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RN Expereet~ce IN Black,jec
ThE SLACK LIT~URY MAGAZINEAn F~perienae In Elaalmess
Staff
Editor .Velldree mane;Freshman
Writers•Sam Coxasanfreshman
Cynthia GordonFre stiman
Keith OwensSophmore
Kent StureesFreshman
Anthony Tansl-raOreFre sitan
Velidree male;Freei’jnan
Artist KLWSU Va ThuEseSor*nore
Speaje). thanks to Jim Col~nan for an of his help.
Funded by the ~perimentaJ. Grants Octamittee.
CONT~TS
Kent SturgesA Letter Iron My Self .5
Keith Owenslimp 8Could It? 8Starohild Blue 9
Anthony TenslmoreTen Years Past 10Why 10
Cynthia GordonOn Cur Wedding ~y 11~dicated To Mr. Lu Palmer 12
Sam ColemanOn Black Poets 13By The flasky £vening Sky 15Vibrations 15~ath 16
Velldree ThalleyLong Wawn Out Thing 17Black Inspirations 18Man 19
3
Hot, wet and seethingPassions peiteato my very soul.A stona coirinenoesOutside.The hellish cryCf the wind,Mixes fluidlyWith my passionateRelentless energies.Images flow.Fingers ofStimulating thou~itsCaressMy tender,. sensitive ears.My breathIs warn end wet,Sensuous.I long for release.My tensions iaotmtInAnInorgasnic frenzy.I an’UnableTo express my self.I,Vainly,Attempt to consoleMy rampant feelings.I am devouredByMy own emotions.I long to be free.“Help me Oh God,Make me at peaceWith my self,”toryfl’sntioelly.There is silenoeThe fireStill remains within me,Soorohing and Searing11y internal, being,My spirit.EsoapeLRuntflee L.I sm.trapped.I amUnable to esoape.I wheel about~spai’ately,Faoing my self,ExplodingWith shameAnd anger.I attaok my self1Brutally.Fist fly;Blood flows;
La_LI’
I hate myself.Die Kent~Die Horribly~Die floristRivers of-tearsSurround weAs I sobConnasivelyOverA weak, broken heap of fleshUpon ~ay knees.“Take me fran my self Oh God,”I prayIncoherently“Take me from my self.1’My sobbing ceases.I remain,Alone,OverA shapless, bleeding hulk of fleshUpon my knees.My mind races.Delusions of happinessFlood my wind.Ifluaicns of loveTonnent my soul.~rimess envelops me,Strsnaing me.Yet,I still live on.I haveBecomeA minus quantity.Yet,I still have substance.I have destroyed metYet,I oannot~ifl my self.I have notThe strengthTo do such a thing.What is God?What is life?That is love?I ventHone of themtI don’t~venWsnt my self.The fireStill remains within me.The fire of God.The fire of Life.The fire of Love.And with the fire,Canes the pain,The pain of living,
The pain,IsAs intenseAs,The fireIs all constziing.I shallNeverBe free~I shallAlways
NeedLove...
Kent SturEes
finger, di’ifts 0T oooi gray neaTeRti.nble thickly thru bloodless lips.
Ice silver p~n~ps whisper dreamsalong scar—torn paths of midnight’shour — while mercury eyes screamblind hate of CE~kTION to an audiencechoked with do—or—die victims.
Bone—Ithite lid tilts steadilyatop rmoky rings of red, yellow,and green lights while the trafficof his mind crashes on...
Sanewhere a curtain falls...and the show begIns
Somewhere little boy bugle blues taps...while the darker sun rises
Somewhere what a happennin’ happorined...while what’s goin’ on went
Somewhere what it is was,while hip broke and cccl froze over...
There in no east or west, and thesun does not rise nor set in either of
butin
‘Is...
teith Owens
COULD IT?
Niggers and MonidesCaucasians and NegroesUs and ThemWe and You
if/and/forgettinththen/that/what/how/because/where
home...time.. • roots...
space...blood...
freedom...lies...
stars...stripes...
time.., roots...home...
Could it have worked?Shall we re~flI see?Have all the cards been dealt...
or did we~ play
with a full deck?
A airrer ~wan areamea uy LLY~
crystal moons three dimensionsago, liquid wings laughin’ the risingaim despite bell’s twilight galaxy.
All is NOT said and done...said
she.All is NOT said and done...
Behold sax age when Starohild Bluebreathed PRES~CE upon years long sinceborn, eyes screamIng fire’s blood, each handproclaiming hollow spheres of scorohing red future.In gentle galaxies of love—spangled echoeshe spoke of knowledge, strength, believing,and freedom.
He spoke that what goes around,comes around, and what canes around—stays around.
Be spoke that a palace of no purposeis of no promise, but that an open mindis twice fit to move a millionin oimtains...
He spoke that a life is as acompass spinning in space —
totally void of direction yet totallyassured of arrival.
He spoke that liberty was not aprivelege — but an imperative — chainedto the souls, the spirits, the minds,of the oppressed... as life chained
to death.
He spoke that he would returnwhen it ALL was true...
All is NOT said and done,whispered the silver swan, all is NOTsaid and done — whose liquidwings still laughed the rising sun...
fljd with that she dreamed-by the silver of mercury breeze—back thru the three dimensions,back past the five crystal. moons, tothe end of time and space whereshe rests with Starohild Blue,viewing Too Cold Truth, whoclears his tired path of allus blind fools.
Keith Owens
TflT YZARS PAST
Since that day ten years asothe black man has wondered,even worried about his future.
Eohoes of “We Shall Overccal&’became lost in the)ti~ity Rails of Justice.
~ys of rage started the firsthat burns stifl-burflinsto free the black nan, to free himof all oppression and hatred.
msoouraging words were heardever since that day ten years ago;the black man has never measuredup to white standards.
What happens now? you ask.But Brothers, it was timeten years ago to ask:Where do we go fr~ here 2
anthony Tansimore
~nr~I wonder why it is
that ~gj~ preach notfor freedan said equality.Can you notmake these severe], statesunited for all?
I wonder why it isthat ~34 embrace notthe people with open ann.Can you notaccept us ~merioan5with warn greetings?
I wonder why it isthat ~ wovetwo separate flags.Can you notlive under one flagwith but three colors?
I wonder why.
Mithony Taneimore
On our wedding dayWe’ll take vows to seal Our love
as one.One we areOne we shell be.Our love is one that is tender.
Beautiful.Fragile as a soft pink rosebud.That bruises when you gently touch it.But yet, somehow tough as
the hardest diamond.No matter what is done to it,
it remains unsoratched and sparklinglike it always did.
I love youlike there was no tomorrow
t treasure each momentas if it was our last.
Hoping and praying thatyou’ll never leave my side.
Closing sly eyes to the truththat one day you’ll no longerbe there when I awaken.
But that’s o.k.Because I’ll know something
that will lies], those pains.I’ll have had you a little while,
- and that is all that matters.
Because till then realizethat I shared a little of your lifewith you.
