Quincy Troupe

Quincy Troupe

THE VIEW FROM SKATES IN BERKELEY
for Oliver Jackson, homeboy & painter

the clouds were mountains that day, behind the real mountains
sideways, from san francisco, across the tossed bay, the beauty we saw
from skates, in berkeley, was real there, stretched out, behind sailboats
the wind-driven waves bucking, like rodeo horses carrying cowboys
breaking across the foaming gray water, like sand dunes

rippling across an empty expanse of desert, mirrored & beautiful
here, near sunset, we looked out through the wide open windows & took in
the view, unbroken from here, under sinking sunlight, the hills breasts
the gulls resembling small planes, banked over the waves, searching for fish
they snapped up in their beaks, under fleecing clouds

streaming up high, crossing the jet stream, the pricking mist hung low
over angel island, like the day after too many drinks fogged up your head
in an afternoon sunlight, on a day further back in cobwebs than you care
to remember, but there anyway, as a still life you clung to once
deep in a long-gone memory, the skyline changing now

behind the tumbling clouds, the architecture trembling through the mist
of the "shining pearl by the bay," grown up from split-open gums of the land
like chipped shark teeth, or tombstones leaning white & bright
into the light, shimmering, like the friendship of this meeting is shimmering
here, because we knew we were what we always thought we were

homeboys on top of our games laughing like joyous paint in sprayed mist
the fog overhead hung low, over oakland, thick as a mattress
where you laid down your head full of dreams & painted images in full view
of the bay bridge, stretching, like one of your elegant lines through our view
here, outside skates window, the sun plunging like one of your painted ,

faces into rabid wash of gray waves, the wind slapping salt tears across
our faces, creased, as the american flag is streaked with a rainbow of colors

here, where we were what we always thought we were, on this day
when the moment heaved up the water, surging, like our dreams
& we were riding those bucking horse waves breaking across

the duned, kicking waters, mirrored & beautiful, we were strong
as we always knew we would be, our view unbrokened from here, in skates
under the dazzling sunlight of our dreams, streaming across the jet stream
high up in the turbulent afternoon of our heads, light & luminous
we were homeboys, oliver, on this rare shimmering day filled with flight

homeboys, oliver, on this rare shimmering day filled with light

THE ABSOLUTENESS OF SECONDS

there is time still to consider the absoluteness of seconds
time still even to hear timebombs ticking within words
the metaphors of power swollen
fat behind chewed-up ends of smoldering cigars
the bogus ten of surgically repaired apple-pie white women playing
jane in ever more stupid tarzan movies, red omens circling overhead
like bloodshot moons cocked behind scopes of rifles
zeroing in on stars & bright eyes of babies
time still to recognize those who swear their computerized egos dance
for art instead of money & who sing of cloning as a sacred religion
in place of passion in the wet sucking bloom
& whose art springs from legacies of crosses & ashes
& whose prophecies produce wars & chains & even more bullets

time, still, even to reconsider the trip upriver
from new orleans to st. paul, mississippi-ing the lynched history
passing natchez, st. louis to la crosse, rolling vowels sewn deep
within voices, invisible ghosts whispering along bottoms of the big muddy
the sky above full of blue rhythms & catfish hanging from hooks
barracudas sleeking through the slippery wash underneath the river
time still to listen to those africans
who came here singing
learned here to gut-bucket, fuse bloody syllables into mysterious
hambones, learned here to shape a sho-nuff american blues
into a song full of genius, into a song that embraces love

FOR MALCOLM, WHO WALKS IN THE EYES OF OUR CHILDREN
---for Porter, Solomon, Neruda & Assiatou

he had been coming a very long time
had been here many times before
malcolm, in the flesh of other persons, malcolm
in the flesh of flying gods

his eyes had seen flesh turned to stone
had seen stone turned to flesh
had swam within the minds of a billion great heroes
had walked among builders of nations
of the sphinx, had built with his own hands

those nations, had come flying across time
a cosmic spirit, a notion, an idea
a thought wave transcending flesh fusion of all
centuries, had come soaring like a sky break

above ominous clouds of sulfur, wearing
a wingspan so enormous it spanned the breath
of a people's bloodshed, had come singing

like coltrane, breathing life into miles
into stone-cold statues formed from earthworms & lies

malcolm, cosmic spirit who still walks back-straight
tall among us, here, in the words of nelson mandela
in the rap of public enemy number one, ourselves
deep down, we hear your lancing voice splitting open still
the pus-filled sores of self-hatred covering our bodies here
like scabs infested with AIDS-the poisoned
blood running out of us still stains the ground here, malcolm

creates bright red flowers of art everywhere-we stand up
our love for you & are counted in the open air

hear
your trumpet voice breaking here, like miles
zigzagging through the open prairie of our minds
in the form of a thunderbolt splitting the sky-& just before
your tornado words dip down inside an elephant trunk
conveying winds carrying the meaning of your words
shattering all notions of bullshit here

we see your vision still in the life force of men & women
see you now in the high-flying confidence of our children, malcolm
who spread their enormous wingspans & fly through their minds
with confidence, mirroring the beauty you stood for, brother your

spirit, malcolm, burning in the suns of their eyes

© 1999-2007 by Quincy Troupe