Six Poems
by henry 7. reneau, jr.
that’s the way it’s always been .
the stars speak for the lonely blue hearts , and
the lonely blue hearts speak the truth
. . . for Gaza , for the Trail of Tears , for Jim Crow and slavery
, for the feral grasp of colonialism and its violent justifications
, for Operation Enduring Freedom , the Holocaust , and Shock
and Awe—the breath that caught before the air filled with
bullets , bombs , shrapnel , and screams ; for racism , misogyny
, homophobia , xenophobia , and the flagrant narcissist fascist
impulses reincarnated as Trump , because we are so anxious
to make shit up to justify cowardly acceptance when we buy
into that bullshit they’re selling because they lie so good
we beg them to come back and lie to us again , even though
we know they’re lying ; for Vietnam , Somalia , Bosnia , Iraq
, Afghanistan , and now , Iran , maybe next month , North Korea
, are generational acts of brutality by tradition ; for the genocide
we sanction for money , the jets , destroyers and tanks all filled
with depleted uranium arsenal , for Empire , the State , for all
those who think they own Others , for amerikkkan avarice
chewin’ up diamonds an’ shittin’ out coal ; for the mandatory
minimum laws that insures justice for some/sum of the whole
; for the Cheney/Bush/Colin Powell lie to the United Nations
that dictated a clear objective , overwhelming force , and an exit
strategy that mirrored the atrocities of every conquering Empire
, for every that’s the way it’s always been as justification for
the perfect crime—not the one that remains unsolved but the one
that frames the wrong doer ; for every what once was , that now
is , but doesn’t have to continue to be , there is corruption as old
and racist mean as hog pen mud all over , for the history groomed
beyond the massacre of mass graves , for the reality no one sees
but me—every priceless human life lost , is a pain i cannot forget
—a painted over rust , that weeps tears , drop by drop , upon
my heart ; for hindsight that is not so much a corrective measure
as a habitual repetition of apathetic resignation ; for wishing
, hoping , dreaming that We Shall Overcome . . . Someday , but we
all still have bills to pay , and . . . that’s the way it’s always been
. we are all mired in matter until we are not .
such stuff as dreams are made . . .
a lazy day in hell
as industrious as maggots dreaming of iridescent angel wings
, lifting them—an annunciation of immaculate conception—from the
froth & stench of road-kill , from nature’s cycle of eventual decay
. a portentousness
, not unlike the dreamer’s kafkaesque metamorphosis : blowflies
drawn to distant carcasses , to massive , aggressive municipal waste
, to spawned maggots that wake from exponential dreams
of iridescent angel wings
. does belief come from what we are , or from what we are becoming
? repeating the same cycle over & over
& over , as traditional , as the same results with no viable solution
. an addictive euphoria , like going out backwards ; that is to say
, you reap what you sow , repeating a history of tears into a field of fallow
& the emotional drought of human hearts that feign muscularity
, holding on to something dangerous & scared to let go—a suffocated echo
within the dream : relentless drops of water from a leaky faucet
, the drip , drip , dripping
between two places it is trying to escape
. into the vast , blue-sky domed forever . boundless & undiminished
as a dream of iridescent angel wings
, rising into the unpredictable oxygen of eternity .
Soylent Red , Yellow . . . Green [revisited]
If you listen , people will tell you exactly what they want , and
what they are willing to do to get it . Self-preservation
, or too much covet to quench all the want in the world , has
built a world where standing together is impossible . Are they
who keep track of what sells : how many units—where and
when , for exactly how much . Is to covet
: to give obsession its form , to name it , thus creating a curse
, like the Nazis Übermensch
, who weighed and counted every bushel of hair . Measured
the weight and purity of gold in each extracted tooth
, the amount of caloric intake that would keep a slave alive
long enough to work them to death
. And we tout humanity’s inherent goodness—based on what
exactly ? Amazon uses cookies to track its customers’
shopping habits and preferences . The algorithms that manipulate
consumers like Hari Seldon’s mathematical prognostications
. Covet is the blood in the mortar that binds all the bricks
. The people , who will accept anything just to say they have , or
are something . Is an immorality postured as success , an arrogance
rising from a thousand thrones . Are they who view Others
as a piece of lint , a plastic bottle cap , and the ashes of our
personal watchlists scattered at the crossroads of commerce . But
, they are only doing their job , right ? And our complicit silence
before the world goes crazy—eventually , the neon , holographic
billboards on the moon , and the masses’ minimum caloric intake
now toxic wafers of recycled humans , a social cannibalism
. If you listen , people will tell you exactly what they want , and
what they are willing to do to get it , are complicit in
building a world where co-existence is impossible .
so small , the space between us
for John Ortiz-Hutson
we know
who
we
are
in reflection , as our eyes pass judgment
, other eyes
passing
over
us
, but so afraid to see
. in praise , or denigration , each
to their own sixth degree
of separation
. we only see
what
we’ve been taught to see
, believe we see , most often
avoiding another’s eyes
. the willful disassociation
that clouds first impression . the shiny , compact technology
attempting to make conversation , like prisoners of rote
with no new instructions
. bad to worse to change is gonna’ come
. . . most often , transgression
, that our minds conceive for hands
rarely opened in empathy
& charity , most often nil , a vicious fist of malice
, insecurity or self-serving acquisition
ever-ready with false platitudes
: have a nice day . you have
our condolences
our thoughts & prayers
. our church will pray for you
. . . that announces
who
we
are
in the eyes of another
. we say what we want to see
, like social pressure
performing a miracle just beyond our grasp
, a social ass-/similation
to stay in good grace
: i’m sorry , when humans need
an 18 inches of personal space
. all the status quo mute
to drive each other
away
into anonymous isolation , a disconnection
of polite society
. we look at one another , not with our eyes
but with our doubts
& fears . we know
who
we
are
as reflection , a me , unlike you .