For just a moment.Because life is only a short moment.One that is continously passing by you.You reaoh out to grasp,
and there is nothing there,but air.
You run to catch up,but,you never seem to reach anythingthat you go after...
After,to hold it end re—live that particular moment
Sad that’s how I feelAs if our lives together,
after this dayWill only be a brief moment
that is always paàeins by.
Cynthia Gordon
Respect meFor I am the black wcman.I am the most beautiful thing that ever existed
i’ii stick by your side,When no other will.
I need youI want youI love you
I’ll be there,No matter what.When the white man ~tripa
you of your manhoodI’ll give it back ye you.
When the white manmakes you mad, frustrated and angry
I’ll soothe you.When he breaks down your mentality,I’ll tell you, “baby, that’s airlght, don’t worry
- about it.”
When the white man deprives you of yourselfI’ll be there
and I’ll reply, “baby as long as you got me,be ain’t depriving you of nothing.
Because as long as you got me ~ou got xouraelf~so what he’s saying am t shit.
When he turns you to drugs,Abusing ~rouSaying, ‘yesax man, this will make people lock up
to you. Make ya a man, give you respect beoauseyou can hencile it.”
~4is—using youI’ll be there, don’t worry.I~ll help you baby,Then no other will.
When be Bends you off to warI’ll be there when you ~et backWith your child, and he 11 know that
his father is a beautiful black man.
When he oonfu!eS and mis—loads you,I’ll be in your cornerTo put you on that straight, but
sctetimee narrow road.
But baby, when he kills the man that I love,The man that I need,The tSfl that I want.The roan who helped me become
the strong black Woman that I =I’ll kill that white mothafuckn.
Cynthia Gordon
SLLJ.U.
I marvel at this thingto tint a poet blackand bid him sing
onlyif his tunes aresteady rhymes of
black beingYou see
its easy to enlacethe fancy—tongued tonesthat these howlies bring
withgennan madesilver casedglassedshatter proofwings
but you older brotherare of a special moldspeak to me of our lives
herethings not seenmemories of old
Older brotherits not theirstolen historiestheir bookstheir summaries ofour knowledgethat you hold
itsyou
a special. type; thats
black gold.
Sam Coleman
K
it
•
.. ..
ZX TM~ Wafti £V~JUL4U CAL
Under the darkening dusky evening skyA thin ripple of white
beamed across the waters face,The moon illuninated -
a warm embrace.
rnk swept away the blues trailing huesand the sky hosts twinkled,
reflecting their discussionof opposins lover’ s flews.
The night air heardand rushed upon the scene,like a harrier swooping upon its prey.
They stopped end cud~.ed each other.Until such a time when the wind would wane.
As dariniess gave way to the peeidngsun rays,
the birds now talked of thesleeping refugees.
Of the joy that beamed fran thesmiles of the two,
So warm end canfortableblanketed with a summer’s dew.
Sam Coleman
VIBRATIONS
This gentle tabbybrushes
arched back pressingwherever I touch it.Its cslmness reflected inher eclipsing eyes, isvibrated into me asI notice you brushingins, my arched back pressingwherever you touch it.
A song of feeling pours,purrins fran ny soul
end my eclipsing eyesreflecting your vibrations.
Sam Coleman
~nd at that mc~aenthe saw a snail naked black boy
a gingerbread baby~~eeliflg and holding aShovel and blue_Painted pailon the shore of a deserted beachridden with tartly buried whateversend blowing papers ~u~ubling,
front over backin the late hot afternoon.
The boy’S wide smile easedAs slowly as the water oozed throu&h
the white sendtilling a onoe empty hole.
Consoling himself with theyoung boy’s i~1oranoe,he laid back
folded his VOU~ black handsover one another
and died.
Barn Coleman
JAwua.Aa.
JAZZ.
It canes andlifts ins higbl
I sit, floatingsoaring like an eagLe,high OU C’SLower on d’s.
Swaying from one sideto the other
JA~ThtING.
fitting(blow that horn)(~Ofl~~ be so mean)
flyingforgetting an my troubles
Dreamingbeautiful dreams.
Totally gone:
Where am I?so nbaso beautifulso lovingso unooncerningso
freeeeoee.
flying, dyingtornreborn...
One dreamafter another
Ectasy...
Slow it downthat’s rightnice and easysomeone squeeze
me.
Climbingcaning back upHighHigh
Soaring once againa beautiful black hawkin flight.
Swooping up anddawn.
Drifting highon the music...
Then it
-
myself in the class with:Nikid.Imanu
LangstonMayaGwendolyn(others I did not mention).
I even feel funny whenI refer to then by their
first names.
For they are the people Ia&nire andenvy.
I see myself as apoet.
But I wouldn’t daremention it around them,
because they AREwhat I wantto BECQ1E.
They have the giftI wIsh for.
They are the poets,the leadersthe writersthe parentsthe preachersthe liberatorsthe teachersthe wise onesthe black professors (with ThD’s in
bl ac late 58~feelings,black feelingsfeeling black.5
I em the child,the followerthe studentthe naivethe listenerthe readerthe future.
Yes, I sal the futureshaped by their past.
I an a lost childawaiting guidance.
I em an extensionof then
As they arethe expressions ofthe masses.
Velldree Thalley
In anman has conquered
even the moonnext has conquered
eVOX7thiIlg
exceptthe prejudices
withinhtnse1~...
Vefldree Thalley
FALL 1918
JBJLII\C11ifliT
I
JR)’IL
OP THOI)&14T—
BLACK LITERARY MAGAZINEAn Experience In Blaokness
Staff
Editor Velidree ThalleySophmore
Writers C. J. BrownSenior
Roehel ColemanSoph.m ore
Cynthia GordonSopbm ore
Re~~inald McKniGhtSophmore
Keith OwensJ u~ii or
Velldree ThalleySophnore
Artist !~nna SnaerFreshmen
Funded by the Experimental Grants Committee
This, our second Black Literary Magazinehas onoe again been compiled and edited by mein—bers of the Black Student Union of ColoradoCollege. We have developed this magazine in aneffort to spread our blaok culture to people onand off of the 0.0. campus. Mi of the poems,prose and drawnlngs were created by black 0.0.students. I, along with other members of theColorado College Black Student Union,:hope youenjoy and learn from our Black Literary Magazine.
Yours in unity,
Velidree W. ThalleyEditor, Fall 1978Black Literary Magazine
CONTENTS
Appearences .4Rochel Coleman
Encounter With a Window Washer. • .5Reginald I1oKniEht
What Ever Happenned To.. 11Velldree Thalley
Africa is a State of Mind .12Keith Owens
The Geme of Life i4C. J. Brown
First You Cry 15Cynthia Gordon
Untitled iEVelldree Thalley
Figure Study 19Rochel Coleman
Little Boy Blues 20Keith Owens
Appearenees
They say that beauty is only skin deepand therefore the beauty
of the seamust be deep below its surface
yet looking outyou see a beautiful horizon
which was the attractionthat furthered you
into its depthe~.
