Reginald Lockett

Homeboy Adrift in Paris

A denizen of the late night parties,
he's on the scene at the Sunset
in Jardin de Lombard every
night drinking whatever it is
he drinks, drunk as a skunk,
standing at the bar
talking trash about nothing
in particular. Paris is
a long way from West Oakland
in miles and vibes, that's
for sure. And standing there
with me at the bar in that
smoke filled club,
he recalls the smell and taste
of tamales sold on every corner
up and down 7th Street,
Peralta, 18th and Market,
Adeline, or San Pablo,
living across the street
from the Pointer Sisters, his mama
ordering Saturday night dinner
from Moon's Chinese Kitchen,
gigging in Martha Young's
band--a concert here, a gig there,
a recording session somewhere
else from noon until
six the next morning
only to get up and do
it all over again. But Martha,
Prez's niece, died,
and that was that, and
he's been all over
Europe playing music,
drinking good liquor,
chasing the dollar, women,
and dreams that'll
never come true.

Quarantine

Aunt Argie said
in Texas in the 1930s,
white doctors and nurses
at the sanitarium
kept black patients with tuberculosis
outside all day, even
in the rain and cold.
When she came to California,
she was the only black woman
on her ward.
There was a Japanese woman
they also hated.
They said
she needed to be in an internment camp
with the rest of them dirty Japs.
Aunt Argie refused to go along.

She remembered the sanitarium in Texas,
outside in the rain and cold.

An O. G. Reflects on a Murder His Daughter Witnessed

His daughter
called to wish him
a happy birthday. He's pleased
with the closeness he shares with
his baby girl. From
the moment she was born she was
his main road dog,
riding with him wherever
he went to handle his business
when he knew it was safe. When friends
and relatives saw him, they saw her,
father and daughter up and down
supermarket aisles, or at the malls
cruising the stores, checking out
music, clothes, books. And how
he couldn't wait to see her
and his wife after the day ended
at his legit job, home for dinner
and a little romp with his
two beautiful women
before he was off to the gym
or to handle
his business on the side.

What was
this sudden gentleness coupled
with his fierceness a stone roughneck
like him felt that perplexed him
but kept him ever vigilant
through the years? His baby girl
going to college, out on her own.
He even bought himself
one of them damn cell phones
he had resisted for so long,
and let his wife sign up
for the Internet so his baby girl
can call or e-mail him
if she needs something. They are
the only calls and e-mails
he receives. This old thug
is proud of the sensitivity
he's learned so painstakingly
that's helped nurture
this closeness with his baby girl,
fast becoming a woman,
and an eternal love for her mother. May
her memories of him be good ones
and bring her smiles and laughter.

But he wonders, now,
if she remembers
that one incident when she
was about two.

It was a bright Sunday afternoon
near the university. Her mother
had dressed her in a cute
powder blue and white spring outfit
with white ribbon tied to a braid in her hair.
His hair was in a high top fade,
a style reminiscent of photos,
drawings, and sculptures he'd seen
of men and women in Africa. That day
he wore black designer jeans,
black loafers,
a tight red pullover muscle shirt,
and a light black jacket, so out of place
in the South Village near the campus.

Her hands wrapped around his large fingers,
they headed for the car parked
near the park
where he'd been caught at seventeen
in the riot that made that park famous
and wandered into clouds of pepper gas,
dazed and confused, eyes stinging,
nose running.

Out of the bushes appeared
a white man, dirty, homeless,
and sinister, who stopped
in the path of his baby girl
talking baby talk, commenting on
how nice, crisp, and clean
father and daughter looked
out together on a sunny Sunday afternoon,
moving closer as he spoke. And what
a funny haircut her daddy had
the filthy, clammy white man told her,
now hovering threateningly over her.

Making jerky movements
like a predator ready to pounce on its prey,
he told her that her daddy must
really adore her and not want her harmed
and should hand over the cash
in his pocket. His baby girl's pretty face
began to contort with tears of fear,
and that's what made him pull
the g-roll from his left pocket and slip

the black mother-of-pearl handled
straight razor from his waist band
and flick it open in his right hand.
The white man was so focused
on those 100's, 50's, and 20's,
he didn't see the swift silver flash
of precision tempered
South Carolina steel before it severed
the jugular vein of his scrawny neck. He
shoved the fool back into the bushes,
his baby girl the only witness, before
the first profusion of blood
gushed a good twelve inches in the air,
and the white man crumpled
dead in the bushes. Damn! He was good!
He's still good. No one else
saw it happen. He picked her up,
wiped her tears, hugged her tight,
and slowly walked to the car.

There was never an article
in the newspaper about a man
found dead in the park
near the university with his throat slit
or even a mention on the news. Why
should he give a hot fuck on a cold day
in January. Anyone threaten him
and his, they die. That's the way
it is. Fuck the dumb shit.

Damn! Does his baby girl
remember that day, even in her dreams?
If she does, what does she think of him
as man and a father? How will she
remember him when he is no longer
here in the flesh? Will she remember
him as a cold blooded murderer,
a father who loved her very much,
or just the way her dad was?

Cover Design: Joseph McNair