Salvation, or let the Churches say, A man…

I. “Will it go ‘round in circles?”

Signed, lip-synced, Luther Ingram’s song, “If loving you is
Wrong, I don’t wanna be right,” theme implied, not stated—
What strange, eerie mix of superstition and science fiction
What film noir, Twilight Zone, Outer Limits world where he
Wins the Nobel Peace Prize, like Malala Yousafai, like MLK
Then sings “Amazing Grace,” and just mesmerizes the space
Just as he sang, “Let’s Stay Together,” no matter whether…
His voice hypnotizing, tranquilizing, narcotizing Negroz,
His voice striking central nervous systems like a thousand
Tasers, some wet themselves, some soiled themselves, others
Experienced multiple orgasms, eyes crying, “O, lord, let our
Churches burn, baby, burn!” “O, come on in and kill our people,
We forgive, we forget, lord, long as you gift us this sold singer,
Droppin’ platinum hits: “Tuesday Heartbreak,” killin’ ‘em softly—
Children, parents, grandparents, pets named Collateral Damage
We forgive, we forget, lord, long as you gift us this sold singer
Droppin’ platinum hits like: “Negroz… Ain’t Too Big To Fail,”
“You’ve Got A Friend: On Facebook,” “Sub-prime Time: A
House, is Not A Home,” “O’ Baltimore, Thugs and Criminals,”
“I Make You Feel Like a Natural Criminal,” and “To Be Young,
Arrested and Black!” Yes, lord, keep filling his heart with song…

II. “Will it fly like a bird up in the sky?”

While tomfoolery of a sold singer was seizing center stage
Some of us were keeping eyes on the prize, and right page
Where drum majors hi-step, pulsing poly-rhythms for peace—
Offending fools and finks with their cry, “Fuck the police!”
Young tens of thousands, marching, drumming flash mobs
Turf dancing in the streets and goin’ in on po-po—got jobs…
Exposing stainless steel fangs of Amerikkkan demockracy
Torture and mass murder, shrink-wrapped in hypocrisy—
Baring concertina teeth rotting with violence, intimidation
Drum majors are change we “can believe in,” our salvation!

Showin’ the world, once again, our cause is just— just right
Holy ghost grabbin’ them, marchin’ them all day… all night
Teaching: ”long as you’re moving, there’s always a chance”
More fruitful, more promising, than the spastic “2/4 Dance!”
Their tireless feet, militant slogans, uncompromising chants
Sweeter fruit than politicians’ practiced and shriveled rants,
Freeing dupes and dopes chained by enslaving lies, FOX-box
Loving, marching, oxygenating their brains, as they detox
Like sage, strong, strands of steel reinforcing a hardwood
Reconnecting young minds/bodies, old heads with ‘hood…

Defying descriptions by warheads in multibillionaire media
And earning, the old-fashioned way, their place in Wikipedia
Forcing FOX-box foot soldiers to howl, growl, bark and lie
About fluid, colorful, motion their paymasters can’t buy…
Dropping pearls of wisdom on freeways, bridges and streets
Leaving bought, paid for, ones squirming in soft leather seats
Gifting us gooseflesh, distilling warm, drought-stricken tears…
You, beautiful ones, we’ve worked and waited for, for years!

Former forklift driver/warehouse worker/janitor, Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; BAR's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC. Read other articles by Raymond Nat, or visit Raymond Nat's website.