Rochel Coleman
0
4
£ ~ ~I~I W~h~ —
with one sunmer about Live years ago. We were window washers.I was sort of an apprentios to hini.
He was a window washer because, it was in his words, “theonly true art forte left in New York worth paying for.” He haddone this sort of work for the past 23 years or so and feltthat he was just beginning to fully underst&nd wIndow washingas just another profession. Before he had always thought thatit was a way of bringing truth and beauty into peoples livesby letting as much sunshine into theIr lives as possible. Heonce told me that dirty windows made people very, very unhappy.He felt, that the responsibility of the window washer was toclean people’s windows so that they could see each other asindividuals, who are all basically alike. I mentioned to himonce that many window washers simply did it to stare at peopleand act like voyeurs. He said, “Yes, that is true, and you doit for the money, why are you so different?” “Me different?”I said, “you are the one that’ s different, people only lookout of their windows so they don’t have to see the people theylive with. And you wash them for money, you neither see innor
He was the most peculiar window washer I had ever met;not only did he care about the windows he washed, but he caredabout the people on the other side. He told me that windowsoften do keep people from the outside world, and that it wasup to all window washers to make the window so clean that people would yearn to be on the outside; at least for a while,and then they might begin to see one another up close, learning if nothing else tolerance for one another. That is why Icalled him the teacher. Not because he taught me anything,but because of him I learnt for myself. Often we would spend3 or 4 hours suspended from the 40th floor of some expensivecondominium and cover many subjects. The teacher had an unbelievable repertoire on several topics ranging from the mundane to the ethereal. He usually said something that wouldmake me angry but I never lost my respect for him.
One day while we were washing the windows of an old Cathedral I noticed that he looked very unhappy, and very uneas~i.I asked him if he were ill or angry at me for something. ‘Thereis something wrong with this church,” he said dryly.“What is wrong with it? It’s just a building?” I stared at himfor a long time for an answer.He stood up on the scaffold as if on solid ground, and sat backdown quickly. I ~repeated my question, and he answered that thechurch was not any good for anybody. He spoke as if he wereactually afraid for the congregation of this church.“This ohurch is in trouble, it has got no clear windows. Theyare all made of coloured glass.”
5
dows.” -
“Don’t you see? People cannot see in or out, they caimot seeclearly through the Blase.” He seemed to be calmer now, butthere was still a grating agitation in his voice.“I mean no matter how hard one may wash these windows, one cannot wash away the colours that distort the images on eitherside“Isn’t that what church is all about anyway?”!~Perhaps, but that isn’t how life is.”“How can you say that? All that life is, is one distortion -
after another. Nobody sees things the way they are. Everybodysees things the way they want to.” I looked at him to cheokhis reaction to what I had just said. He seemed to be weigh—ing what I had said very carefully. His brow was wrinkled andhe absently taped his “squee—gee” against his bucket. He lookedat me suddenly, squarely in the eyes. He said, “There are thingsin life that regardless of whether or not they are true, areharmful to people. A god must not keep his people from tolerating one“What if there is no God?” I asked acidly.~The matter remains the seine, people shouldn’t be kept fromtolerating one another.”“I-tow can you make judgements on a bunch of distortions?” I tho-ught he wasn’t getting my point. The teacher smiled warmly atme and told me that I was bitter, and lonely for a god.
are searching for your god, and you bitch because you can’tfind him.”I asked him to make himself olearer. He only grinned.“Look,” I desanded, “I don’t believe in anything anymore, tohell with religion. I’m tired of arguing about distortions,I’m after the truth.” He ignored my answer for a moment, hewas staring at the sun for a long time. He seemed to be lostin whatever he was thinking. It made me angry scnetimes, theway he would look as if he were givi9 my words the greastestof care, when actually he had ~ them out and just satthinking on a different subject. It. was a nice day though, anda warm breeze was blowing. I would have been oontent to letthe whole subject drift to sanething less volatile. Religionwasn’t one of my greatest topics. It wasn’t that I was emotionally stung by the subject, it was just that I thought I Imewenough about religion. I’d studied several religions as a kidin trying to decide which one was the best for me. It got tothe point where they all began to look alike. The quality of“finding oneself” through religion was to me very baokward. Ifigured that if I was ever going to get to the source of mybeing it would be through searching for facts and not spirits.I grew tired of his spaoiness, so I spoke to him. I told theold man that I was jaded at 22, I told him that I had no beliefs.“What do you mean?” he chuckled sptitely. I was embarassed bythe inflection of his tone, and his eyes looking like liquidcrystals make me unable to look him in the eye, as I attempted
I’m mean.. .~ He interrupted me, “Why if you are so inseoureabout life, do you not have a“What do you mean I just said..“I know what you said. You said you don’t believe in anything.I ask you why don’t you believe in something if you are so afraid?”I looked in his eyes, “I don’t get you. I told you I’m justunsure, insecure, tired of spirituality, I need a rest. I justneed a rest. I need truth not God.°
The old man looked at me seriously for a moment. He stoodup from where he had been sitting. His smallish frame sprangup oat—like; very smooth, as if he were ten years younger thanmyself. He was in excellent shape for his age, whatever it was.I couldn’t really tell how old he was, though I made a few assumptions from the infoxmation he had given me about his personallife. I suppose the most intriguing aspect about him was hisremarkable resemblance to my father. They both had what appearedto me to be a deep sense of justice, and an unlimited capacityto grow. But the most striking resemblance was in appearance.Both my father and the teacher were men of experience, and middle aged yet they looked surprisingly young and free of worry.Their eyes too, even though they are coloured differently havethe same character, the same look of aecessability that expressed concern in a paradoxically detached way. And though thecolours were different; my fathers eyes, a soft elusive hassleand the teachers eyes that were a cloudy yet dramatic blue, always made me doubt myself whenever I opened my mouth to speak.
He stood and looked, and then he suddenly smiled. He beganto turn away from me still smiling. He spoke with his back tome, and I felt that he was still smiling. “Don’t you want solid~round to stand on?”Of course I do, that’s wh~t I’ve been trying to tell you. I
want to rest. I’m tired of controversy.” He turned briefly andsquinted. He looked at me in disbelief. He spoke more harshlythan usual, “Tired of controversy? You are tired of controv~r~1L?Now I see what you mena by rest. You not only want a god, butyou want to sit up in heaven and sleep in his lap.”
“Will you talk sense.’1“I am talking sense.”
There was then a strange bottomless silence, the sky seemed todarken. The silence lasted much longer that I could stand, hisback was still directly to me. The sky grew dimmer, I startedto feel as if I were becoming short of breath, I felt oold. Icouldn’t stand the bottomlessness any longer. I spoke.
