Copyright 2016 by A. J. Hayes. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover image courtesy of Africa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net Acknowledgements: “Our Stories” appears on TimBookTu.com (Summer, 2014)
Here we have brought our three gifts and mingled them with yours: a gift of story and song—soft, stirring melody in an ill-harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the Spirit. -- W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folks
MITOCHONDRIA Give me sun Give me sky and breeze Give me sturdy woodlands And sporadic hopping rabbits Give me clean water And food, fresh, plucked From nature's bosom Give me melanin To absorb cosmic rays And mitochondria To convert the substance Of the universe into energy.
OUR STORIES I sought after the Darker brother, because He could spot The invisible man, The souls of black folks And the spook behind the door. I found this negro speaking Of rivers through an alabaster mask; His voice like a caged bird Trying to sing. His lips were the color purple; His skin like a raisin in the sun. But he was still beloved, because he spoke Of Mawu, Legba and the Orisha; Of the riches of the empire of Mali; Of Kentake of Meroe's bravery. He ended his speech with his story Of how he came up from slavery. Then he charged me to follow the griot's way: To speak our histories until my final day.
WHISKEY WOMAN: A BLUES POEM I. My whiskey woman Done done me wrong I say my whiskey woman Done done me wrong Left me alone in bed To go drinking All night long II. My whiskey woman Don’t treat me right My whiskey woman Never treats me right She leaves me thirsty To make love to Jack Daniels All through the night III. My whiskey woman Left me for Jameson Telling you my whiskey woman Left me for a bottle of Jameson All I can do is cry My shame Is my sin
KOM (KEEP ON MARCHING) I raised my black fist high and punched a bald eagle outta the sky. It nosedived, landed lifeless in the mud at my feet, but I had to keep on marching. To my left are my elders—mud splashing their ankles as they raise their canes in unison. On my right are crawling infants, somehow keeping pace. Behind me, my nieces and nephews urge me to keep on marching; to pump my black fist in the air as I step over dead birds and avoid the ones plummeting from our synchronized skyward thrusts. In the distance, down this murky path, I see Eshu and Yemanya, their fists in the air, beckoning me, the babies, the youth, the elders—all those they protect— with these words: “Keep on marching. Keep on marching. The ancestors are with you.”
BREATHE I breathe with the Community. When the crack addict Inhales, I breathe with him. When the street walker Inhales The night air that Smells of her baby's skin And steels her resolve, I breathe with her. I also breathe With the pusher and pimp That trap others In the prison Of their own souls. My community stretches Farther than my block Or nation. When the emaciated child Exhales A sigh longing for food, I breathe with him. The AIDS patient, Whose only sin was birth, Exhales Her final breath, My lungs empty with her.
When the tyrant Relaxes in his chair and Exhales A cloud of cigar smoke, Thankful the revolt Was unsuccessful, I am there to put out His ashes. The community is larger Than a village Or country. Hopefully the dispossessed Breathes In the same air As the small business owner, Student, 40-hour employee, And the part-time worker Absorbing the bullshit Of a minimum wage job Just to make ends meet. The air of opportunity And advancement Hangs around us In a fog much thicker Than the one for our Forefathers. All we have to do is Breathe.
OPEN FOR BUSINESS I. Morning s t r o l l; autumn air; |ob| |serve| store owner opening shop. He bends, picks up st*rs & str!pes by its phaLLus. Shakes off b r o k e n bottle pieces, slides POLE into cup onDoorframe. He wipes p alms onJeans, stares @ storefront: “OPEN FOR BUSINESS� II. If I was more |pa| |tri| |o| |tic| I would have told him the flag must never touch ground. It must remain upright, even when the people under its banner have fallen: two homeless women,
sweptaway from Lincoln’s feet like confetti after the victory party ends. A vet returns to his plAtOOn Viet{IN}nam. His daughter g u i d e s his finger, a cross, his sergeant’s name: (Sgt. Will Peterson) His SHRAPnel-damaged eyes can neither see nor cry-the 2 things he came to the MeMoRiaL to do. III. I once slept nextTo a corpse
and
I had a dream Uncle Sam p u l l e d my wrist, led me like a child throughout all of the US and all the lands in her imperial r
e
a
I saw men wrapped in white coats drown basketful after basketful of brown eggs into the sea a l o n g the beaches of Aguada, Puerto Rico.
c
h.
