John Lemanski

Another recent poem.

FAT FREDDY

I’ve heard
Fred Flintstone is releasing 
A new track…

Well, not new, obviously,
As he lived prehistorically,
Back when the bedrock was younger
Yet seemingly infallible,

When skin tones were singular
And the beds came in pairs,
When dinosaurs, not billionaires,
Gave directions,
And when stones were used
For building and not for 
Throwing at reporters
Or oppressors or invaders.

It was way, way back,
When refugee was just a spelling bee word,
And when houses of stone
Solidly framed doors of wood,
Which could be shut to keep out
The darker things;
Which would be regularly closed
To keep away the din and 
Hold onto those lovely, lively notes,
(Stolen perhaps, yes,
But sanitized and made purer),
Where women,
Skirted and in soft lipsticks, 
Hummed softly in their kitchens and
Knew their place.
Way back when the only conspiracies were 
Silly things,
Like diamond rings in cookie jars,
Sweepstakes tickets and mild entendres.

I’m listening to something else,
As the sweat beads form where my hairline once lived,
Feeling that there is something 
Raw, or even
Aggrieved in my exhaustion.
These days, I am beginning to smell 
Of green onions,
Watching my skin lose its grip
On the bones below it, just
As my mind has let go 
Of dreams and settled down
To nestle with unmet hope.

Bodies are everywhere we walk.
Sometimes buried below in whole, 
Sometimes simply existing only as
Ashes and as the soil,
Some being the ones we loved,
Others merely tolerated or radically
Defied.

Sometimes the soil gives birth
To crane flies,
Who carry the dead in imperceptible layers
On the fragile networks of their wings.
They flit about the house,
Entranced by things 
They do not have the capacity to understand:
Light, heat, and 
Music,
Like the rhythms of Fat Freddy’s bebop;
Shag-crowned pulses that reflect,
But still evade, telling
History.

The confidence of those who 
Find themselves paved over
Is long forgotten.
And while they exist now only in
Amplified silence,
Deep within the soil,
They once were the mothers
And the fathers
Of the harmonies and mysteries of things 
Most precious,
Despite their value being deemed less than
Sugar cane
On the auction blocks.
Their daughters saw poverty and misery
Grafted onto their wombs
Like garlic to a grapevine.
 
Now a song -- not really new --
(In fact, saying the same things but
With a different hook),
Is being sung
About America,
And how she stands defiantly,
On steps of stone.

But for all the sway,
Despite all of the sleek production and 
Soundboard mixing,
Her chains still rattle in the water.
They are there at the convenience 
Of those who carry and sing stolen songs --
Purposefully
Hidden from view.

Her skin is without
Blemishes, the song says,
Her hair flows straight
(With no kinks or curls)
And billows with pride
Under a crown of copper.

Illuminated by the light of her own image,
There are no crane flies
Flitting about or
Obfuscating her field of vision,
The basslines are lightweight
And her gentle smile sits in easy anticipation of
Fat Freddy’s next chart topper.
She stands triumphant, 
Poised (and unmoved, despite the lively, 
Lovely beat)
On the flagstones of her simple,
Secret garden.