leadbelly: poems

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
fame’s promises:
$100 suits is what made me believe.
$50 wing tips made me a convert.
$5cigars helped seal the deal.

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

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

 

him and
 

martha on a farm
 

stocked with cattle, pigs, chicken
 

with a room in the house unlocked

 

 

wantin’ our shine: yeah—
 

white folk’s fantasy,