Julian Randall
OBAMA WANTS TO BE CLEAR ABOUT HIS LEGACY
Let me be clear as a water stain
on glass nearly window but not
bulletproof I want some things
to always be constant Legacy
is muzzled by history with good
reason Let me be clearer still
a persistent film of dew on dying
grass Opacity is a form of treason
I gut envelopes with a thin gold
and sometimes my own dead face
unspools and men in suits rush in
because it would be a tragedy
if I remembered I was someone
who could die Let me be clear
my blood necessitates repetition
I am gone I am gone I am gone
I am grateful that the room was
round or I would have dented it
with my screams Gratitude
is a kind of violence I say thank
you and that yawns into a bomb
Everything I do I do with a grace
which has only ever been described
as bestial A gazelle or a swan
I’m a precise kind of fugitive
When I was born history stuttered
I lacquer my palms with the silence
I think it’s impossible not to miss it
Despite everything I give white people hope
Nothing will ever demand me to be
this merciless again
THE SPOOK WHO SAT BY THE ONCE BOMBED CITY: PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPLORATIONS OF ANCESTRAL MEMORY THROUGH THE LENS OF RACIAL BATTLE TRAUMA
ABSTRACT:
In this poem we shall examine the figure of the “Token” as a doorway into a theory of ancestral memory, namely the collective consciousness of African American history. Thus, this poem is concerned with the question of whether what has been done can ever be undone; perhaps still more appropriately, whether what has been done has ever stopped happening? Concurrently, this is a poem that preoccupies itself with the question of what constitutes “the beginning” of ancestral memory? History implicates the hands, the ongoing question of whom they belong to, while a linguistic lens favors a tongue starved thin with retreat. For the purposes of this poem, let us favor the tongue. If we imagine ancestral memory as a museum with only entrances, then everything that has ever wished you dead might still be inside; thus the skull is a house filled with rusted knives. Where language intersects with all of this has fascinating physiological implications. Let us revisit the Token in college, attempting to say “No” and feeling dehydrated with the effort of it. If we presume the Token’s college is near Philadelphia, he might learn about the MOVE Bombing and smell smoke everywhere. This matrix of possibilities lends itself well to the question of whether trauma and pain are inherent and, by extension, inherently linked. Simplified, the Token sits in his first Black studies course at the edge of understanding that Black Excellence is a failed form of teflon and rubs the exhausted tendons of his knees and wonders how long he has had to be faster than even the skin implies. He might answer “Always.”, perhaps “Decades.” Alternatively, he might have forgotten how to speak altogether.