Quincy Troupe

Gray Day In January in La Jolla

the day absent of sun, troubles in over plush hilltops
threatening rain, cool hours mist toward noon
wearing gray shawls of vapor, patches of blue peek through
ragged holes punched in clouds, look like anxious eyes of scandinavians
worrying through their skins when they see snowstorms coming,
in a place cold & white as anything imaginable, eye look

past green foliage touched with hints of autumn shivering
like a homeless white man in a harlem doorway in february,
look past white ice storms freezing the nation, all the way to the capitol,
on martin luther king day, standing there on heated stone, bill
clinton takes his second oath of office, as rumors swirl around him
posing as vultures devouring an abandoned blood kill,

he lays out a vision for the future as good old boys dumped
like pillsbury dough into their rumpled suits fight back yawns, eyes
boring into the back of clinton's head like cold barrels of shotguns,
the cheers of the massive crowd punctuated by gun salutes,
tries beating back the cold of this day sweeping in from the arctic,
flags popping trembling wings crack over the capitol,

as jessye norman takes us where we have to go, singing:
america, america, God shed his grace on thee, & crown thy good
with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea
but we remember the reality of ennis cosby's senseless death, on this day
out here in the west, where everything seems so cozy & warm, where
time wears the laid-back attitude of a surfer crouched on a board,

riding an incoming wave, eye see climbing up invisible ladder rungs,
deep in his imagination, the growing power of my son
porter's angular body, all arms & legs now, eyes peering out innocent
but knowing, laid-back but cold, his mind calculating the distance
his thirteen-year-old body must conquer before he understands
the meaning of roads he has just walked over pigeon-toed,

clouds breaking across tops of hillsides, light shimmying in golden
blue, the sky widening into this moment bright as anywhere
clear & warm, the voice of jessye norman touching the blues breaks through
radio, her voice evoking history washes through this poem,
implants hints of lady day's warning of "strange fruit,"
as the threat of another storm gathers itself-as love

& hatred everywhere-north of here, above san francisco,
porter & eye see shadows of clouds lengthening here in la jolla,
see them spreading down hillsides like dark amoebas, mirth,
ragged as edges of daylight slipping toward darkness,
the air cool with mist now, the hour decked out in gray shawls,
cloud vapors now puffing up into shapes of dolphins, whales,

sharks cruising a sky cold as these waters off the coastline

America's Business; A Simple Prayer

hand over your souls & empty out all your bank accounts
for greed is one of america's main pastimes,
creating icons for this purpose, huge profits is the rule of thumb
for jesus christ superstar, marilyn monroe manson as cross-dresser,
donald duck & mickey mouse, silly little critters from disneyworld
packing them in, reducing our pulverized brains to sawdust,
daffy duck promos for big bucks, corniness rolling in liquid gold & green
backs, two-ton cartoon people trying to swim to glory through their mouths,
wearing bathing suits in shallow water, flab rolling around their midsections,
spilling over the corners of their suits like holy lard, shaking like jello
while they blather on & on like coked-up idiots, cameras rolling,
feed dream machines, while cold assistants carry duffle bags of cash to banks,
nothing spiritual here, just greed & power polished over daffiness, cornball
americana wearing blow-dried hairdos, manicured nails,
sporting attitudes of privilege, decked out in sky-blue sports
jackets with gold buttons, shiny white shoes, white socks, & a mouthful
of spit-shined, brand-new enamel-like mine that flash brighter than day
break, than a polished, brand-new nickel, or a grinning cheshire cat,
dr. ruth spilling out rot-gut words that shoot
nails, like tails of stars disappearing over the horizon, people bailing out,
like black holes down the night, rush limbaugh lying quicker than a cobra
snake grinning happy before he strikes, but a lot of people seem
downright giddy seeing psychos get rich & famous telling them why
they should be contemplating their own wrinkled navels, wacko
talking heads, hosts swamping television air space--

