The Girl Thinks of Staying and other poems
The Girl Thinks of Staying
after the flight
de/planing is always a struggle
2 carry-on bags packed
like a can of sardines w/
sardine cans
canned milk
canned ham
mom hands me my allotted 2
one of hers and waits
painted ladies pass
like so many peacocks
anxious to display the bounty
of the states
$39.99 on sale
at Alexander’s dresses
will impress them still
living ’round the circular
this pre-carnival shuffle
through the aisles clamours by
shiny little girls’ frilled socks
will wilt in the heat they rush to
the air- thick thick and
sweet
at first the voices
flutter by me like Taiwanese
or Burma baby babble
“Francie, mek shur t’em t’ing ‘ent fall our t’at bag,eh!”
the steel steps bring me down
to the landing field
Yankee spirit sweltered
voiceless air surrounds this girl
cover blown before the word come
K-Swiss, 501 frayed, Rossignol-t, Champion,
knapsack, dragging 2 bags (overpacked)
stamp my forehead why don’cha?
always the same man…
who asks the same perfunctory questions…
until…
“you know you can apply for citizenship?”
“no shit, really…?
(reverse metaphors do not always translate)
you mean i can stay?”
my U.S. birth certificate as proof
of parentage and i
can have a family
(for more than 2 weeks every 2 years)
marry?
raise children
that i may say
the things my father used to say,
“…used to have to…walk…to school…
every day…miles…in the snow…up to here…”
all to make a point
that could resemble truth
“you see all’y’all,
all’y’all have it too good”
so, the bag must be searched
$100TT tax for anything with a plug
mother is saying, “is not a gift…
it’s for the house…my sister…
south. Pleasantville…2 weeks”
the girl thinks of staying
i try to find
a reason to return
-no more late Greenwich Village nights
-star trek: the next generation
-Nicola-my best friend, hell, we’ll write
we have, instead, to tune our ears
for the duBerry whistle
we spot the umpteenth
white car like Uncle’s
in as many minutes
but the whistle-
it is like-
your mother’s perfume
the hall on the last day of school
that first apartment
a baby’s neck
it is home.
the ride is familiar
each turn made this night is felt inside
each lilt in Miss Eurie’s voice
pulls on the love of wonder
like a hummingbird
we race to fill each other up
on our lives
the girl checks the construction
on the Uriah Butler Highway
plotting-
a house to stay/ work
it is home-
this, she has always believed
still, so much to learn…
my mother asks,
on the ride from Piarco,
still passing around American Airline peanuts,
“who has died?”
when i’m good i’m very good but when i’m bad i’m even better
or RAH RAH
super rah rah crew
i do what you want me to do
say what you want me to say
pass platitudes
they fly up and away
integrity lost in the roar of a
rah rah crowd
talk too fucking loud but
don’t say nothing
slashed by slices of life
carry swiss or nerf army knife
a soldier without a war
you look at me blowing my bugle
calling reveille begging my
brothers and sisters to come together
to talk truth rah rah
nah rah rah crew wants
my nubian likeness to smile
“you ever see this face on the nile?”
in 1978 every motherfucker was
the lost Zulu warrior
each royal descendant
but that left no one to work
who’s job was it to shovel the
shit out of the way so we
kings and queens could walk into
this new day
new age rah rah got her props
gets advise on how to scent her
dredlocks gets her bootie bit
but boohoo i got no good advise for you
in the sister girl pity plea
(shut my mouth) multimillion dollar
grossing movie
brothers depicted as 40 frame fucks
ducking out and dodging
sister girls go rah rah
i finally don’t have my kitchen showing
no welfare checks on the wall but did it showed
that with success comes the loss of your
man, only low class hos can get some
yeah, bitch, unless you can say rah rah
Negress cheerleading camp charter says
i’m supposed to stand behind my man
but i ain’t Patsy Kline
no one’s offered a hand to help
my sister girls to do shit
14yr old girls get yoked and pushed around
their sound is the pretty giggle
of the nouveau woman child
she’s flattered really
she punches him in the chest
to say, “Taeshawn, I sure do like you”
rah rah rains on kente umbrellas
kente McDonald’s the first 183 pages
of Malcolm X
7 of the 12 tribes of Israel
high yellow vs. berry black
rah rah for thick thighs
almond eyes big behinds
that’s a reference to our wealth
of history
reappropriated, encapsulated
inundated with misinformation
but this is the knowledge of the rah rah
rah rah says the devil holds me down
and i’m some kind of traitorous bitch
for asking, “motherfucker,
would you even know it if you
ever got free?”
“ever hear of mental slavery?”
“how about that self imposed castigation?”
yeah, this is a fucked up nation
tell me something new
don’t rah rah me
i see the plague for what it is
our rats have died
that was the first sign
we’re sick and need a cure
but without work we can’t heal
present pains are real
verbal placebos make for
rah rah (rah rah in the race game
being the basest common exploitation)
rah rah is good for feeling good’s sake
when you choose to remain numb
to what’s true
cause everyone says keep it real
but no one means it
rah rah is only good for the
exchange of political pussy
12am-6am
LOG-ON
log-on is 90’s speak for turn on, tune in, drop out
tying us together with telephone lines
and catchy signs that lead to the road ahead
it’s a super hi-way
millions of people wandering and it’s all
a trip really
me, i log-on at midnight
when the chirping of crickets
is accented by my finger clicks
between the timid sounds of factoids
blipping over a ISDN or 28.8 or 14.4
a radio playing soft and slow
the moments are thick and ready
a flashsession, marks the track of lengthy letters
takes only a moment
but the “cruise” but the “prowl” but the
“cyberstalk” takes hours
finding just the right room
finding just the right code name
SBM35HIV-@aol.com
BiWF27PhD@aol.com
GAM42Sub@aol.com
PRF17PREG@aol.com
there’s someone out there
just as wired
tied to the line
wasting time
dropping their nickels and dimes on on-line time
coming together in the new fashioned way
no clock to rule the hour
false fleshes tossing themselves on the road
rubbing and rolling on
lurid night moves
only safer, cleaner, cheaper, tidier, clandestine
sterile, austure, anonymous, escapist
eluding
truths of the day
the hour
life
in real-time
Samantha Coerbell