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 believeā¦
I believe, yes, I believeā¦
sitting in that cell, after her processing and
paper-work were completed and after all the
interviewing sheād done, getting a dream job
at her alma mater, Prairie View A&M University,
surely she said, āLord, 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 olā worldāthe runner-up is more
qualified, dedicated to doing your work and a better
fit for the job, besides that, I could make more on
welfareāand, I was wrong, Black Lives donāt matter,
please forgive me for becoming uppity and, momentarily,
forgetting my placeā¦ā
I believe, yes, I believeā¦<br/> I believe, yes, I believeā¦
she intoned like a Baptist preacher sermonizing on Sunday,
in that cell, āI 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 didnāt want me to hear:
cigarettes kill over 50,000 Americans annually, and Gawd, I know
that youād rather see him light me up, than see me light upā
now, I understand thatās why he made his U-turn, and stopped me
in the first placeā¦ā
I believe, yes, I believeā¦
I believe, yes, I believeā¦
she confessed like a Catholic confessing to her priest, in
that cell, āMaking a lane change and not signaling is a
Capital offense in the Lone Star state
of mind Iām 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 āinsufficient fundsā
father, thereās 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 believeā¦
I believe, yes, I believeā¦
she moaned like an olā Black Blues singer down on
her luck, āIāll just have to make do with dis big olā black
garbage bag, shoā hope de Black Lives Matter movement
see de symbol and quit all dey nappy-headed foolishness,
Black Lives Matterāall lives matterājusā lissen to silence
ob black faces in high places, lak de con- stitutional lawyer
who donā believe in lookinā back, goinā forward wit de work
ob āenhanced interrogationā and targeted killinā he so gud atā¦ā
I believe, yes, I believeā¦
I believe, yes, I believeā¦
Sistar Sandyās āsuicideā like I believe bullies
hopped up on Vitamin S, and PTSD from
killing in Afghanistan and Iraq, monsters
with monikers like, Frank āChokerā Vasquez,
Jude āThe Foot Doctorā Siapano, āGlovesā Davis,
āClubberā Williams and āChokeholdā Johnson help
kind old ladies cross streets. Just like I believe they
rescue cats from treesāand NOT āprotect and serveā
everything done in service of brutal capitalist exploitationā¦
Long Live The Fighting Spirit of Sandra Bland!
Raymond Nat Turner Ā© 2015 All Rights Reserved
believe, yes, I believeā¦
Justice was served sweet and sour in pepper spray soupātear- gas gumboātears mixed with milk and milk of magnesia in crimson curry sauce; Served from warfare statesā woks on
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