POEM: JANIS JOPLIN

 

 

 

Janis Joplin/poor white-refuse

refugee running for cover of rock,

 

like a baby with an hereditary

birth defect, i didn't ask

for this white skin privilege;

this maximum security

with guards everywhere

and the wall so far off

so high, so hard to scale

minefields of twinkling consumables

studding the distance between

me and the rest of humanity,

a spiraling bob of drugs at the top

 

and i ain't asking for no

mercy neither, no pity, none

of yall tears, anyway,

i'm going to kill myself

or at least die trying

 

they say i'm so wild

cause all what i need is a man,

a real man, a hard on

but like once a man was in me

and said "god, you so ugly

i can't look" but so what

is his opinion anyway but

a thirty second commercial

he thinks he's a man

he thinks niggers stink

he thinks i'm a piece of meat

he's my father, my brother

and this is no gentle incest

nor any human touch

 

so i will do these insane acts

i will sing in the night

say what i want

drink and be driven crazy

put a tombstone

and real flowers on

a black woman's grave

and have no regrets, no

regrets

 

—kalamu ya salaam

1 response
Come on, come on, come on, take it--take another little piece of my heart now, baby! Wild ass Banshee screaming at...me...at something...deep in my chest...this ain't no white woman...none that I ever seen...none like the few that teach in my schools or that be downtown in dat store where my grandmamma works, walking and standing board stiff, nose turned down, and face wrinkled like they smelled something bad...nope, she ain't quite like one of them. I mean, she look like one of the PWTs, livin' in the trailer park by the softball field or on the edge of the plantation but she got a cafe', juke joint glaze about her. I ain’t never seen no white woman like dat where black women look at her like she odd but not evil, like a trashy cousin of something, like someone they would feed, someone they would pray fo', someone who make Retha Franklin look like she ain't got many problems.

And you writing about this instead of writing about trees, instead of writing landscape postcard poems--you be making connections to pain and fuckeduptidness in the world, making the blues more than a metaphor but more like a barometer for how fuckedup the world is, fo' everybody, tryin' to make me think that being human is seeing the humanity in others, in all folks, like dat's revolutionary--to be human in a time when humanity don't pay no bills. Well Sly Stone and Gill Scott-Heron got crushed under the weight of trying to hold up humanity and not running from responsibility of being a Cosmic Deputy and dealing with this symbiotic relationship of all organisms whether dey can find the 1 or not, whether dey can get up on the down stroke or not. All you James Baldwin mofos talkin' 'bout love is not an easy but a necessary movement/platform/agenda...call of humanity.

It's 9:45 a.m. on a Sunday, and I'm goin' back to bed 'cause I don't want no Jesus and no poem that make me remember that other people's pain belong to me, especially when its bluespeople who got the hoodoo to make us remember that, but the people who win the wars, horde all the stuff, and control the telling of the national narrative tell us that bluespeople don't have no logic for above the waist and that Janis is just a dirty angel who fall into black mud and not another one of those blues barometers telling the hoarders how fuckedup dey be. If it was just annoying when we told them the truth, it had to be something awful when one of dey's own children tell them the truth about demselves. But, don't nobody really listen, 'cept a poet like you still think that humanity can be heard above the iron hell created by the hoarders.