the country nod . . .
a colored-oriented ontology . . . is epigenetic
a pale-green stalk humps itself from dirt
heightens , swells and explodes into an iris or a rose
seeing you seeing me . . .
an eye to eye gravitational magnetic intensity
is generations deeper than . . .
is heart/ felt
more meaningful than
the offhand platitude
have a nice day
more empathic than a fake-ass fist bump
the country nod . . .
i see you seeing me seeing you . . .
my brotha’
my sista’
my nigga !! chain link to chain link to . . .
is eye contact that communicates
from eye to heart to soul
the synaptic connection of one Other to an/Other
the country nod . . .
inquires where your people come from
? Mende
? Ibo
? Yoruba
? Fon
? Masai ? to bridge the gaze of race
reciprocal in tribulation times
the tribal greeting between us
that gives neither quarter nor measure
the country nod . . .
to peer numinously as to how holy/wholly we are
t/here it is , the knowing nod , to tilted chin
to Black brethren and sistren at the crossroad
i hear the blues-toned voice of great poets
a griot tongue like salt circles of protection
defying zoning codes—June Jordon , Gwendolyn Brooks
Langston Hughes , Mary-Alice Daniel
all those who witness the angelic subconscious hum
of our lives . right here but , elsewhere
extending refuge and salvation
out to the imperiled in obvious parallel
the foot feels the foot when it feels the ground
the country nod . . .
seeing you seeing me seeing you . . .
is the Black GI “dap”
at the Eden gate with the flaming sword
signifyin’ my tribe
not the clichéd backhand of
i’m sorry
that is nowadays
routine rarely ever truly meant
and always too little too late
to repair the damage done
the country nod . . .
the star that burns within
that touches each Other in Diaspora
that dot-dot-dit-dot-dit-dot-dot-dash ghetto code
a limbic resonance
so compelling , there’s no room
to be aware of or interested in a ringtone
(brethren to sistren
to brethren to brethren
to sistren to sistren
to brethren and sistren)
the country nod . . .
not only holy , it is perceptive
it is not only sympathy , it is empathy
reaching out to a reaching hand . . .
whas up , my nigga !!
creatio ex nihilo
history is a mahogany cabinet in a grand , marbled ballroom
filled with mirrors and relics . the past made of carved ivory
. exhumed indigenous bones . mahjong tiles . a slave’s teeth
. there , the vise-/grip of a fist . a hammering gavel in the
wrong hands . the corrupted morality of control shrouded in
crow-dark robes (the costumes of justice) widening the chasm
between blind justice and just[us] whom they legalese to caste-
/igate , is distilled into sinister dioramas of [w]reckoning
. a thought . an impulsive action . a wildness bigger than me
, both dangerous and imbedded , calculating consequences
that threaten a wildfire +’justment . the lies and corruption
and hate stacked precariously on every surface of post-/racial
. the moments , months , and centuries like toxic waste water
through a sieve , shows us a freight train carrying migrants
fleeing hunger and violence . shows us the rewritten history
of aggression been erased , the lynched humans documented
on postcards . when we looked in amerikkka’s mirror , we
didn’t know our own faces , a reflection so like us (the space/
between the spaces) , we could not deny our not seeing , and
knowing , that which created more than eyes-wide-blindness
, allowed the lie we restless moaned in sleep . the stolen
indigenous lands paved over with boulevards and the artificial
gardens of single family tract homes . the truth as whatever
could not be mentioned . the speechless gawp of muted dissent
like a bolt of lightning from the sky with no tree to burn , and
the future , out of kilter in reams of industrial yellow smoke
. the a-/massed production of toxic obsolescence (a venomous
multi-/colored snake winding through the brush) towards the
Fall . a reciprocity of digitized encounters . the many persons
blended with the virtual crowd . and the inhuman-/ness of it all
. maybe gathered for a lynching , to savor the shame like sugar
, every trace of venom . our choices with their alchemical logic
, scraping flint into fire . are part song for the End-/Time , and
part song of hope , like God exhaled a shower of molten steel
, and we inhaled our final death-/rattle of breath . the gravity
of heavy metal seeping into mud . can you see it ? as from
above ? as only as sickening as the secret within , an abyss
compounded from a child’s nightmare cry , all that sadness
in one place , as we wrote the endings of our own life stories
. creatio ex nihilo . like talking to the ocean
through a thousand years of silence .
Note : creatio ex nihilo, like something out of nothing, like nothing from nothing, is hope conflicted with disappointment.
Photo by Mercedes Herrara
BIO: henry 7. reneau, jr. writes words of conflagration to awaken the world ablaze, an inferno of free verse illuminated by his affinity for disobedience and a barbwired conviction that prequels the spontaneous combustion that blazes from his heart, phoenix-flared red and gold, like a discharged bullet that commits a felony every day, exploding through change is gonna come to implement the fire next time. He is the author of the poetry collection, freedomland blues (Transcendent Zero Press) and the e-chapbook, physiography of the fittest (Kind of a Hurricane Press.) His poetics are situated at the intersection of experimental modernist and autobiomythographic free verse poetry. His work is published in Superstition Review; TriQuarterly; Prairie Schooner, Notre Dame Review; Punt Volat; The Ana; and Oyster River Pages. His work has also been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.