"Dramatis Ars Poetica" (Dramatic Poetry) : "Dimmer"

This is the first in a series of 'Dramatic Poems' I've working on from 'certain point of view' . . . I may hope to get these produced and performed as a series of plays; a dramatic social commentary of Race in our society at large . . . and now here's . . .

Dimmer . . .

The stage is dark.

Slowly we hear some demonic laughter rise in volume.  Then cries of numerous people in pain, this sound too rises in volume to blend with the previous.  Both sounds start to take on a pluralistic quality. 

Then the crack of whips is heard followed by more sequential cries of pain.  Creeping into this sonic fray is a wet ripping sound accompanied by that of a furnace and the popping sound of gases escaping.

Then the stage back drop lights up with a red shimmering color to reveal a slumped over silhouette.  It starts to shuffle forward.

Along with his motion comes a new set of sounds: the sound of hellish gun battle; glass breaking, tires screeching, cries of pain from those felled by the bullets, multitude of curses from the combatants . . . in short an 'urban battle field.'

The sound of heavy, labored breathing slowly creeps up and over the other noise then fades in volume

Slowly a cool reddish-blue light comes up on the figure.  It reveals a young black man dressed in the most 'outrageous' of hip hop gear; the image is that of a gang banger

His clothing is ripped and tattered and very soiled.  Through the rips in the clothes blood is pouring from what looks like deep wounds; bullet holes.  His face is no less of a heinous mask; blood is coming from his mouth and an inverted cross-shaped gash in his forehead.  The Blood runs down his face and onto his clothes.

The state of this person is obvious; He’s dead.

Gradually the sound fades to a very low but audible level.  Figure starts to speak . . .

YOUNG MAN

I get dimmer . . .

I get dimmer . . .

The life force of me

Like so many before me

Flickers less and less . . .

Lately, I haven’t known rest . . .

I toss and turn . . .

I toss and turn  . . . in my fiery coffin

Cause I feel, cause I can see how often

Many of the future generation

Unwittingly give their souls

A future home in Hades dark dimension.

I’d cry if I could

But the sins of living years

Have forever dried my tears

No heart inside, I’m rotting driftwood

My present immortality makes me see clearly

That “Each man is a shaper of his own Destiny.”

Is all bullshit . . .!

The kids growin’ up in the ghettos

Have been robbed of the ability to do so

Ever since that birthday yell into the air

They spit . . .

Take a look at the past and you’ll see

That all throughout the annals of Western history

Great advancements in society

Have long been made at the expense of the dignity,

And well-being of the Black Man’s ancestry.

For few sugar cubes in a ‘cup o tea’

They ferried thousands across open sea

After having raped and pillaged

Every town, palace and village

As far as their greedy eyes could see.

Used Christianity as the smoke to pacify

The righteous stirrings of the resident bees,

Any who didn’t succumb to the fumes

Were stepped on, flattened without so much as sigh

By systematic long-term bleaching of the mind

Not a semblance of a once proud humanity . . .

Was left behind.

So the vacuum was filled with notions of inferiority

So thus was born Slavery,

The forced interment into an abyss of dependency

On those who boast pale skins

To survive physically, to feed their kin

They had to win Their approval

But it was usually at their brother’s downfall

Black People need a strong elixir, dark with black essence

An essence that would awaken in the mind independence

And hardiness against all the mental and physical dependence,

To survive and feed on the fruit of confidence

They need Black Coffee,

Its flavor bitter with the struggle to be free

To purge the blood from the toxins of subjugation

That they’ve force-fed this lost nation.  

Today that poisonous situation still remains

The state now with ‘legal’ muscle maintains

That coffee is no good without Milk in it

That the Raw Taste and Heat of this drink would elicit

A gagging response and

Irreparable damage to Society’s Tongue

The taste too bitter

And scalding would follow before long.

So some Cool Milk would serve to make everything stable

Make this drink of change a little more 'palatable'.

But the question must be asked, “For Who?”

For who?

Blacks on this planet, nationally to overseas

Were Who ordered that Cup of Coffee

Which entity divine gave The State the Authority

To augment the contents of this Cup of Coffee?

We are Paying Patrons in this Tricolor Restaurant,

Where many a Dish of Dreams is seasoned, prepared and served

Just like any of the Others, our existence here isn’t truant

Like the Others we have the right to reserve

A Table at This Establishment

And the right the dictate how we want our food prepared,

For our unique palates' enjoyment,

Ketchup or no ketchup we should be able to chose our Condiments.

But still . . . They tampered with My Coffee.

And cajoled, not all that softly,

That it’s good for everybody . . .

But all that Coffee seemed to breed in me

Was contempt for greater society,

Which was empty ‘cause I didn’t know my real history

Had no respect for my real history

Not really my fault . . .

That subject was never taught . . . to me

All I had at my disposal were scrolls

Deliberately deficient in mentioning my worth, my role

In the scheme of things, in society

So I lacked the poise, to make noise

That wasn’t easily ignored.

So my soul I abhorred . . .

What was the use of planning for a future

Which you know you don’t have?

Why waste time to nurture

Something They won’t let you have . . .!?

I couldn’t stand the stench of Society’s Cologne . . .

Tried to make the powers that be atone . . .

For what they did to me . . . were doing to me . . .

Blinded by my rage, frustration and ultimate ignorance,

I unwittingly, became an instrument for the eradication of Me.

I indulged in misguided violence against my own,

My own version of traditional bloodlust and arrogance

I started to hone.

Teamed up with, went to war with

Other lost souls like me

Told my mother “Fuck You!”

As she cried and prayed

“Lord have mercy on my Baby!”

For by then I was the Devil’s own but didn’t know it . . .

Each poor fool that tried it, 'bought it' . . .!

They stay 'makin’ love' to six feet of earth!

And as his blood was being sucked into the earth . . .

. . . At his fleeting soul I’d spit.

And on his dissipating potential . . . I’d shit.

Somewhere along the way a suffocating cloud fell on me;

I’d enlisted in the Devil’s Army

The enlistment fee my Humanity . . .

But one night finally . . .

Death sent his emissary . . .

Riding high on a hollow-tipped horse . . .

Sent squealing through the back of my skull

By another punk, who, like me,

Didn’t know the meaning of remorse!

So . . . now I stand in line

Shoulder to shoulder with those

Whose brains and bodies I shredded with my TEC-9

While the demons of my past take form and dine

On my soul for Eternity

Even as hellfire flame consume me.

A strange gleeful assuredness washes over me: I won’t be lonely

For soon Your Children will join me

In my hellish reality . . . if they haven’t already

If they aren’t living it already . . .

But . . . I grow dimmer . . .
Well look here . . . I knew . . . it:

The images of Your Children start to shimmer . . .

Into view . . .

And they grow dimmer . . .

They grow . . . dimmer . . .

And  . . . dimmer . . .

Slowly, the figure turns around and shuffles back to his spot where he was at the outset.  The spotlight goes out, leaving just the light from the backdrop.

The sounds once again climb in volume as the backdrop lights slowly fade out.  They continue in the dark for about 10 more seconds and then fade to silence.