Had omitted a whole stanza of Langston Hughes’ “Kids Who Die”. It feels like I ate a butterfly. A stanza with a line like “eating blood and gold” thrown out? Wow. I think of Rimbaud’s earth and stones, rocks and coals and iron ore.
I only find within my bones, A taste for eating earth and stones. When I feed, I feed on air, Rocks and coals and iron ore.
Been working on two paraplegic gadgets. A Lenovo vacuumed of most of its functions except word processing and a Samsung mobile with a blinder fluorescent-like laser rod on one side of the screen, thanks to a leaky lcd that benefitted from a good splash one night that I was gathering rainwater and needed a flashlight.
The mobile is what I use for audio recording, the Lenovo laptop for editing and reading downloaded documents. Had evacuated all my files to a flash drive when I sent the Lenovo to a shop for reformatting and repair but before I could put everything back in the drive, McAfee began harassing me. My virus scan has accordingly expired, time to upgrade, and every time I press a link a bug says not enough memory to get to this site. Press again and it freezes.
It’s a sad affair, going back and forth between two otherwise very helpful friends. Then there are the so many noises from a few seconds to several hours a day. The dust and the heat, the cats dirtying the fresh sheets, the chickens asking for red grains, the water jugs to fill, the plants to be watered and shaded. Then there’s my sister breaking into my fasts, dumping platefuls on my working space; the black ants feasting; the husband’s endless cunt cussing.
Then someone called to tell me Kitoy posted something on Facebook, a picture of our house in Balogo.
Kitoy Who?
Keith Bacongco! He wrote about your mother! He said you’re neighbors! Kreyoks even asked if you’re a relation, and where are you now!
Kreyoks Who?
Cris! Cris Gaerlan!
Oh shit.
Screws me some. Our house? My Auschwitz? A millennial runner messing with it? What does he know. My mother? Tacked on someone’s frigging FB wall? How dare.
Then another call recalling a story I had already deployed. Which screwed me some more. I mean, just when you thought you got your math right, it’s your geography this time? Rectify errors rebuild the Party. Gather in a pincer position, gather ye rosebuds, gather your ashes, from ashes to ashes… Hey, there’s going to be a Sayote Survivors party in Danny’s beach house in Digos! You coming?
I sure feel like I ate a boxful of brown butterflies.
Posting again below Langston’s precious poem, “Kids Don’t Die”, and another of his jazz poems titled “Harlem”.
Kids Who Die
This is for the kids who die,
Black and white,
For kids will die certainly.
The old and rich will live on awhile,
As always,
Eating blood and gold,
Letting kids die.
Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi
Organizing sharecroppers
Kids will die in the streets of Chicago
Organizing workers
Kids will die in the orange groves of California
Telling others to get together
Whites and Filipinos,
Negroes and Mexicans,
All kinds of kids will die
Who don’t believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment
And a lousy peace.
Of course, the wise and the learned
Who pen editorials in the papers,
And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names
White and black,
Who make surveys and write books
Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die,
And the sleazy courts,
And the bribe-reaching police,
And the blood-loving generals,
And the money-loving preachers
Will all raise their hands against the kids who die,
Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets
To frighten the people—
For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people—
And the old and rich don’t want the people
To taste the iron of the kids who die,
Don’t want the people to get wise to their own power,
To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together
Listen, kids who die—
Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you
Except in our hearts
Maybe your bodies’ll be lost in a swamp
Or a prison grave, or the potter’s field,
Or the rivers where you’re drowned like Leibknecht
But the day will come—
Your are sure yourselves that it is coming—
When the marching feet of the masses
Will raise for you a living monument of love,
And joy, and laughter,
And black hands and white hands clasped as one,
And a song that reaches the sky—
The song of the life triumphant
Through the kids who die.
Langston Hughes
Harlem What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— Like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? Langston Hughes