I. HALF-LIGHT In the half-light of the marketplace I can see myself burn- totally consumed by stares of shoppers and gift-seekers. What shall I demand in return for their vengeance that constantly spoils me? Like a fish out of water I flap here and there. In the bars I see painted ladies and gay men in trim suits, and thin ties competing for the same lovers. In the Bowery I hear bottles calling my name. Under the stairs, in darkness, I'm merely a mortal man gripping my battered suitcase to the coldness of my flesh. In the fullness of the morning light a pigeon coos a name. Sounds blend into the traffic on 59th and 5th then dies suddenly- as if it were never spoken. The bird flies away leaving my wispy presence to blend into the early morning fog of Central Park. Whose feet are these that stumble through early spring grass in this dying masquerade of brick and steel? It is mid-morning when I reach the pond, and by afternoon, with the sun in full bloom, I learn of truth from the ripples created by contaminated fish. That name was mine the pigeon cooed. This face, etched by the cumulative showers of spring, is also mine- desolate and disfigured. Stations flash pass my memory into the interminable cacophony of N.Y.C. They blend with the throng of millions. How can recognition come with such competition, and who will be the judge? It's like the shopping center's giving and taking: the eyes of whites burning me with suspicion; the eyes of blacks wondering who this unkempt nigger is. What is the price for this harlequin nightmare? Can I find redemption in Macy's and Bloomingdale's- perhaps through Gillette and Barbasol? Not even the waters of Central Park would recognize me. Then I'd have to strive again merely for the recognition of myself. I float into the nightmares of my past. Finally, fully dark, the city comes alive. The Bronx is stilled by gutted buildings where only streetlights follow the rules, and men no longer live to give orders. Is this the secret of my past- a two bedroom walk-up in the Bronx where my mother used to cry, and the four of us (and a cat) cringed in the corner-lest her tears drown us? All my friends were dead before they were friends- the vicious politics of America and its unique relationship to blacks! The jails hold them now in more freedom than I'll ever have standing here, lost among crowds in the bilingual Bronx, watching/feeling the fires burn. I see the meteor fall out of near darkness into light. Streaked clouds over the George Washington Bridge, hide the intermittent secret of my birth. This was the revelation of my mother's womb: my head ripping through her flesh; screams, trailing blood like a wounded animal. The details of who I am are slim, but she held me to her breast and loved me as her own. What is alienation? It is just that- alien-nation, or just a black man (any black) without a fare in America and not begging to have one. Darkness descends on the city like a coffin top at funeral's end. The ghouls prey, and I, among them, become the night hunter of myself. Central Park's ponds have not answered the question of who I am. The answer is not even formed on my lips-nor noticed in the ripples of water. Even the marketplace has turned against me- no more burning stares- just coldness in the eyes that say I'm not there. Have I ever been? Spring is summer now, but the city is insane and as frantic as the drunken imagination in my shelter below the stairs. Seasons change-situations don't. I fart in the silence of my cubby-hole. The questions remain the same, yet the streets appear a bit brighter in the half-light of this "golden age" where no one- not a one- can even find the source of radiance. 12/26/81