the people's air space, if truth be told-get stuck on the mantra of what
they're paid to disinformation about, laughing in the silence of their brains,
pole all the way to fluctuating money markets-but y'all rich, unthinking
sapsuckers betta watch out for them hedge funds you got your money in,
hope they don't fail & pull your cardboard houses down in the doodoo
with all the rest of us unwashed zoozoos-
celebrating like crazy all over steamy airwaves,
foaming on & on as part of some flattering toothy, camera-vain,
see me now & catch me later, without regrets, pseudo punditocracy, who
dish out salacious tidbits of disinformation for everyone to take seriously,
talking loud & hard, golf tees between their teeth, so the public can't catch what
they're really talking about, 0 heavenly father please forgive us for not handing
over all our souls & bank accounts for all this silly bullshit, give us strength
to ward off all these murder-mouthing, greedy, power hungry, cold-blooded
hypocritical motherfuckers, save us from these vampires,
from these jesus christ superstar icons, save us from all these lucifers,
great spirit, 0 save us from all these spit-shined, polished, puffed up,
blow-dried hair politicians & salesmen-both the same thing-
who sell all these daffy trinkets, half-baked ideas to anyone listening,
who are trained programmers paid to raise a crowd's blood level to fever
pitch, 0 save us heavenly spirit before they throw the rest of us
into the cheering arena, to hungry, starving beasts for food,
like they use to, way back in italy, save us,
before glassy-eyed, gaunt lions with nothing else to do but he trapped
inside a jerry springer styled media spectacle, who suck ragged claws,
show their blood-stained, raggedy chops, glassy-eyed,
wait for fresh lunch to be thrown in screaming,
wait for fresh meat to be thrown in screaming, every day

So What?

miles blew "so what" on kind of blue
& eye do too, right here, right now,
"so what" is an attitude, a rhythm steeped & shaped,
the blues, what the cadences build then pick up,
'tudes bursting into light, high steppin it
through a room, space, where energy mimics style,
grace, the music dancing around whatever attitude brings
into the room, comes with the territory,
living in the world is not free, the beauty we receive, here,
inside this moment, is the music, is whatever we are feeling right
about now, popping our fingers as we move through a groove,
like hip people suppose to, we goose up nights,
but the space most of us cruise through is not enough
to keep the feeling real, with what we know, with what we got,
with what is brought to the table, right here, right now,

"so what" says the wind up in the music,
blowing down our lives like a tornado exploding into view,
swirling like screaming headlines, leaving false rumors all around,
faked photographs made up in dark rooms,
"so what" says ivy league assassins employed by the cia,
the government of disinformation, who drop bombs of terror
throughout our lives, who kick down our doors,
like those ski-masked bounty hunters did over in phoenix,
who blast through our dreams just because they wanted to
& could do, playing war games as if they were gods,
"so what" say the kkk of paleontologist hubris, observation,
"so what" says day-to-day bullshit dumped into our laps,
the second reconstruction is here, at our door
step, is alive & kicking, now

"so what" miles blew back in 1959
"so what" said the tornado blowing through our lives,
"so what" say the creators of war games, doing what they do
for the public good, feedom & democracy,
"so what" says prop 209 in california, the second reconstruction
& so it was all about attitude back in 1959
& its all about attitude, right now

Witnesses

the lamp posts stand mute, cold as death camp sentries,
guards the dead caught a glimpse of, just before
they gave up their last breath in volleys of spitting gunfire,
dark shades of drooping trees whispered mournfully
overhead, back then, in the chilled night air,

their leaves were serenading shadows lengthening over
the spots where the dead fell silent, as these new stones here, now,
growing up fast, posing as humans, block by block mutes everywhere,
shape the tone of fiction & friction between these ravaged buildings
popular myth holds as sacred truth, for family, community,
that we trust as love, brother & sisterhood, all that nonsense,
but where the new walking dead living here now under eaves of gables
hardly ever whisper, or pose beyond sulks, but live just to survive
this cold, silent place of bloody history & murder, red fingers
clawing graffitied walls, these dark-circled eyes those of witnesses,
are cold as cocked uzis, who have seen it all in blood & spades,
witnesses, whose eyes know the real deal beyond words,
witnesses, who know the truth going down, right now

© 1999-2004 by Quincy Troupe