For Rachel Jeantel

I've forsworn myself,

a thinning sin, a setting

sun, a skinning,

a skinning, an imprinting

punctated stigma,

the neutered past

participle of that

charismatic prick,

the concrete enigma

of pungere, 

 

from which we agree

to punctuate: we pause we delay we

stutter sinning we stutter in the juncture

we stutter we shudder with interruptions

and lines gone dead we end we

puncture we question we declame we

exclaim we cry we

die we delay we

structure the rupture

of the dominant language.

 

We disorient under

the thundering debris

of English.

 

(And Lo, the angel of the Lord,

yo, came on them and man,

were they sore afraid,

so afraid of the woe

of Lo, yo.)

 

There remains

no zen in me, my moi,

because there never

was any zen, just creole

patois for "english,"

that is, "angle,"

defrenchified anglais,

"mè" short for "mamè"

meaning nun, "chèsè,"

there never was any zen

just foreign din,

malevolent djinn:

"a welter of discordant sounds."

 

Djinn, tatted men

who send you 

-- not by brass-rubbed wish --

into a swirling tee,

that intersection 

of green and gravel,

sand, cement,

water and love,

no matter what,

teen love versus lawmen,

green love, gravel love,

sand love, cement love,

water love, no matter

what love, but not what

I cannot believe,

dead love, mean

love forcing me naked

before the world

of that swirling tee --

 

But he never said a mumblin' word

Not a word, not a word, not a word.

 

-- leaving just the running

mumbling stitch 

of her angry, abashed,

and afflicted trying,

 

astray and trying,

broken and trying,

bothered -- burdened -- beset -- and trying.

 

In most of the mixed-language

areas of this Babel world,

mixed by need, habit,

and daily use, no dictionary, no

linguists, no school, no

school marms' nun-knuckle-

rapping bruise to heed,

"English" can be

"an English,"

and came to be when serving,

scrubbing, raising children,

raising children of the mèt,

raising children of the chèf,

scraping, eking by, 

but needing to say

a thing or two

along the trodden way.

 

Words that come to be

in such a way

are fuses, short

and long, sluices

and dams.

 

"English" can be 

"an English"

 

-- and often is --

 

and it means:

not me.

Not us.

Non-me, non-us: 

 

"You got it?"

"You. Got. To. Un. Der. Stand."

 

You might have noticed

-- which is precisely

and concisely what

smut rut we need

to discuss:

that twitch

of knowing;

the obscenity

of pretending

not to know;

and the running

mumbling stitch 

of her angry, abashed,

and afflicted trying.

 

Let me tell you

of freeborn slaves

or the leeway

of tidal waves

of a girl

who cannot read

yet can, who cannot

speak, yet does:

 

"You got it?";

"You. Got. To. Un. Der. Stand."

 

She who knows

depravity when

she hears it

pull a gun,

 

in the din, 

in the greeny djinn glen

 

-- and the running,

mumbling stitch 

of angry embarrassed

trying, knowing a mumbling

word, and crying.

 

But he never said a mumblin' word

Not a word, not a word, not a word.

 

Leaving just the running,

mumbling stitch 

of her angry, abashed,

and afflicted trying.