I witnessed a chor{us} of nuns encircling 3 illuminated human torches as they played ring around the rosary in a ^ hanging ^ garden. Sam & Eye walked jungle streets where ebony panthers into the shadows along the cheeks of abandoned/condemned BUILDings.
blended
A roving pack of mimes, each resembling John the Baptist (even the women), crossed our path, singing in Latin while tossing vials bubbling with burgundy liquid. I ducked to avoid getting washed in blood. But Uncle Sam stood there, all ď Šs, anticipating the bath, rejoicing in the torrent! Then we were . . . Deep within a cobalt mineshaft in Congo . . . Then we were . . . Hovering above poppy plantations in Afghanistan . . . Then we were . . . Sucking raw cocoa from the bloody fingers of children along the Ivory Coast . . . Then we were . . . Laying atop the roof of an electronics factory in Shanghai, counting suicide jumpers like sheep . . . Then we were . . . Swimming the Atlantic Ocean from Accra, Ghana To Kingston, Jamaica
To Annapolis, Maryland . . . Then we were . . . Sipping mint juleps while surrounded by waist-high tufts of cotton . . . Then we were . . . Upon a rocky road, playing Conquistador and Savage— using giant sugar cane stalks as swords. IV. I woke from my dream, knowing what it was, and looked down at my wrist, at the shackles that linked me to the sleeping corpse, which was as cold and lifeless as Uncle Sam’s fingers.
VAGRANT STORY I traded my crown for a 6-pack of ramen noodles and rent money. Food before shelter; shelter before gold. I’ve chatted with gods who made the underbellies of highways their offices. Their wisdom cost me a silver ticket. I’ve dined with queens who described their domains in eloquent detail; their soliloquies were cut short for they had to sail in Agamemnon’s fleet early the following morn. For there to be royalty, there must also be peasants. This hierarchy in society resembles the angels descending and ascending Jacob’s ladder. Those who lord over me have lords above them, who, in turn, have lords to answer to; all the way back to me: The lord of the cemetery, The lord of the sea, The lord of death, The lord of beauty: A person. A place. A thing. An idea. The act in action. Energy vibrates into matter; matter shifts into energy.
There am I, trapped in the quantum flux. I am both top and bottom rungs; The void separating all things. I am ME. I am a wandering storyteller in a tattered cloak stitched from patchwork pieces. Ruffians abuse and debase me because of my vagrant appearance, but in the minds of children, my poems make me into a god. I exist between these extremes.
ANCESTORS DREAM OF AFRICA My ancestors built This nation In full days of scorching heat, Through long drafty nights. When they rested – They were seldom Afforded the luxury Of rest from white industry’s yoke – Their thoughts Their hopes Their prayers Their dreams Rested on Africa. For some, Africa Was an earlier memory; For some, a world of kingdoms Made manifest in griot lore; For others, a jigsaw puzzle of broken Promises to be reassembled. When you say You will not abandon The ancestors’ labors; You will not leave Their flesh to be devoured By pale vultures; That you will reap the profit Due from centuries of unpaid wages, I answer: “Good. While you claim Their compensation,
I will fulfill my ancestors’ dreams.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Person. Storyteller. Work-in-progress. A. J. Hayes is the author of over twenty books of poetry, fiction and fantasy (as A. Jarrell Hayes). For more on his writing, visit his website at www.ajhayes.com. Subscribe to his free eNewsletter for updates on new book releases & events. Members receive two eBooks for joining. Further support his writing by setting up a monthly donation on Patreon, and gain access to his poems, stories, audio recordings and art. Follow him on Twitter: @ajh_books Like him on Facebook: @ajhbooks1 Give a poet a pen