by BAR poet-in-residence Raymond Nat Turner
Oz-Low Piece Process allows bombing hospitals, patients in
Surgery, just as it allows bombing schools, shelters,
Mosques, electric and water treatment plants and homes!
Sugar Hill Play-date v. Oz-low Piece Plan
by BAR poet-in-residence Raymond Nat Turner
He refers to me as, “My friend,
Raymond,” and I feel honored…
Gael, my three year-old Sugar Hill
Harlem neighbor’s an “old soul,” a
A 35 lb question mark, eyes sparkling
With curiosity, chasing life down the
Street like a 3 ft exclamation point!
His mommy’s a surgeon, studying
For her boards, his granny’s a Rutgers
Professor working on her book, and I,
I am awarded a play-date with Gael…
He has that spark, that curiosity,
Relative peace blesses few of the
World’s children with; he also has
Every truck under the sun and knows
Precisely what each truck does, and why!
He’s more than willing to teach me
Tonight, but first, he warns that work
Cannot begin before jamming his
Bright yellow hardhat securely over
His jet black curls and buckling his
Utility tool belt, low and tight—
Clearly, he’s studied style and moves
Of the working-class and has them
Down, looking up to and mimicking neighbor-
Hood men who work on Abuela’s brownstone
Gael’s brilliant imagination’s creating
Useful tasks, needed work, for each truck,
Maintenance for himself and showing me
How the crane on one truck in his fleet works—
It’s becoming clear he doesn’t trust me with the trucks,
If I were Gael I wouldn’t trust the trucks or other
Equipment in grownup hands— even his brilliant
Imagination cannot comprehend the twisted, burning,
Bloody hulk of metal, mixed with pieces of cloth,
Shoes, driver and assistant once called an ambulance…
Gael’s blessed to believe Abeula and his
Mommy will protect him from harm, feed
Him when he’s hungry, hydrate him with
Cool, clean, clear water after he’s played
Hard and is thirsty, they will read to him,
Sing sweet, sleepy time lullabies and put
Him down for a safe, peaceful nap when
War with the Sandman proves hopeless…
G doesn’t cringe at loud sounds and
No nightmares haunt him, making him
Pee in the bed, so I must spare him the
Fractured Fairytale of the ambulance,
The Fractured Fairytale of Oz, where one
Group’s told, “Follow the Frankenstein
Road,” where Gael’s trucks would get
Different color license plates, travel
Apartheid roads, in shadows of an apartheid
Wall bisecting the land like a jagged Frankenstein
Scar, and his trucks would be stopped at checkpoint
After checkpoint, after checkpoint, after checkpoint
By heavily armed, hostile teenaged thugs vibrating
Bigotry/hatred through iron domes and hankering to
Cast lead, perforating colorful skins of G’s trucks like
Swiss Cheese, with armor-piercing bullets from
White Knights of The Five-Side Kingdom; traveling Oz by
Truck, Gael would learn strange new words, old words
Used in strange new ways: “occupation,” “relocations,”
“Put ‘em on a diet;” “mow the grass,” “ethnic-cleansing,”
“Genocide,” “war crimes,” “crimes against humanity,”
“Collateral damage,” “targeted killings,” I spare him the
Fractured Fairytale of Oz, where Caterpillars crunch on
Homes, toys and olive trees, crush activists and call it: “Security”
I spare him the Fractured Fairytale where Third Reich
Impersonators order cowards at consoles to send
Featherless birds shitting fire, shrapnel and white
Phosphorus storms with errant precision and call it “Defense”
I spare him the Fractured Fairytale of Oz leaving little
Ones like him piled in ice cream freezers, slowing their
Decomposition, and others shredded, sliced and diced so
Badly that even his surgeon mommy could not— like
Humpty-Dumpty— put their tiny heads, arms, legs and
Faces back together again; even if she could, the
Oz-Low Piece Process allows bombing hospitals, patients in
Surgery, just as it allows bombing schools, shelters,
Mosques, electric and water treatment plants and homes!
I spare him the Fractured Fairytale of, once upon a time
“A land without people, for a people without land—” like
Oz, an “unsinkable aircraft carrier,” weapons lab and
Biennial trade-show for White Knights of the Five-Side Kingdom—
WMD gods and profits reigning green for
Every overloaded donkey cart squealing and moaning like
Mothers of the itty-bitty, teensy-weensy, bloody bodies
Piled in them— Karen Bass can’t hear them, Barbara Lee
Can’t hear them, John Conyers can’t hear them,
Charlie Wrangel, Judas Quisling Congressional Black Caca can’t
Hear them while crying Raytheon war profit-tears into Swiss bank accounts…
I spare my friend Fractured Fairytales of Oz where the
Heart and “prayers” of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue’s
Resident “go out,” “feel your pain,” except on Tuesdays,
When Hellfire Missiles go out…inflicting pain, breaking Hearts…
I spare my friend Fractured Fairytales of Oz where
Cauliflower eared Barbara Boxer can’t hear squealing,
Moaning wheels of overloaded donkey carts, and Ms
Enhanced interrogation technique-Di-Fi only wants to be
Kept in the loop— what weapons systems logged the most
Kills— forget halting the Oz- Low Piece process allowing
Oz to stoop low as it dares, filling donkey carts with little
Bodies, checkpointing trucks like my friend’s and stealing
The land they travel—piece, by piece, by piece, by Piece…
Raymond Nat Turner © 2014 All Rights Reserved
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