#1492 

Krik Krak

Who is Where

 Dear Dessalines,

You care, or, more likely.

You really don’t care.

The physics inhibited erecting a guillotine there.

We still cut some heads,

The good life, for a darker skinned woman, or man, 

Is shockingly rare. Is life as it stands ever fair?

   Smallest Fiddle we!

You Blan Beware,

The long rewarding of the chosen color, 

 Shade of colored color.

Mulat miserable, blood mixed other, 

   Ethnic patronymic passport to declare,

The less we know the better really, culpable then, when all aware, 

The pale of ones skin is a portent;

The kink of ones hair, does the complexion of consonance,

Concessive, conscience cry; end in total despair! 

the who will prosper,

Who will simply die for the cane cash. 

Who will languish in the forgotten Northern places,

On pure regressive welfare?

“The absence of care”

Up is always up! Down is now a very deep down,

Black or Brown? Is the world upside down,

Is Black cool for Sports and Song, and shooting, Brown, a sing along?

You tell your bastard child, nothing, not one speck of nothing is ever, ever: fair.

The tear is a waste one ones water,

Beat your own damn chest!

Tear on your own damned fucking, sagging Clothing, 

The color of a privilege? The rest, a real test. 

Don’t ever go there! 

Don’t you fucking dare.

But look-look-look! You can even mother fuck a stare!

Who did what, who did daggers unto to whom?

Who is North who is South of a whip, a face cage with rats, a rape or a push broom,

 Some Bronco Busting? Some other level of our doom!

Some carnal Carmel sugar? Some full dead coffin ship, doom doom. More doom!

Another reprisal yester day, 

The slaughter of an up close cannon boom!

  Africa? What and where the fuck is Africa? I was born in Saint Domingue, I Don’t fair, from here or there, I have white like skin, white like manners, 

A white sword play, a clear shot; 

I have a black mans heart, I have black man’s hair.  

Who is even really left over, over there?

What for brother, how now; you long for home, where is home, from where?

   Do you still have a native language?

Do you have some lesser always drumming culture to declare?

      Hispaniola, Saint Domingue, Ayiti; the song all sounds like bullets,

 The dead, still stare. 

The dead, they fall into the Ocean,

We the living, are just dead souls with caution tales to beware.

On the Haitian side of terrible things all the people are still quite Black, 

And speak back, tales in something still like French,

Can you bring us to Paris to Commune, to care?

In Santo Domingo, 

All the more most moor; darker shades of still being Latino,

  Wishing in all ways, praying in all ways, thinking in always- Spaniard,

Boot licking the Gringo,

Their ever tall Sugar fields and chubby whores, 

Abound in cash, bags and bags,

Chubby, but still in Tin shacks, still in peasant prayers, really just spirituality rags.

 Or the little neon, hotel highway brothels, no customs declare, 

No compare? Young girls, always for very good prices.

   D.R. is always open for trade,

 Young boys for the fags. 

   For the right price two or three can you can share,

No Border controls; 

When too black at the Border, Now a new Parley massacre scare! 

Haiti, always are fire, always a cleansing flood,

 The blue for the Ocean, they ripped out the white, 

Red for the martyrs Blood!

As tire fire riots belch a cantankerous stench,

White is quite rare.

In Haiti, we, they, historical circumstances, well we; made sure to kill every single last Blan,

       Left a good trusted German or two, 

a doctor or two, a half-Polish blue eyed prefect,

Someones white girlfriend, some ones white buddy, a wife.

      But mostly, you died if your eyes had blue. Died not with easy pistols, died by the knife.

Had to just kill most of the Pale ones, the ghosts. 

That were left in the end,

       Pale skin is barbaric, pale skin is defect. All others a forced blend.

              Toasts for toasts.

Over in Cuba, more mixture, more mixing, more open land. 

More to take or to share.

        In Cuba, soon after our rising, three wars in total,

  Machete charges, a massacre mind set, Masons, then Castro s, then a Russian nuclear scare,   

       Larger to study, really same land mass, some ingredient parts.

In Cuba, the tide of rebellion broke later, not much later,

      In three waves of rebellion, red white and blue upstarts. 

More tumult in less time period, 

At hand, more Black, White and Latino collaboration.

Understand, Negroid slaves, Spanish soldier pirates, French planters,

   British sailors, Ara-wack Taino? Cross cuts, Mosquito darts. 

Cholera kills, invisible! Masonic lodges, Black, Black hearts.

The New World Woman, Yellow fever pending,    

    A victim of gang rape. The New World man, a set of bloody island com-parts.

Cuba and Hispaniola! 

Same land mass, two large Island ramparts.

The Old world very forcefully inserted into the new,

Cuba, a slender Spanish shark of ten days foot traversal,

Hispaniola, to the east, a raised machete 

Speak of death!

Bold to speak of boldness,

Black and Mulat eyes gouged, dead lungs dead hearts, 

A sugar death camp, a tropical factory gulag, 

That swallows all that set on it, the guiltiness, and the heads roll off axes, into waiting carts.

But now, who looks like who?

Who has what now?

What new formed race, is it the pylon, 

what race is just the screw?

Who is where?

See Black Mountain over there?

Pale skin, pale tits and blondish hair?