“I just don’t or just can’t understand you.”The bottomless sensation left. I drew a deep breath, smilingto myself, remembering the smae bottomless feeling as a kidwhen I would watch a frighten~nS movie and then try to go tosleep afterwards. I would feel so breathless sometimes that Iwould often have strain to bite my tonvue in order to move and
7
beams at me amd t nearly froze. ~ he had done it again,I tried like hell to sound coherent. “Well” I stemwered, “youknow that there are no absolute truths, right?” He stared atme with a slight grin on his face saying nothing for a while,then.,.
‘I would agree that there are not many,” he said tersely. “Okthen there ~ many for you, and I don’t have or imow of anymyself. I mean.. .uh well, the thing that bothers me or, uh notreally bother, uh... I meo.n more like disturb, or bug... that -
bugs me is.. • well you Imow how...”My face felt hot, I began to feel strangely anxious. I hadjust caught the gist of what he was implying, and I felt in anexistential way quite hamnless. The teacher looked up at mebenevo)~tly. His words almost inaudible, he began to speak tome in a soothing way.
“You wish to live in heaven and dream upon God’s lap. Youwant the world to stop and explain itself to you. Why are youso persistent on knowing everything, when you insist you have nobeliefs? If you don’t believe in anything there is nbthing toknow. So if there is nothing to know why do you searoh for aplace to rest? Why do you search for truth? You seem to havefaith in finding this truth, but if you believe in nothing youwill never find it, How can you find what is not tbere?~
“It’s there,” I said limply.“You believe in it?°~,“
He turned his back once again to me, I wanted to say some—thins more but I was afraid I would do nothing but stammer. Theteacher looked at me over his shoulder and spoke.
“I believe in it too, but truth is not the matter really, thematter is really our ability to see it and our willingness toaccept it. ——One more window on the east side, and we shall callit day——you see, you balk because you’ve forgotten what truthis, you see it around you everyday but when you see i.t you expectit to conform to your needs. If it does not conform to yourneeds then you call it~
“You do the same thIng when you wash windows,” I said. “You’recomplaining about is right and wrong, true and untrue...”~ complaining about what is clear and what is~“What’s the~
are making the difference, I’m merely ôlarifying the point.”His eyes were daring me to challenge him, I wasn’t even sure nowif we were talking about the same thing anymore, but I felt can—pelled to accept his challenge.
“So what you’re saying,~’ I began cautiously, I~j~ that when Ispeak of untruth or truth I’m missing the point completely.”
“That I am saying is that this window, we are trying to clean,should be broken in order for us to learn front it. All thecolouring has been put there to keep people from approaching itand looking through it, Those who see this window are led to
B
All of the colours sake the world look different...”“But,” I shot out. “But... 101 saying that people see things
differently to the man, why do you even bother to argue?”“Look into that window to your left,” he said pointing to a
grotesgue picture of a small Christian beIng fed to an enonnouslion with teeth as big as the Christian’s hands. I stood upcarefully upon the scaffold and peered in through the littleChristian’s tunic. I could perceive costly shedows coloured indifferent shades of soft light brown. I directed my eyes to thelarge cold plated cross as it was the most discernable objectin the ohurch. The teacher asked me what I was locking at. Itold him and then he asked me to read the insignia below it. Theletters were all different colours and seemed to be placed haphazardly below the cross. I read the letters allowed. The teacherwas watching me out of the corner of his eyes. He stood alsolooking into another window to my right. I was sure he was laugh—in~ at me. L read the letters and words os clearly as possible.
i1~~4E .A.~.D I.Z.“What do you think that means” he said, obviously trying to
sound coy.“Well obviously because of the particular colour I’m looking
through, I can only see some of the letters. They’re differentcolours ya ~mow; or haven’t you noticed?”
“Well, well I guess you’re right. 03 you think you oould findone that might help you read the whole thing?”
“~ ~ think so?”‘Th you have a good~
~ you could look into a bunch of different colours andmemorize the position of each letter.”I tried this but the letters were about as memorable as a patternon a oaledidosoope. I told him so.
“Perhaps you could come read mine,” he said.‘!Yours is no better.”flQf course it is.”~‘Then what in the hell does it say?”
He looked at me seriously and said, “CONOAP Y N231E.” He lookedat me awaiting my reaction. I must have looked totally lost,for he then broke out in a loud laugh.
“so what does it mean,” I said seethingly.“I don’t imow. That’s just the way I see it. But I’m right
anriay.’‘How do you loaow——’Jou are“Because yellow is my favourite colour.”“What’s that got to do...”~I like yellow, so I must have the right one.”“But the other colours son’t make anymore sense than your yellow.”“Cf course they don’t, but yellow is the right colour anyway.”“Well you’re wrong.. •Uj~ I? Well then look into some yellow ~laes and you’ll agree
wIth me,” he said innooently.
‘Why note well SSe buLL! ULL~Ltlfli~SS
~!yes but we still won’t Imow what it says.”“What difference does it make as long as we see the same thing?”“Because what we’re seeing ~ clear.”
I was shocked at the convinotion of my words, and shocked furtherthat they were not my words.. .they were his, I stuttered a fewwords, “Well maybe window washing is.. .m~naybe uh,..” But hecut me off.
“Window washing is an art. And so is the search for truth.If~we could only see through clear windows we could all see thesame thing but in different ways. That is truthful. It is no (better to ignore the glass than to choose a colour of the glass,because the glass is not the thing, but what’s beyond it is thething. You seem to choose to lgnore the g’ass as if it werenot there, and in doing this, ~rou ignore the truth behind it.”
“But what if what’s behind it is untrue?,” I said weafly.“That’s for you to decide.” He said, “,..Onoe you have made
your decisIon you are on your way to finding your truth. Youcannot seek from ignorance.”
We finished the last few windows in silence. Later as wewere loading the truck I turned to h~n and asked him if I hadn’tsincerely looked for the meaning of the insignia. He answeredme gently, “Yes I think you did, but by the same token you searchedin order to prove a point, you really didn’t seek the answer.It you had really wanted to Imow, you would have broken the glass.”He turned from me and went around to the other side of the truck.He entered the cabin, ran his small fingers through his curlyhair, lit his pipe, and unlocked the door for me,
I 4ava &boaidonedaJ~t~ joY thd-111
a-rn nno Iooksn1JOY & qotd Jciiv&&i.
the institutions, concepts,arts, skills, etc. of agiven people
culture:black culture:
does not existwas destroyedchokedfrom its peoplebecause they put upno resistancehumanethey were called
culture:created when a peoplecome togetherset—up a societygoverned by its own nones
culture:a sign of aunified peoplea strong nationunitysolidarity
culture:black culture:
voidsitting on a shelfin thelost and foundsectionof your localdepartment store,
Vellth’ee Thalley
11
Raindrops play v.t the doorstep of mymind, washIng away tears th’ t are lateonce apain. Somewhere black love screamsdesperntely, her heart confIned to aniron box marked “fragIle’, as a grayribbon of blood crawls sadly aroundray corner towards hell’s cutter,
unneeded...unnoticed...
unwanted...
A blizzard rapes in the minds of cur people—their thoughts plead numb to the truth.
