I was born in a crossfire hurricane…(jumping jack flash – the Rolling Stones)

I’m acting out because I don‘t know who my daddy is,
the name space on my birth certificate says
“bad bitch, missus of mayhem.”
Who lets strangers name their daughter, Katrina?
I’m the bastard of 200 mph counter clockwise
rusted razor, coiled 150 miles wide
and vertical to the sun’s underbelly
ready to strike victim and innocence;
sent here to sever family below kneecap and Medicaid

I strut sightless and regurgitate down ochre cobblestone
and Jackson square like a schizophrenic transvestite,
pregnant with the baby of don’t give a fuck
I come drinking two-hundred liters of uncreamed chicory,
from unenforced levies,
picking my teeth with bone and Beignets

I am a H.I.V. infected green monkey, emancipated
from a Caribbean chicken coop
& Haitian Santeria ceremony;
I hopscotch tip-toe across Saint James Boulevard
I am not a phantom,
but them motherfuckers didn’t see me coming
neck brimming with Mardi Gras beads,
shimmer of sequin,
and jagged can-can perimeter;
can you see me?
Can you see me all pimped out?
I bling like Swarovski dandelion
& undomesticated rambling.

my flower blooms in a season of reruns and FEMA
I am an after-market tiller
sent here to restructure the garden of the bayou
I don’t plant perennials or annuals,
but nappy headed refugees
face down in third ward mud puddles
I didn’t arrive here via a C-Section,
my birth was all natural
George W. Bush was my midwife

my makeup is not by MAC. My eye color
is blackened burgundy. lashes and liner are smear proof
and tears never get in my eye. I do my best work on an
empty stomach, fear, and indifference. My mouth is wide,
moist, and crimson. shiny, so very shiny.

my press secretary, Barbara-Antoinette,
view local residents  like Versailles
“they doing aight,  let them eat 7-up cake”
does chocolate float on that wake?
do flies like a good steak?
I placed my order at the crescent drive through
Superdome me, please
Superdome me

I dazzle so hard, I wrestle prayers
ejaculated from the pants of my critics
below the inflamed surface of Pontchartrain
before even God cajoles,
Mike Brown is the last seraphim on duty,
and has only two wings
shit his pants when he realize I’m the opening and
closing act of the local philharmonic

I still hear the soprano and alto choir
in the vestibule of the Mississippi
I am a thirsty Hutu machete rising over the
lip of this Napoleon serving bowl,
stirred till streets become varicose flesh and memory
I am a Congo rape waking from a coma
and wanting to masturbate in public.

Who says an illegitimate storm don’t deserve to be wed
with the purple misery of people holding their breath
below the sea level of Haitian prayers;
my veil is made of lukewarm tears
and fluorescent screams;
I stomp down the aisle
with rice paper levees beneath my feet
Who gives this woman to murder?
The President of the United States of America says,
“I do. I give this woman”

TAGS: , , ,

CONNEY D. WILLIAMS is a poet, actor, community activist, and performance artist with two collections of poetry “Leaves of Spilled Spirit from an Untamed Poet (2002)” and “Blues Red Soul Falsetto (2012).” In 2015, he released two critically acclaimed cds of his poetry accompanied by music titled: “River&Moan and Unsettled Water.” He is the former Artistic Director at the World Stage and Coordinator for the Anansi Writers Workshop. His poems have also been published in various anthologies & journals including Dryland Review, Voices from Leimert, Cultural Weekly, Drumming Between Us, Askew Poetry Journal, Wide Awake Anthology, and Poets & Allies Anthology. He has performed his poetry on television, radio, universities & colleges, and various venues across the U.S.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *