leadbelly v. lomax
at the
modern language association conference, 1934
| a costume. dark overalls, handkerchief and ugly-ass shitkickers, clutched like gifts in his outstretched hands chase the stink of mule dirt back into my head. now he wants me to wrap my music in a brown bag of coon to give them what folks ‘spect to see, says ineed the genuine look of farm boy to sow blues’ dirty fingers between their ears i remember like always, dog-tongued anger laps at my palms shrinks my bowels like a clenched fist | an outfit. new blue jeans, clean head wrap, some simple, old, sturdy shoes are a proper field hand’s uniform, down-on-the-farm-familiar: dressing down—it raises gods dark enough to capture the authentic blues, bringing southland to a crowd that says they want to hear how it sounds for a black to scrape heaven’s dusty starlight out of hell. to tally up and close accounts $3 for the coveralls, and they were on sale. $1 for the work boots, sold at half-price, and here, a handshake serves as contract. it’s strange, but, sometimes loathing bursts from his eyes, pummeling me— striking ‘cross my face |
let’s face it
| i’m parole on parade wanted poster on a short leash, biding time beneath the law of a master i chose myself. that faded rucksack of yassuh growing one load heavier with each slow grin stitched across my lips | i’m an ex-cons keeper, something I cant much forget in this prison choked country i cannot absolve this man of his greatest crime—the crime of race— binding us all to blood, cutting through skin, burning through history. |
lomax v. leadbelly:
dreams
my dream
| of setting up him and martha on a farm stocked with cattle, pigs, chicken etcetera, with a room in the house unlocked | in life wasn’t his— his small “dream”— with this simple negro livin’ like a domestic and such—livin’ small for his pleasure, grinnin’ up |
only when
“de big boss and de little boss”
| come to visit— was only a | wantin’ our shine: yeah— white folk’s fantasy, fake |
dream.