A blizzard races in the minds of our people-as ice—ridden hopes amble aimlessly aboutthrough coke—smoked veins.
A blizzard rapes In the minds of our people—as a fool attempts to cry over a spiltwish never ranted, a wish never granted,
never granted...
We are a nation — we canWe are a nation — we shallWe are a nation — we mustlearn the seorct of one black pearl ourfathers knew as love, Children of Africalet us come together ‘neath the fertilerays of the sun that we may Give birth tothe true beauty of our people once again, that wemay shed a slave’s clothing of stars and stripes...
forever...
Red — Black — GreenBlood — People - Landhigh shall our banner be wavedupon the dawn of the new day
The spook sIts by the door—waiting...
We are a nation woven amidst thefabric of a forei~n cloth, yet oncefree shall we fly as an ebony dreamconic true astride the back of thesost beautiful black butterfly...
Seize the timeSeize the time
Seize the time
Africa is a freedom state of mind~
1C4+’, fl,,~no
~ecc~ 14e~V Jwrne-ss ~thó~
e ~4e-can4 gf~
•‘..~•.;‘~
TIlE GAME OF LIFE
There is an evil under the sun called “life”, and it
happens only to the living. It is an evil because, it exists
off of the death and destruction of its members in order
that it may continue as a process. Something or someone
must reach an end of itself, while another force consumes
its remains or at least transfonns the remains into some
useable product.
Life is a game of destiny and ability because it seems
that the practitioners often find themselves victims of
rules and regulations. Acts of control whether God inspired
(super natural force), products or events In nature (envi
ronmental changes), or man made changes (laws, various codes,
traditions, customs, institutions, and technologies), carries
with it a challenre to the living to survive inspite of
oppositions.
I can’t help fcelinr that the high death rate of the
past and present tends to illustrate the evil under the
sun called life~ Furtheytcre, life is only a fleeting dream
or illusion that appears to be real but is not, Everything
and everyone seems to die or come to en end either because
of its own unwise judgement or actions beyond the victim’s
oontrolL Now, I ask you, can anythinp so unreasonable and
complex as “life” be real? No, it must be a game of some
kind that is so close to being real that it appears to be
real even if it never hctppenned at all.
0. J. Brown
First You Cry(Thdicated to Ted Di Bose.)
First you cry,
Cry because you’ve lost someone that was important to you.
Saneone that made you lauEh when all thinFe were wronp.
Saneone that made you smile just because he was close to you.
First you cry,
Then you pick yourself up,
Because eventually you’ll realize that life Foes on.
And that you made some mistakes, but nobody is perfect0
But...
First you cry.
Cynthia Gordon
L r/VCY~
d tl,w’ JI’7OWJ
14e &tf/.tittj o/ afot~~41LQ~ OOffO~~-)
/t~
IIIU’LJ- ~
think of.)
TodayI cried
Tears rolled downfrom my eyesafter years and yearsof droughtand never realizing I was thirstythe rains camemade the hard rockthe impregnable groundsoft and muddyeliminated the cracksmade the earth solidlike the seaa great unending unbroken mass
TodayI cried
The walls of Jerechotumbled downfor I was blindnow I could seefeel the life surrounding metendernesscompassiOngentlenesssoftnesssensitivityrealitymy stream began to runoverflowflood the dry landswith emotion
TodayI cried
I heard for the first timethe man a floor below mesingingcrying outbecause his child diedfrom starvationBlues were everywhereI saw the young brotherup the street shotwhile hearing the criesof the sisteras she was being rapedsoon another unwanted
The man raIsedthe rentwhile the factorylaid off five—hundred morebrothers and sistersfood is pricelessuntorn clothes are rareand the little groceryon the cornerstopped giving credit
TodayI cried
It snowedand the temperature dropped20’ below zerowhile the furnace broke downthe landlord said he couldn’tcome outor send anybodyto come fix itbecause there was too muchsnow and ice on the streetsEight people in my buildingalonefroze to deathone was a junkyfour were elderlyone was a lady seven months pregnantand two werechildren
TodayI cried
The newscasteron the music boxsaid that al]. “Smericans”should be happybecause the recessionwas almost overand unemployment went down 2.4%guess she didn’thear about my neighborhoodbecause we are stillin the depressiona state of deprivation
TodayI cried
marched locallydown my streetpass my housethrough my noi~hborhoodwhile a brotherfather of threewith another baby dueany dayrot arrested and convictedwhile walking home from workbecause ho was onthe wrong side of townafter dark
TodayI cried
~Ty wine bottlewas emptyand I had no oneto share mylonelinesswithso I lookedout ny windowand the rains camewater gushed forthbringIng back sight and soundI began to seethe painsurrounding meI became part of thecommunityRealizing thattogetherwe are dangerousapartwe are paralyzed
Velldree Thalley
Rising from refuge of pink blossoms,on sun—drenched sheets.
Eyes that brave the light wearilyPossessed of a delicate air thatgraces a sunny morning.
Glutohing the upper sheetto her down affections,This heart’s tranquility waterfallsas gently as flows her hairveiling, shyly, her shoulders to sheetsthat spill,eaopied,over Imees tofeather—fell feet, barelytouohing the floor.
Rochel Coleman
LXT~E BOX ~Uhb $
Little Boy Blues go blow your horn—for Harlem BrIdge is f~lling downand no Saints are marchIng in...
Little Boy Blues ~O blow your horn—for the Chicago fIre blazes on yet noraindrops fall upon their bleedIng heads...
Little Boy Blues go blow your horn—for America the Beautiful is burstIng in airwhIle Spanky runs for presIdent...
People don’t you Irnow that Aunt Jemima’swaffles are gettin’ cold? Or that Sarabo’ 5butter Is eatin’ him alive? Brother justhipped mc the other day that Superfi? pimpin’sore dreams for a nickel and a dime causehe too rich to pay for his/your/my kids
Guess he’d rather pay the price...
People don’t you biow that Uncle Ben’srice is still white? Or that UncleTom’s cabin ai~’T~othIn’ but a shack?Brother just hipped me the other day thatdon’t nobody understand Shaft but hiswoman ‘cause Shaft don’t understand hisown damned self and his woman was hismother who died in a coffin of tears. Sheonly has a five bill on her and Shaft say
“Ain’t this a bitch?”Guess we’d rather pay the price...
Little Boy Blues go blow your horn—for Mr. Charlie fiddles while ~troit burns,and the rats rock our babies a bye...
Little Boy Blues ~O blow your horn—for Tarzan is King of the Junglehe swings on a red, white, and blue rope
through Zimbabwe...
Little Boy Blues go blow your horn—for we had a dreamwhich is buried ‘neath the feet ofthe saints that so marching
merrIlymerrily
on...
Everything must changeThe Winter tunis to Spring
The Young become the OldThe Shadows stalk the Sun...
