NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 18 Issue 3 - Fall 2018 - Page 112

poetry By Bob Holman All Praise Cecil Taylor “Rhythm is the Life of Space of Time danced through.” — Cecil Taylor Them laugh them cry them fingers flip wise Troll the riverbed dead not dead not dead Once after the concert you told me it was not after the concert This is the concert is just what you said I remember that now along with dead not dead not dead So a blew note blows trill still the hurricane of silence You mentioned how the string got unstrung and when it rung That’s where it begun so begin again a little closer to the end Where the bend won’t bend and the bang hangs a blend Right at the point and left with the joint just hammer Hammer the pale night nail (hammer the pale night nail) The jawdropper corral where the pedal dance flail That’s the cozy up to it reborn, where the Stop sign is a square Baby understands, rocks the baby grand and rolls the key Till the lock screams “I Give” and all the dough Comes rolling up to Heaven’s creak, squeak squeak On the Street Named Pedro Pietri On the most amazing day you were born and you were died We was waiting for you everywhere and you surprised us By showing up everywhere else Where once were bottles now only bottle caps hang in mid-joint Waiting for the air to turn into red wine and cheeseburgers And the bottle caps without bottles will be redeemed At the Church of Our Lady of Tomatoes for five bucks apiece Now that you have your own street named after you Maybe they will get you a car But you know you need the ok Of the Latin Insomniacs Motorcycle Gang Without Motorcycles To set up toll booths at both ends of the block So that once you pay to get in You can also pay to get out Unless the toll booth keeper is at the other end Of the one way street that never ends And you get to stay forever In the bodega that doesn’t sell anything Because it is made out of loose joints and condoms And the only way you can get in is to smoke your way in And screw your way out And when you drive your black helicopter over the street that has your name And see the great balls of fire that are being lit up in your name And the outrageous acrobatic screwing that is going on in your name You may very well want to change your name But you can still pick up that notebook that you left in the telephone booth that time And make your escape into the day where it is always night And laugh at the poets who try to make sense Of the fact that a street has your name on it But you will never walk on it Because you are too busy writing a new subway That runs directly under the street that has your name Where you are on an Uptown train going Downtown And you name it “Speedo”