I
Oh, you know America—there was a decision:
sell off the small house to the big house;
add metal detectors; shake every purse;
reverse every pocket—what’s that in your pants;
take off your coat, your shoes; nope, you can’t
wear those—get them socks off; better yet, take off
your shirt—that one too; step out of your pants; drop
the underwear; keep your eyes on me—
I need you to pay attention; part your hair
then your cheeks, your ass; lift your balls,
lift your tongue; tell me where you parked
—I need to search your car for something;
I need to drive your car to your house;
give me the keys to your house or I will have no choice
but to knock your door down; where is the thing—
under the sink; under the floorboards; you don’t
need to know what I’m looking for;
I’ve got my reasons; you can come in
over my dead body; once you exit
who’s to say I will let you back in?
II
If you wanted to return, a ticket
is not enough, my friend—it’s just
a slip of paper that can be torn.
Look here, give me it—
see? Now try to get past me—
I dare you. I’m a fucking wall, dude.
Respect the badge—this star
with my name written across it.
III
Flicks are my thing—ask me anything. Like,
I bet you didn’t know this: the horror house
in this movie, that’s set in Birmingham, Michigan,
was actually a plantation-style house in Birmingham,
Alabama. Isn’t that wild; the way one part of America
can stand in for another part of America?
That’s like if I called you nigger
in Birmingham it sounds the same as if I called you
nigger in Birmingham. Of course, I would never
say that word, you understand. I like you people.
IV
Just bury me in this blazer,
these starched pants, licorice dark shoes.
Or better yet burn me up, then
pour my ashes in a film reel’s canister.
Bury that in a block of cement; pour me
into the sidewalk the way they do in Hollywood
with the stars on the Walk of Fame. It’s American,
the dream to leave a piece of you behind
for tourists to walk all over. Look down
at the ground—you are standing in
my home. You know what I say? Shut the door behind you
when you leave my country of screens;
of so many white stars.
V
So these fucking dudes, that don’t even speak
English, keep carrying away my theater brick by brick,
right past me as if I am so white
that I’ve disappeared—no one sees me.
I refuse to move; I can’t leave—
my counter always ready at zero, zero, zero.
Have you heard of those multiplexes now?
They want you to believe those
tiny shit boxes are just like home: La-Z-Boys
that recline to a fuck-me friendly angle; shitty food like
fried mozzarella sticks and potato skins; more showtimes:
all to get more bottoms for their bottom lines.
Oh, I know America. Oh say can you see
my wide white ass—it ain’t going
anywhere. This is the house of dreams I built.
VI
Where the balcony was, a sign went up
for a Starbucks; the ticket booth, a Korean-owned
nail shop. You should have seen
how they carried away the screen—
a bridal train without a bride. And me here,
a groom jilted at the altar, all dressed up
funeral-nice. Remember when a movie
was one big screen: one image shared by many:
black and white? The movie house
was a country of star gazers—all in the dark
looking up into all of that light.
And everyone knowing their places.
from Fantasia for the Man in BlueFind more by Tommye Blount at the library
Copyright © 2020 Tommye Blount
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.