On Hearing of a Death in Prison

For George Jackson Blois, August 21, 1971

I heardA wailing, mournful, sacredSong,A bitter, screaming, humpingSong,A positively displeased Nigger'sSong,A Maximum SecuritySong,A river of bile,Har-Monica fresh filled withSalty blood.I taste itMyselfNow.

I heardA silent GeorgiaBadlandsSong,Flat-outIn the damned blackOf the American sky,White speckled withFilthy stars,Spangled,Cold as ice,Cold as Hell.Frozen overOut there,OneDies.

I heardA teeth-grinding, heart stripping lover'sSong,A fine jazz ricochet of desire,Drizzling gall,Sex-starved and slave-chained inSongs of sixpence,The inherited penalty of painPassed from father to son inSongsOf penitentiaries:San Rafael,Folsom,San Quentin,Alcatraz,Soledad.

I heardA never-ending song ofSolitude,Eleven years of putrid cement,Nailed downWith bulletsAnd theConstitutionFor six-seven dollars net,A song eleven years to sing ofSolitary confinement,Excrement thrown,The total pride of death,The soul-destroying body search,A rape of every aperture,A curse so foulMen cry.

I heardBlack notes on lined paper,Barred,Dropping wounded daysOf manhood lostIn gut-punctured, spine-shatteredDeath,Death of the spirit,Death of the bowels,Death in the white heat Of a charred sunlit court,So lonely it seizesThe heart,That hoarded, dreamed ofMoment of LifeThe last.

I heardA clamorous, clapper-tonguedSound,The holocaust of Easter Week,A trenchant trill,Quivering in hear overThe Entire Race,Blue desert women,Wind and sand whipped pillarsStretching across Africa,Tattooed hands held overThat obscene opening,Kohl-ed eyes weepingColored tears for Colored Men,Red veils aspired in RageIn Rage, In Rage, In Rage.

I heardA SongSo rich in gut and sweatThat any sperm would flower there,And any SongRejoice in beingNotFor singing.