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There we were once again: evacuees / from the moored Superdome, lake

water gnawing its jiving and shucking  / struts and bones; fourth-class citizens

 

 

 

 

Malcolm’s Landing: A Labor Day Lament, 2006

By Mackie Blanton

It’s not that we abandon Malcolm’s moment

of anger or ever even learn a lesson or two

from it. We hardly recall or remember it is

the problem,

the cause,

the reason,

the endless

blinding,

binding,

wounding:

 

            But what else are you but

            ex slaves? You pretend you

            just traipsed ashore from The

            Mayflower! But we are all

            black people! Ex slaves! In

            chains from a slave ship, like

            a horse or a cow or a chicken!

            But you don’t like being told

            that, do you?

 

There we were once again: evacuees

from the moored Superdome, lake

water gnawing its jiving and shucking

struts and bones; fourth-class citizens,

third-class ex slaves; disrespected,

despised, still chained one to another,

tripping your way out toward, into, the

uninviting, policing white light around

rotting dark, darkening, pale stale bodies,

sloshing in menstrual flow, feces, urine,

more death; hauled off to other states,

the unwanted prize in silent auctions!

The sigh of death on the bridges, along

flooded streets, in homes soaked asunder;

the cough of stench from stagnant lake,

river, and swamp water!

 

But one year later, nothing has changed:

 

VIOLENT LABOR DAY

• Stray bullet kills Central City man

• Jefferson Hwy incident ends in shooting

• Stray shot wounds Algiers man

• Man hiding in bedroom closet shot

• Man found shot in Warehouse District

• 4 shot, 2 dead in shooting

• Tropical depression forms over Atlantic

 

And there you were once again, black

and white together, at the half time

of your lives, homeless from the

Superdome, shipping out into the

unknown, unwanted lights. As each

of you crawled, stumbled, fell across

the threshold, your pain momentarily

electrified the power-outted exit archways,

each of you a suffering, short-circuited

tribe. Those words, his words, your pain

again, your unwanted, chosen wisdom.

The contradiction, the destiny, the decision,

the responsibility, the conquest of self!

 

What have we not done for this country?

All of us have orated.

All of us have died.

How does grief die?

How does a moment die?

How does a gun die?

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posted 7 September 2006

 

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posted 17 November 2008

 

 

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