Bop: Ancient as Willie McGee By Rudolph Lewis I was fifty then, casually delirious like migrants, jumping fences, retro-style. I’d spent time with Milton Eisenhower, brother of a president, who interred souls needing repair, for a semester; slept with Queen Mary for years in a second story room in northeast DC— swore off black women to escape heart burning romance. It no good to stay in a white man country too long. Here is why. The tongue between blond-haired thighs fills heads with Willie McGee news, flashing blue lights, frantic in hand-me-down pants from he who whispers cutting Polish jokes in the Taliaferro halls of humanities. I rubbed bellies with virgins, daughters of early Tidewater settlers. I studied French with a Dutch family housed along the wooded Platinum Coast among ever-green ancient oaks, a haven for nouveau riche fearless of rebellious blacks. It no good to stay in a white man country too long. I graduated with my mind staid on reaching heaven in the Ituri forests of the Congo, northwest of Bukavu near Lake Kivu—my eyes netted silhouettes of Zairean fishermen in morning mist, a tattered hull on a rippling rift, ghosts of King Leopold, father of illegitimate sons, chopped limbs; mercenaries murdering Lumumba on his knees, ad nauseam. It no good to stay in a white man country too long. 28 April 2010 https://youtube/watch?v=t9HQIxme3bk
Posted on: Thu, 27 Nov 2014 07:36:04 +0000