Manus Interruptus

Besides being my biggest critic, I confess that I struggle with writing about Black masculinity — as with other useful migraines. Like most topics that singe a raw nerve, it becomes a problem to find an authoritative voice, to research the topic with some savvy and deepness, to take seriously those who claim to know. Black masculinity is a traveling miasma. A devious destination. It also offers with its other hand, a conundrum. So that having to write about the topic in free-verse poetry is punishment enough. In sinking black, under this burden of masculinity. Alas, my own undoing…

Boy, ask not what it be to be a man, Black,
Here comes the white casket, an excellent fiction.
Here comes the bastard in the story.
The ballad man, they called Mr. Black F. Masculine,
Seize a stool, boy,
B.F. Masculine, will daze.
There was once a bruised knuckle Papa, 
Why, they spoke of a fogged window Mama,
Hold your ears, boy,
This is how it went down.

A red kite lay trapped in razor wire,
A caged lion, the holidaymakers poked,
A single malt barrel leaked in the basement,
And the joys you dare hold dear, could slip through bad teeth,
To stay those of damp Virginia slims that still come ablaze. 
One morning, two buttons went missing, a shoelace was broken,
A little Black boy ran for the bayou,
A knife in his back he took with him.

His black wrists lay in wait for the violence of pulp fiction,
His ears with the crackle of breaking twigs,
The hot exhales of a searching dog,
Yoo-hoo, steady now boy, we aren’t done with you’s yet. 
Your Papa hung up those matinee educations, they said.
But this here’s a gone theater that echoes, they answered.
Thirteen coils makes one hangman’s noose, they said.
Act natural, let’s not any sudden moves make, I say.
B.F. Masculine, the tortured drummer, did he become.

When by God, he did not try the noose for fit, a beard did he grow,
Impressed by fingernails in Lincoln’s bed,
By the perfume in the corridor, a white girl, Sallie, was near,
He inspected a misplaced blonde hair,
Stored same under pillow, 
Sweet sleep, a smile in the dark did it bring.

He grew a bicep and a cerebellum,
That phallic chap pleasured the cathedral piano,
Hunted women by day, tom-cats by night.
Now he is gay and grey,
B.F. Masculine wields a steeled Martyr complex,
Steel-coat testicles, they said.
He knows that if he squeezes his anal sphincter he can trick a polygraph.
He takes a small Black woman wife to darkness,
Unlike Sallie, she is a bad coffee maker in light.
He loves badly, sadly, to prove point.

Now he is just grey old B.F Masculine, Ph.D.
He says no to perfect coffee.
The rain exposes buried jewels: DSM IV, that Barnum effect, 
Diabetes II, that limestone prostrate, 
4 of his 5 dentists agreed: a black tooth in a white line up does the trick.
And because pollen of strange flowers in shirt pockets are tough to loose,
Police wahala. Old news. Black man fits the description.
For even worse, there was a song on his tongue he never really remembered.

Age gentle, die fresh.
Adieu, Black boy,
Life expectancy: 52
Cause of death: Pulling flint from imaginary beard.
And when golden, only when golden,
Did his wishes become horses,
To pull that hearse.
He gallops now into that dark hysteria,
To radiate some Machiavellian fitness,
The rotten sanguinary of Nietzsche.
Come hell, come death, come sweet Atlantic.
A delicate wood sliced clean by a crashing ax, he will be called,
A stolen Bukowski book that whispers when it rains,
A soulmate in arms sweeter when dead.
A father bad at fathering?
Speak no evil of the dead, boy.

This is what B.F. Masculine was to this town, boy.
What about me? You ask.
You are the star on the pedestal,
There are windows in your heaven,
Your eyes should never meet limestone feet.
And your death begins today.
Boy, don’t you dare ask what it be to be a man, like B.F. Masculine.
Shh. Silence. Here comes the white casket, an excellent fiction.
Our anger so righteous, your little Black head it will do in. 
One more thing, which of these fools do you call father?
The one in the white casket.
My condolences.
Indeed, B.F. Masculine was a great man.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s