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I believe in the machine of state
Raymond Nat Turner, BAR poet-in-residence
29 Jul 2015
šŸ–Øļø Print Article

by BAR poet in residence Raymond Nat Turner

BAR's poet in residence considers the deaths of black women, allegedly suicides in the US Army and in police custody.

I believe in the machine of state

by BAR poet in residence Raymond Nathaniel Turner

I believe, yes, I believe…
I believe, yes, I believe…
sitting in that cell, after her processing and
paper-work were completed and after all the
interviewing she’d done, getting a dream job
at her alma mater, Prairie View A&M University,
surely she said, ā€œLord, I am so not worthy of
all this good fortune, this job, this work, so un-
deserving of this life of service, worth living, I
want out of this ol’ world—the runner-up is more
qualified, dedicated to doing your work and a better
fit for the job, besides that, I could make more on
welfare—and, I was wrong, Black Lives don’t matter,
please forgive me for becoming uppity and, momentarily,
forgetting my placeā€¦ā€

I believe, yes, I believe…<br/> I believe, yes, I believe…
she intoned like a Baptist preacher sermonizing on Sunday,
in that cell, ā€œI brought shame on myself, my profession, my
family, community and the Black Lives Matter movement by
questioning authority of a loyal public servant who only wanted
to help me stop smoking! Gawd, he was your messenger delivering
a public service announcement big tobacco didn’t want me to hear:
cigarettes kill over 50,000 Americans annually, and Gawd, I know
that you’d rather see him light me up, than see me light up—
now, I understand that’s why he made his U-turn, and stopped me
in the first placeā€¦ā€

I believe, yes, I believe…
I believe, yes, I believe…
she confessed like a Catholic confessing to her priest, in
that cell, ā€œMaking a lane change and not signaling is a
Capital offense in the Lone Star state
of mind I’m in, not being able to repay my family $500.00
for bail on the paltry salary of my new job, father, this voids
my will to live, cancels me out
like a check stamped ā€˜insufficient funds’
father, there’s no open window in this white site
high enough for me to leap from like South African
anti-apartheid freedom fighters, and no gun for two cool
suicide shots to my brain, like Gary Webb, or a handcuffed
Harry Houdini headshot, like Chavis Carter in the backseat
of an Arkansas police cruiser, or slick suicide moves of 19-yr-
old Pvt 1st class La Vena Johnson in Iraq, suicidal enough, the
army swears, to pour acid in her anus and vagina after shooting
herself; please, father, guide me on how to get it done my way!ā€

I believe, yes, I believe…
I believe, yes, I believe…
she moaned like an ol’ Black Blues singer down on
her luck, ā€œI’ll just have to make do with dis big ol’ black
garbage bag, sho’ hope de Black Lives Matter movement
see de symbol and quit all dey nappy-headed foolishness,
Black Lives Matter—all lives matter—jus’ lissen to silence
ob black faces in high places, lak de con- stitutional lawyer
who don’ believe in lookin’ back, goin’ forward wit de work
ob ā€˜enhanced interrogation’ and targeted killin’ he so gud atā€¦ā€

I believe, yes, I believe…
I believe, yes, I believe…
Sistar Sandy’s ā€˜suicide’ like I believe bullies
hopped up on Vitamin S, and PTSD from
killing in Afghanistan and Iraq, monsters
with monikers like, Frank ā€˜Choker’ Vasquez,
Jude ā€˜The Foot Doctor’ Siapano, ā€˜Gloves’ Davis,
ā€˜Clubber’ Williams and ā€˜Chokehold’ Johnson help
kind old ladies cross streets. Just like I believe they
rescue cats from trees—and NOT ā€œprotect and serveā€
everything done in service of brutal capitalist exploitation…
Long Live The Fighting Spirit of Sandra Bland!

Raymond Nat Turner Ā© 2015 All Rights Reserved

believe, yes, I believe…

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