Black Man Swinging From A Tree At Night Poem by richard ilnicki

Those colorful white-hooded white supremacists, the curse
of lockjaw, may it squeeze them into a corner of rats
and dropp them to their satanic knees, speechless, because

The black inhabitants of graves
stacked in layers of sloughed flesh
peeled themselves free from the blood
of obsequious centuries.
The blood of their voices had been rudely coagulated.
They'd been closed by fear and bark collars
designed to 'dumb them down, '
But Now!
But now they were shouting at the top
of ten thousand voices
X ten thousand voices X ten thousand voices

'Free at last!
Free at last!
Good God Almighty, we're free at last! '

They came dancing.
They came clapping.
They came singing.
They came out of the stereotypical wood pile,
out from beneath the hot Alabama sun,
down from the swinging noose of narcissism,
down from the auction block like cattle,
Up from the valley of blood-stained cotton, the prick of pricks,
up from the prejudice of bigoted pigments,
up from down and up,
Up from slavery!

Yes, they had finally been resuscitated
and emancipated
by the death of another.
Free at last! They thought they were dreaming.
They had a dream, you know. They had a dream.
They continued to pinch themselves and shout,
'Free at last! Good God Almighty, we are free at last! '

Joyfully, they slid beneath the ivory lid
to share the air space inside his majestic coffin.
They moved like invading bad memories covered by skin
and contused bones, neck bones strangulated by hate.
The dictator was dead,
and he was now their equal.
They removed him from his bed of flowering ease,
stripped him naked in front of his children,
hosed him down with a fire hose
then luxuriously bathed him
with the pain of humiliationin a tub of burning crosses.

Next, his emaciated sin soaked soul, eviscerated of blood,
was hung from a tree, but he wasn't left to die.
They left him swinging 'low sweet chariot'
like an orphaned pinata, then cut him down
after he'd turned dark blue.

After a short revival they tarred and feathered him
and wrapped him like a mummy
in second-hand grave clothes
stained by black-eyed peas, collard greens,
the sparse marrow of neck bones
and the small intestines of pigs.
With the drums still beating
and the smell of victory in the air
black ghosts dressed in white shadows with hoods
exited the coffin
in a ceremonial display of rhythm and blues.

FINALLY! In a celebratory piece de resistance
they dragged him down a dank dark street
in a God forsaken ghetto
then made him ride alone for an eternity
in the back of a yellow bus,

being chased by German Shepherds
in Selma, Alabama.