In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

A POEM FOR BLACK RELOCATION CENTERS Flukum couldn't stand the strain. Flukum wanted inner and outer order, so he joined the army where U.S. Manuals made everything plain-even how to button his shirt, and how to kill yellow men. (If Flukum ever felt hurt or doubt about who his enemy was, the Troop Information Officer or the Stars and Stripes straightened him out.) And, we must not forget that Flukum was paid well to let the Red Blood. And sin? If Flukum ever thought about sin or Hell for squashing the yellow men, the good Chaplain (Holy by God and by Congress) pointed out with Devilish skill that to kill the colored men was not altogether a sin. Flukum marched back from the war, straight and tall, and with presents for all: a water pipe for daddy, teeny teacups for mama, sheer silk for tittee, and a jade inlaid dagger for me. But, with a smile on his face in a place just across the bay, Flukum, the patriot, got shot that same day, got shot in his great wide chest, bedecked with good conduct ribbons. He died surprised, he had thought the enemy far away on the other side of the sea. ...

Share