Fade to Black

I

M. Seth Yorra Fade to Black

nto Focus: Horror scenes. Cities burning. Somewhere, a downtown burns. St. Louis, burning. A bonfire, more flames. In NW Portland, just flames. New Orleans, flames, too. In Boston, Snatch and Grab. People running in all directions. Blackout. Gunfire.

Louis Armstrong kisses his autographed Henri Selmer B-flat trumpet. A Blues Voice: Cities burning, cities burning Get the engines, get the engines. Fire, fire! People dying! Fetch some water. Get some water. Put it out. Now, I’m on fire, Put me out, now; put me out!” A white man in a black suit sings, “Nes gadol haya sham.” A black woman in a white dress answers, singing, “A great miracle happened there.”

Blackout.

A teletype clacks into life. “News Update, ” It clacks on, prints. —

“Sole fatality is black.” A black man dragged behind a truck, loses his footing, Screams, falls, first on his knees, then onto his back, As the truck drives on, (dragging him behind belching trucks, Jews once upon a time, are dragged on Germany’s gingerbread streets). Running, falling on their knees, they are dragged on; Al Jolson is singing “Mammy” in blackface. Hitler is sawing the air with his hand, Blacks and Jews react!—forming a leering, spitting crowd—left, right, left, right— Men wail, dragged on by the trucks.

From somewhere else, we hear “Strange Fruit.” We see—we see a sycamore tree. A black face swings into sight, a lurching pendulum, hanging from a limb, Eyes bulging— look!

A real risus sardonicus there, the smile of the dead— An old Jew, anointed with gasoline from a jerrycan, whimpers, “Hear me, Israel, the Lord our God is the one God.” A match is tossed, and a “whoosh” of gasoline ignites.

The crowd cheers easily.

A voice asks: “Can a short story be too tragic for its length?” Answering, we hear, “More tragic than what’ s too tragic, boy?” “Than the tragic of swinging on a sycamore tree!” Laughter. “Than opinions enumerated, minions, changing, covering, weaving like Mohammed Ali, Fixing expectations, unlike pendular motion, Identical numerators, not of seconds, year to year, But denominators change. ” Tick—look away—tock—try to look stolid— With a respectable formula, painful repetition, pedestrian math preserving perceived pain; what horror is an acceptable ratio? Science asks us: Without baked blackbirds, will the value of pi disappear? If gray is washed from blackbirds’ blackboards, does only black remain? “O Little Town of Bethlehem” plays on a carillon, A church steeple rises within curls of smoke. Little girls in white, giggle, kneel at a chancel rail, Which explodes, leaving no little girls, no white, Just red stains on a chancel rail, and red streaked dresses. Grab the black man walking in a public square. Chain him to a pickup truck and drive! Troll him like a fishing lure. When the truck shifts gears, he’ll run. Drop him, drag him on his knees, When he struggles to stand. The truck speeds up, And when the driver shifts, The black man flips, flounder-like, onto his back. The truck stops. Some pour gasoline on the black man, While other white guys fight to toss a lighted match. “Niggercide, ” they laugh, as if anycide is a cide too light. One of death’s pale pals cracks jokes, lights up a “roller,” Tosses his lit match, and the black man screams. Flames! The white men laugh, incinerating human’ s dreams of freedom, happiness and life. So he goes silent, free at last, at least he’s silent. But one last effort; he mouths the word “free” and is no more. In silence, a susurration—breath. Attending such transactions, a hanging or a cookout, They say, “He’s a gambler, a murderer; an honest thief.” So is this mob of hanging, burning yesterdays; Innocent or guilty, but ravaged by mob law; and on it goes; Till all defended walls are breached or disregarded. Is the wingspan of Evil smaller than a man? Unpunished, may the lawless preach violence unrestrained? “Government is the deadly bane, celebrating its suspension, Praying “God grant that we annihilate our foes.” Good men Gladly spill their blood to claim their desires, maybe theirs, Cheering for destroyed property, families and lives. Disgusted by a Government that offers no protection, They fight, themselves, chewing off their own limbs, Thinking, save nourishment, they have nothing to lose.

Mobocracy destroys the house built with blood— Even its own. We the People breathe Government, suffer much, endure evils long and patiently, and invite the enemy in. Yet, when laws are despised, ignored, When the right to be secure in one’s person and property Is lost in the caprice of the Mob; Its consequence alienates us from Government. Sooner or later it all comes to that.

The mob does not redress grievances. It only takes. …Is it unreasonable to expect that someone With enough ambition to stretch the gift to its utmost Will someday spring up among us? And if such a one does, will the people come together, To attach government to law, intelligently, Successfully to frustrate the pressures of the Mob? Distinction will be the Hero’s sole objective, And though he would acquire it to do either good or harm; When the opportunity is past, with nothing to be built up, He will boldly pull-down what invaders never could, With the silent artillery of false conviction Leveling walls with wrong belief. The forest of our giant native oaks is gone; The unremitting hurricane of talk swept them all away, Leaving only, here and there, a lonely trunk, A hint of green—a shadow of foliage Unshading and Unshaded, whistling in the hot wind, To enter combat with mutilated limbs, to storm, Subside, and be no more. Reason—calculating, cold, holy as a Jesuit, and flat, Must furnish all support and all defense. —Let material be molded with intelligence, morality, And reverence for our Constitution and her laws: Let it be said that we tried, up to the last moment; That we remained free, and steadfast, to the last instant; That we revered His name, to the last breath; That, during the sleep of centuries, We let no hostile foot desecrate our land; And that when the last trumpet calls us all to reveille, Our heroes shall again awaken to defend our land.

A bass voice commands,

“Let freedom ring!” A little girl innocently lisps, “ and no demon Vomited from the gates of hell shall sojourn in our land. ” “Not for long!” a man chimes in. “Prepare!” “Raise the flag, beat the drum, bugler blow taps!”

Prepare to make the noise of battle now, to cover the tracks of traitors, And Mourn, mourn, mourn, for our Republic is moribund, And Liberty may die without the ability to argue and choose wrong.