FOREWORDThis issue of the Black Magazine has been published inconjunction with this year’s Black Awareness Week.This magazine illustrates the strength of the fertile,Black minds on Colorado College Campus. Theliterature and photographs contained within are anexpression of the Black culture as seen by individualBlack students on CC campus. I sincerely hopethat you find this issue to be an enjoyable learningexperience.
Robin Brantford
Editor Black Literary MagazineVice-President BSU
The Colorado CollegeBlack Student Union
BLACK LITERARY MAGAZINE
Staff
Editor.Robin Brantford Sophomore
Writers Kwaku Annor Sophomore
Rochel Coleman Senior
Cynthia Gordon Junior
Gary Hale Junior
Alicia Harris Junior
Veronique LeMelle Sophomore
Keith Owens Alumnus
Velldree Thalley Senior
Photographer Robin Brantford Sophomore
BLACK LITERARYMAGAZINE
Table Of Contents
Reflection on the ‘70’sImagination’s EndThe Black WomanFirst You CryTo KachataMolten EyesUsPhotographAppearancesWhat Ever Happened ToThe Need For Black AwarenessDreaming My Life AwayInner PeaceYear “4005”UntitledWhy Is It This WayFrom The Inside Looking OutCyclePhotographSketch of a Ghetto Mother
Velldree ThalleyVeronique LeMelle
Alicia HarrisCynthia Gordon
IfeVelldree ThalleyRochel ColemanRobin BrantfordRochel ColemanVelldree Thalley
Kawaku AnnorCynthia Gordon
Gary HaleKeith Owens
Gary HaleGary Hale
Alicia HarrisKeith Owens
Robin BrantfordKeith Owens
Cover Photograph Robin Brantford
Reflection on the ‘70’s
the obvious often eludesblack spiritsignoring the lastingdesperately trying to capturethe immediatethis forever
blissful momentthat soon fadesinto the twilightof “makin’ it” dreamsas new nightmares smotherexisting illusions
—velldree thalley
Imagination’s End
I followed the rainbowto imagination’s end.Crossing, insanityreleased its hold
There;colors of confusiondarkness glittering in gold.
A little girlstood laughing.In her eyes tearsblack and cold.
Looking closer,I laughed tooat the lieswe had bothbeen told.
—veronique lemelle
1
The Black Woman
Love,keeps us going, and is in never endingabundance.
Respect,We need it so badly it hurts just tostrive ahead.
Beauty,there is none so strong and natural.If blinded eyes could only see.
Intervisions,We lack the attention to keep usgoing.We will one day be on the top becausewe will always try.
—alicia harris
First You Cry
First you cry.Cry because you’ve lost someone that was importantto you. - -
Someone that made you laugh, when all thingswere wrong.Someone that made you smile, just because hewas close to you.
First you cry.Then you pick yourself up.Because eventually you’ll realize that life goes onAnd that you made some mistakes but nobody isperfect.But
First you cry.
—cynthia gordon
2
To Kachata
Even though I’ll never let you knowhow much I careI’ll be there when you may need someone to talkto.When you may need someone to listen,I’ll be there.When you want someone aroundbecause you don’t want to be alone,I’ll be there,
just call.I share my love of you alone
because I choose to hide it.I didn’t want to lose your friendship
because somehow I knew that ifI pressured you into something more,
I’d lose you completely.Because to have you this way isbetter than not at all.Kachata,
this is how I feel and I guess in a senseI’m letting you know now.Well it’s like this,
I care.
—Ife
Molten Eyes
stare into a glowing masspeace and tranquility notfound there/herewick droops overa burning, black, bodya man with nothingbut molten.bright eyes
eyes that never fadenever dieeyes that stare right backshoot a chilla fireup and down the spine
heatsummerwhen children fill their bellieswith soda pop, candy, potato chips
mama don’t cook—it’s too hotall daddy does is guzzle brewand doze off into another green dream
no jobs—too old to playheartless, hungry, heat
3
the flame flickersa vision flashes byyoung black boy burnedmother doesn’t understand whygun never foundgangs rumble byhungry into Augustalready passed July
chokingsmotheringriotingghetto heat
staring
burning, black, bodycremating the wholeexcept those undying, guidingmolten
eyes.
—velldree thalley
Us
Why did he,him of all people,
Take the time to write me?Me...
who took him through changes purposely?After all the hurt and pain I brought to each of us.Him...
claiming that we’ve always had a special relationship,And that he feels that he must see me.Me...
wondering, why me?Am I that special?Him...
not being able to understand this strange thing.Wondering what I did to him.Us...
coming together and working this problem out.Coming together and understanding we are individuals.Us...
realizing what we were then,But most importantly,realizing what we are today...
PEOPLE!
—cynthia gordon
4
4 H4’I 4
Appearances
They say that beauty is only skin deepand therefore the beauty
of the seamust be deep below its surfaces
yet looking outyou see a beautiful horizon
which was the attractionthat furthered you
into its depths.
—rochel coleman
What Ever Happened To...
culture:the institutions, concepts,arts, skills, etc. of agiven people
culture:black culture:
does not existwas destroyedchokedfrom its peoplebecause they put upno resistancehumanethey were called
culture:created when a peoplecome togetherset up a societygoverned by its own norms
culture:a sign of aunified peoplea strong nationunitysolidarity
culture:black culture:
voidsitting on a shelfin the lost and foundsectionof your localdepartment store.
—velldree thalley
6
The Need For Black Awareness
From time immemorial,the black race has been themost unfortunate one. TheBlack man has been thecenter of torture, oppression,mockery, discrimination, andexploitation. Historically, theBlack man was made a slave;politically he has beenoppressed; socially he hasbeen discriminated againstand economically, the Blackman is the poorest.
Thus in every sphere ofhuman endeavor the blackrace is at a disadvantage. Oneis thus tempted to jump tothe logical conclusion that tobe born black is a curse.
It’s a crime, the lie that hasbeen told to generations ofblack men and white menboth. Little innocent blackchildren, born of parents whobelieved that their race hadno history. Little blackchildren seeing, before theycould talk, that their parentsconsidered themselvesinferior. Innocent childrengrowing up, living out theirlives, dying of old age—andall of their lives ashamed ofbeing black. I quote thisstatement from the book,The Autobiography ofMalcolm X:
~ The crux and gist of thisstatement is not at alldifficult to grasp. The Blackman, be he a Panamanian, aJamaican, an American, or anAfrican, has been forced tobelieve that he is inferior toother people of differentraces. Substantial evidence isthere to show that the Blackman has erroneously beenconsidered to have a low IQ.Again the Black man has beenbrainwashed to such anextent he really feels sorry tobe in such a race.”
Historical records showthat over 115 million Africanblacks were murdered orenslaved during the slavetrade. In addition, manyBlacks have been massacredwith shocking barbaritybecause of their race. Even atpresent there are Blacks whoare having life really toughright in their motherland,South Africa. The majority ofpeople living in abjectpoverty in the world areBlacks. The most importantquestion of why only theblack race should be in such asituation remains sadlyunanswered.
