will not detour me
i will go
i will live while i'm alive
i refuse to die while i am alive
refuse
i will even go to your white wall
place my firm handprint on the
damp stucco darkened by body
fluids siphoned from murdered comrades
reject the charity of your blindfold
wink as i stare down your bullets, and
greet sweet death with
my eyes wide open
catch me if you can
and if you do
so be it
—kalamu ya salaam
Yesterday or Tomorrow?
The past is the only future we can truly know and, unfortunately, there is so much about our past we will never know.
“Do you think one day, I mean like centuries from now, somewhere, some group of intelligent beings are going to sit around and speculate about us, the way we speculate about, say, dinosaurs?”
I looked at See-unk like he was crazy. “What you mean ‘we’? You been outside too much. Besides, what makes you think that life has to be intelligent, talking, philosophizing, etc.? You know what I’m saying? I think it’s a human conceit to think that “intelligent” life is the only life that counts. What about trees? Or roaches, for that matter? Or algae? Or amoebas?”
“See, that’s the problem with asking you a simple question. Can’t nothing ever be like: ‘yeah’ or straight up, ‘no.’ Or for that matter, not even a simple ass, ‘maybe.’ Noooo, with you, everything got to be complicated, complex, full of conditionals and wrinkles and shit."
“Well, who else would be thinking about long-gone dinosaurs except somebody who is complex?”
* * *
—kalamu ya salaam
I WONDER WHAT YOU FEEL LIKE NOW (after a 24nov2010 meeting with Ozge Ersoy & her friend Canay) I talked to Esim yesterday, had not seen her since March 1965 when I was fleeing back south, Ozge you were The Esim I seldom recall but can never forget The patience of Esim’s eyes speaking to me full on unafraid Of my young blackness, like when you slapped my hand As I moved to caress the magnet that was your breast And shortly after the sting had subsided and I withdrew My fingers from beneath your blouse I felt your hand atop Mine leading me to cup your fully clothed breast I was not confused, I knew that we were reaching For each other across dangerous cultural waters, Esim Bozoklar from Turkey, Val Ferdinand from New Orleans Most days I think our union never could have held I had too many changes yet to go through, too much Growth to accomplish, too much, besides America is always Both inhospitable and dangerous for any shade Of otherness, any language other, and especially Any mixture or matching of outsiders, would I Like Baldwin have flown to Turkey, how would our children Have identified themselves—Esim, though we chose not to Cross those tough bridges I think our conversation perhaps Assures me there was room for us on the other side, Ozge You could have been my daughter and Esim’s eyes Would be the answer to questions we have for each other A Turkish woman is talking to me tenderly even though A casual ease-dropper might simply think us intellectuals In a café exchanging ideas and academic theories The onlooker would not, could not feel the river of emotions Flowing beneath the calm of our conversation, Esim/Ozge I don’t know what you were thinking about, but I’m certain I know that I was thinking about you; and now I am writing this A day later on another day like most days except today is the last Thursday in November when America celebrates a holiday Giving thanks for all they stole, most of us render praises unto The lord but shouldn’t our hosannas be devil due? Fortunately I don’t believe in all of that, any of that, I believe In life in all its contradictions, I try to avoid absolutes And sentimentalities, regrets and maudlin thoughts about Could have beens, should have beens, and any thing other Than what is—nevertheless I wonder, Esim, are you still alive, Do you reside anywhere besides inside this cup of memory Harbored in the flesh of my hand’s long ago touch —kalamu ya salaam
haiku #140
outside wind chimes ring
inside skin on skin, quiet
moon pauses, listens
—kalamu ya salaam
haiku #62
waves climb seawall steps
angled rain wets the lake, we
watch in awed silence
—kalamu ya salaam
snapshot: dawn in dar es salaam
our intimacy is as subtle as the mottled shade of shell colors
on a warm basket of cayenne scented boiled crabs
or, more likely, the faint hint of spearmint tea
silently seeping while your attention is turned
to spreading the beige soft of cashew butter across
the crisp of one slice of toasted sourdough
which innocently rests near the dark
of seeded unsugared strawberry jam freshly smeared
atop the face of the bread's twin -- quiet contentment
is morning within our colorful kitchen where we are
as gaily nude as the golden gleam of early light
streaming through our window diagonally impressing
a translucent tattoo onto both the half sphere of your breast
& the upraised arm of my hand reaching to caress
—kalamu ya salaam
so why does the world hate us?
(and who is this “us” they hate?)
so what do you do now sweet poet, grin bullet teeth? hold out for pious
hugs based on the necessity of samaritan love? how can we denounce
the blindness of flag waving at terrorists we can’t see? the plans
of militarists to bring them afghans back dead or alive? the immobilizing
fear that the populace eats instead of airline cuisine? and the saintly
diatribes of ministers salivating at the chance to bless our bombs?
can a poem really promote peace without the grease of middle east
petroleum to oil the sophisticated wheels of our daily life? you want
me to say something profound, to propose a safe path through the
minefield of international intrigue where cowboys are hated
worse than rattlesnakes—well, partner it’s simple, either we rein in our government
or else we mossy along with the rest of the herd, stumbling in the dark
of our dearly beloved democratic ignorance, oblivious to our sins and
perpetually surprised that so much of the world hates our comfortable asses.
—kalamu ya salaam