People do, still and will, still stare!

Dominikani over 200 years, they hate all Haitians clear!

But you can find very white ones, still all speaking Spanish lingo,

Ruling the cane fields and sex tourist traffic 

from upper class manor or Santo Domingo, 

Luxury housing always being built there.

WHO!

What!

Where?

Santo Domingo, home of the Columbus light house,

The whites in Santo Domingo are mostly found on posters,

Mostly found in the short term places,

  They’re playing cards with human lives, 

low profile, 

It seems unspoken, declared some how normal even fair.

 They’re running for office. 

Fair to who? 

In plain sight ; the Old world, it still rules the new, 

The shadow of Columbus was the age of Trujillo.

The ever looming Inquisition,

The bloody, bloody, bloody.

Since 1492!

Four numbers can make one wince,

  I remember, 

A long hot summer, 

In the other Capital,

The City of Port-Au-Prince.

The voodoo drums beat out into night,

Why do I care, with my fair hair?

Supposedly four different whole mode of people, collided in existential struggle, right there!

Four people’s, three or more many common tongues, 

The Francophone chic and the radio Kompa,

   The rain fall sky drop, the ginger bread spires, the Prestige, 

       The smoke of fires of Legbe, it infiltrates the lungs.

Kop Tete, Boulay Maison!

Your head cut still here, your house burned where?

Very few French today left , or even in careful concealment few descendants of France are left there.

Very few French is a good thing. Very few Spanish, very few British, very few trampling of rights,

They got rid of the Whites,

Very few masters,

Except masters with black skins and white masks,

 Very few 24 hour, keep on the lights. 

Very few good old boys left for masquerade murder,

Except the Macoutes, Am I right?

    Sou-see emperor Christopher commands us,

Toussaint long tortured, dead in France, kill every white on sight!

Fewer French. Is a very good thing,

Fewer Spanish too,

Dessalines knew, his list did a grim final part in the fight, 

Petion gave Bolivar good Staging and black troops am I right.

In Cuba, tumult came just 50 years later,

Black and Brown and white asks white for some rights,

Blow everything up! Tear the New World apart.

The Dominicans went back to Spain three whole times.

Cuba and Dominican Republic, 

Many years happy under happy American rule. 

One got two Lavalieres and the Tonton Macoutes, 

Cuba once Spanish, an American play ground,

Hispaniola; forever, discouragable. Divided. 

The same long mountain paradise island, 

In three parts, it was decided.    

Cuba, it went Marxist Red.

Whatever you history book said, most Cubans can read, they all go to college,

They have tens of thousands of doctors exported abroad,

There lights stay mostly on, they mostly stay fed.

There’s a lesson about who went where.

I’ll change cadence,

It’s silly English words.

You use them often for in all the story who took, who gave,

In Haiti, Eastern one third of Hispaniola,

Case in total,

Utter collapse of a promise,

The revolution gave in to King Sugar,

Despot after despot, a quarenteen; a grim meat grinder,

Doesn’t for a minute cease to grind us.

Sweetest killer, sugar lingers,

 Bleeding succour, a sucking vampire like upon our children’s children godchildren teat,

Leave the indemnity behind us. 

France, Spain, England all still quite white.

And hyper-normal.

At least with those in charge.

Here in the Caribbean Sea all three imperials stand depleted,

The shadow still looms so so large.

All people have the same old stories,

To make the young more brave.

I have seen all parts of all three nations on both two island countries.

I’ve tasted the sugar cane, I’ve seen the largest unmarked grave.

The wastelands now of Haiti! 

the out right decay,

   The voluptuous, the drumming of the night life, the Santeria and the Voodoo, the bag man bad man fray.

The gun play!

Is D.R. good for much more?

But white sugar sells less or more, 

the newest oldest sin, the black, white or brown whore?

 Mountains and beaches,

   But did Dominikani did they ever do some lasting thing?

     Tourist ghettos, they are calling you!

       Some musical display, dollar euro peso bring!

Who is who, and where is what?

Blow for rifle blow, shot for shot, machete cut!

 Two island, three nations! A series of struggles? 

For what? 

A book slams shut.

A beach with cheap drinks, a place to get your throat cut.

In Cuba, from what I’ve seen;

Go on;

 Roads are all paved. The lighting stays on. Averages of reading and living life spans above the statistical averages, the Party lives on.

But Haitians have dignity too, 

You do what you have to do,

When quite horrible things were done unto you. 

The sun will always glare.

There is no justice spoken in a vacant look, a grim broken 40 meter stare.

Well European son, half baked sun, African son,

Native Son, native to none,

You should care!

Care that white, never made right. Took all; after each fight, or flight, how do you now sit in your towers,

Towers of U.S. or towers of Europe

How dare?

We have a solution, its built on these two islands.

But, before you can go there,

You must care.

The color your dealt is the color of skin suits,

The length of your nose is not a thing,

The size of any eye ball, not a thing.

The skin your in, is a skin you must wear.

The ugly history, that division,

Where so many peoples were brought to bear,

There a song I can can sing,

There’s a tale tell can.

3 Nations, 2 Islands a war of many peoples,

A series of plots and events.

The rise and fall of more than one man.

In at least three types of language, one shout:

Swords out.