I think the most importantfactor millitating against theblack race all over the worldis the failure of we ourselvesto be aware of our blackness.Heaven knows how many ofus are hoping against hope tohave an injection or lotionwhich can change our skincolor. Since we don’t want tobe seen as Blacks and alsohate ourselves for beingblack, we are simply anddangerously losing our senseof awareness as beautifulhuman beings.
We have slowly buteffectively weakened ourimages and so our respectamong other races isgradually eroding away. Wehave failed to appreciate ourbeauty and so we are losing alot. There is virtually nounity among us because wehate ourselves. The Blackman is beautiful but sadlyenough most of us don’tbelieve that.I end upon this note thatblack is beautiful, black isattractive, and black ispowerful. All we need now isto be really conscious of our
blackness, foster closerrelationships in the name ofblack unity, and consider ourrace, doubtlessly, as equallyadvantaged. By so doing, thewrong notion that to be bornblack is a curse may turn outto be a baseless and fallaciousone. Let us all stand up and inone great accord, happily say,“We are Black and proud.”Long live the Black StudentUnion!
—kwaku annor
7
Dreaming My Life Away
Here I sit,dreaming my life away.
Away?But to where?
The past...
The present... the future?No!!!
Well then, please tell me where?
Here I sit,Wondering why,I sit idly by
And dream my life away.
—cynthia gordon
Inner Peace
A girl sits, transfixed in the mindsof her peers.
Her skin, soft velvet to the touch,
Her face serene with the tranquilityof a new day,
Her eyes, deep and warm with a glareof prosperity,
Her smile, that which brings forthenlightment of the soul,
Her poise, the gracefulness that shepossesses is that of a swan.
The strain which she has gone throughdoesn’t show,
For her inner peace calms andsoothes all troubles.
—gary hale
8
Year “4005”
BEGIN PROGRAM:In the year 4005 there will be no
niggersnegroes
blackscoloreds
coonsspades
or jigaboos
only shadows.Reminders of a time and spaceonce held by you and
mein the year 4005
there exists a technological beastthat knows Not how to turnits head nor how to
takeastep
backward
timeto that fateful day of completed
black; genocidefor that would not be progress...
for that would not be progress..for that would not be progress...
In the year 4005 everything will beof so perfect and white andAmerica the Beautifulwill take flight from the lipsof every blonde.haired blue-eyed childas they sing allegiance to ablood soaked white and blue ragwhich used to massage the groin of somewhite cracker we believed wasJESUSwears a three-piece in the year 4005now that the game is
over...END PROGRAM
but never end the struggleto reclaim your mindnever end the struggleagainst the year 4005...
—keith owens
9
Untitled
Love, the magician knows thislittle trick, whereby twopeople walk in differentdirections yet remainside by side.
—gary hale
Why is it this Way?
Everybody should have someone to love.Why are so many people lonely?Why the fighting, why the pain?Are smiles for children only?
flies
Why destroy your soul, Benedict,To pacify your so-called friends?Why pay such a terrible price,to please anyone but you?
Sn,
How can people feel safe,With so many others dying?How can people turn their heads,from the sounds of someone crying?
Sn,
—gary hale
From the inside looking out
There is so much more to say,but no more words are left...
I have so much to share with you,but there are other things thattrouble your mind.
I have given,and you have received...
We have loved and shared,but now we pause to realizeLife goes on!
—alicia harris
I0
Cycle
Little Bobby Tate
a grown man of nine yearsexperienced livingwas raised by the sunrocked by the moon
while Momma and Daddy watchedfully drunksemi-amusedand somewhat confused
as to the identity of this littlenigger shadow whoslept in their homeate their food
sometimesasked for love...
Little Bobby Tate
a grown man of twelve yearsexperienced living
was stabbed in the armby a hpo dermic
his right hand did it to himfor kicks and also
to see what made Daddysmile
Little Bobby Tate
a grown man of fifteen yearsexperienced living
killed his first man todayhe lays sprawled in redfor all to seeat the bottom of somebody’s stairs
crying upwardinto the rain
Little Bobby Tate
a grown man of eighteen yearsexperienced living
saw his two year old boy todayfor the first timeand he criedbecause the babylooked too much
likehim...
11
Little Bobby Tate’s Boy
a grown man of nine yearsexperienced living
was raised by the sunrocked by the moon
while Momma and Daddy watchedfully drunksemi-amused
and somewhat confusedas to the identity of thislittle nigger shadowwho slept in their homeate their food
sometimesasked for their love...
—keith owens
12
Sketch of a Ghetto Mother
She remembers the brown paper dolllying sprawled
in the blood of the snowits tiny hands
like prayersbegging the blizzard
fora sign of warmth
begging the blizzard....and being a black child-woman of eight
she criesat this
broken-fragment-of .a..boy..wants..to..be..a..mansomeday-before-Judgement-Day
boy
who paints gray rainbowsin the darkness of his mind
and looks for God only on Sundays.
It is for him she criesIt is for him she lovesIt is for him she criesIt is for him she loves
to caressthe tiny brown hands
like prayersoutstretched to God
on a cold blueMonday
when the sunis
fallingdown
13
H
Some Chicago nigger named Johnnywas beaten again today
she heard him screamagain andagain andagain andagain she cries andagain she loves
for thiswithered brown paper doll
as he crashes headlong like a broken winginto the blood of the snow
Hands no longer outstretched....
It is in his eyesthe blizzard
ragingbitter
as she searches in desperationfor a boy she once knew
wantedto be
a mansomeday
a black manYES...
but it is in his eyesthe void of early twilight
of no sun risingof a broken promise
she wants/needs/has to mendbefore nightfall
will betoo
late
Ill
Johnny he such a pretty niggernow
yeahJohnny he a real
lady killernow
ain’t he?and Johnny he smile at me
so nice n sweet likemake me feel kinda special
ainda somebodykinda loved
Johnnyhe kinda to me than most men
be to they womany’know?
14
Mean likehe ain’t never beat me yet
least not bad....And sometimes he give me things
cause he love me sowants me so to be his womanis who I want to be
sobadly...
And Momma she steady tellin mewhat a good nigger
Johnny issuch a good nigger
good niggergood niggergood nigger
is hard to find
todaywithout a good nigger
what’s a p0’ nigger bitchlike me
s’posed to dohuh?
Oh that’s what Johnny call mesometimes
but I know he don’t mean nothin by itcause Johnny he
love mehe told me so
last nightwhen we was doin itup under the stairs
he sayyou nigger
bitchgonna love you
to deathLOVEdeath
all they teachme
deathall I know
inAmerica killniggers die
theGreat White Way
bitchgonna love you
to deatha blizzard raging
then we can sit downand watch
Good Times....
15
Iv
Seem like these babiesthey
come outta nowhereGod...
Seem like yesterday’s childwas me
singing summer songsto the wind
swept my childhoodaway
and now it’swinter in my soul
and I amfreezing
somebody pleasehelp me
get warmGod
cause it’s coldoh
so colddown
thereinside of me....
inside of me....
Johnny?My Johnny?
ohthe white man
heSend my man away
to fightthe Vietnam Waron the front lines
with the rest of the niggersbut that’s airight....but that’s alright....
cause when my Johnny come backwe
gonna get marriedand
raise a familyyeah
everything gonna be finehe said
before he got on that planeand I believed him
causeI believe
he just gonna get tiredof hurting people again
and againand againshe cries
for a blizzard ragingin those eyes
16
haunting memoriesof a brown paper doll
lying twistedin the blood of the snow....It is for him she loves....
and it seem like these babiesthey just come
outtanowhere
God....
V
But one thing I ain’t never seenis so many dead
niggersbefore in my
LIFE....death
all they teachme
deathall I know
something strange‘bout all them bullets
fired at usniggers
last nightcalled friendly fire
when wasn’t nobody aroundbut those
White American folkshate us niggers
hateus niggers
hateto love
butlove to kill
and beAMERICAN
whenthe only part of the flag
we ownis the blues....
but one thing I ain’t never seenis so many dead
niggersin all my LIFE....
but they ain’t gonna killthis nigger
causethis niggerbeen dead
sincea blizzard raging
in myeyes/mind/soul
and God wasn’t homeon Monday
when the sun felldown....
17
VI
Some white boy told methe warwas over
he saywar’s over nigger
no need to fight nownigger
you should be peacefuland thankfulto Godyou still alive
cause if I had my way....then he saluted the flag
but Ihad the last laugh
cause I wasn’t thankinnobody
who wasn’t homeon a
Monday the daythey sent me home to America
home to Americahome to America?
somehow don’t sound rightfor a nigger
nigger?I ain’t no nigger I’m an Afri....
What you say nigger?
deathall they teach
medeath
all I knowin
America killniggers die
theGreat White Way
bitchgonna love you to death
when I come hometo
America....
VII
My man Johnnyhe come home today
and wedid itdid itdid it
did it have tohurt?
God
18
don’t tell a souland I
won’tneither....
war’s over niggerno need to fight now....
and my Johnnyhe had hellin his eyesa blizzard
ragingmemories
of a brown paper dolllying twisted
in theblood
of the snow....in the blood
of thatGod-damned
VIETNAM WARlies the soulof my man
Johnnythey raped him
againthose people didthe faceless ones
and left mewith a shell
andno care
butmy black love
will make everything betterI
know it willknow it better
causeblack love
all we got....even if it is
blackjust ain’t
what it used to bebefore the sun fell
down....
VIII
Before the sun fell downwe dressed in
RedBlackGreen
African Sun Songsnow
My name is Johnny
19
Idrink the blood
of my soresjust
to keep cleanwear
white chainson my cracked skull
and screamthe blues
forMr. Charlie....
Cracker Jack....
Say you want a job nigger?Say all you learned how to do was drive tanks
in that war?So what I gonna do
witha tank drivin’ nigger
in my restauranthuh boy?
Say what?.You demand your equal rights?
Martin Luther who?Look boy,
a nigger don’t own nothin’better not demand nothin’
anddamned sure ain’t gettin nothin’
from usso my advice to you
is todo for you
by youand yours
andwatch out nigger
causeit don’t matter
who’s in the front seatof
no busit’s who’s drivinthat counts....
Ix
Igonna get high
tonightgonna get fucked up
then Igonna go
toMy home
beatmy woman
to death
20
gonna make the blood rungonna
make her pay for livin
don’tno bitch deserve to live
don’tno bitch deserve to live
kick me outmy home
just for tryin’ to killher
in front of the kidsjust forspittin’
in the kid’s foodmake them eat it
make themhate their daddy
hatetheir
daddybetterHATE
your daddycause
daddy hates youhates you
daddyhates
the worldhe
dyin’ innever had no chance
to liveno chance
to be a manno place
to be blackin America....
deathall they teach
medeath all I know
in Americakill niggers
diethe Great White Way
one daygonna kill me a white man
one daygonna love you black woman gonna love
youblack woman
love youplease....
21
get thisneedle
out my armdone had enough
of Americathis time
around....
x
Some Chicago nigger named Johnnycame home again
tonightdidn’t know himused to though
hack whenhe had hopehack before
he was Johnnynow
he is deadinside of me....
inside of me....Johnny? Johnny that you?
And I thoughthe wasn’t never gonna stop
woulda thoughtI
was the devilway he heat me
beat my flesh into jellybeat me
‘til I was numbjust didn’t care no more.I just lay there screamin
watchin my blood rinse the floorwatchin this
crazed black thingraise his fists
againand againand againhis eyesburning
like some sorta demonjust didn’t know what he was ibm
no more....
gonna love you todeath
when I come hometo
America....
I sayJohnny?
what they done to youwhere they take you
Johnnyhuh?
22
where are you?Johnny come back
pleasedon’t leave me
like thisall alone
anda nigger too
pleasecome home to
CRACK!There go
some moremy blood
on that floorand it
must be MondaycauseGod
He sureain’t
Johnny?Johnny!
Johnny where you goin with that....now
o God nonot the children
youleave them children
aloneyou hear me?
You hear me Johnnyyou
leave my children alonthey all I got in
thisworld....
MOMMA!!MOMMA!!MOMMA!!
make him stopDaddy he
hurtin us Mommahe hurtin
uswhyhe
tryin to killhis ownchildren
Momma weloveDaddy....
Johnnyo God
23
Johnny pleasetake that butcher
knife awayfrom that
child’s throatJohnny and
don’thold her upby her hair
that waycause it
make her scaredJohnny Ihate you
nigger bastardyou
ain’t no manain’t nothin but
a cowardyou hear me?
And you woulda thoughtI
was the devilway he
beat mebeat my flesh
into jellybeat me
til I was numbjust didn’t care
no more.I
just lay there screaminwatchin my blood rinse the floor
watchin thiscrazed black thing
raise his fistslike hammers
againand againand againhis eyesburning
like some sorta demonjust didn’t know what he was doin
no more....
But Johnny wasn’t the devil never.naw
Johnny heain’t always been
American....and when Ikilled him
yesI killed himthat night
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shot him deadleft him sprawledin the stairwell
his eyesgroping upward
towardsmaybe where freedom is
after alldon’t know
no moreI thought backto when Johnny
hewe
ain’t always beenAmerican....
and when my baby ask meshe say
Momma,was that all the times you could kill Daddy
was just once?I held her close to me
and I criedand I remembered
the brown paper dolllying sprawled
in the blood of the snowhis tiny hands
like prayerbegging the blizzard for a sign of warmth
begging the blizzard....‘cause it was for him I loved
even before he wasJohnny?
just want you to know....me and the kidswe gonna build
a whole new daywhole new nation
ain’t gonna be no niggersjust Black men
Black womenlike
you and mewas meant to be.
Gonna love one anotherBlack Man
lovingBlack Woman
lovingBlack Man
lovingBlack people
ain’t never gonna forgetAmerica
like America forgotus....
—keith owens
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