#blklit

1st draft

edits

Feb. 1, 1902

https://www.biography.com/video/langston-hughes-mini-biography-2174109638

Poet, playwright, novelist, editor, socialite, educator

https://youtu.be/uM7HSOwJw20

I Will Guide Thy Hand

BY JUSTIN PHILLIP REED

Violation

Wildflowered up the dreams of my captors,

Decorous men, half-moon bedded in my bloodstream.

The object is without objection. It was said

Such knowledge sharpened the Garden’s blurred shush.

The serpent also whispered in the field.

Abandon, the house of the lord, is

Abandoned. Its painted columns leer behind my heels.

The yellow apples underfoot, the flies they waste.

I am entering the wood.

The goat goes with.

A panic trills, and though the trees throw their limbs

I have no stupefaction for that flute.

The last drop of the 40 ounce smelled like fish paste. Of course folks don’t never taste the final bit; the tongue quits on folks then. Cold spit from the iron tonsil stones. His grandmother’s uncles knew, voices bellowing from loins choked into blood but not bloody submission. This had been the trouble with this breed: the mouth hole, which seemed to the less iridescent, dieux soi disant  much too burning and expansive. How do these things taste a damn thing? (Blacks got six stomachs and wide noses.) They must just smell it; that’s why they noses so wide. Them uncles ate mullet on sweet days, but the last bit too cold, frigid even. That’s why it killed his great uncles and was close to killing him. He pursed his lips. Still too cool to taste, which is why you don’t taste it, you smell it. The smell was searing, seeping in and underneath the smell of the dumpster he worked in. The true tenants smelled the last drop before anything else, before his shoes or gloves or two mobile carts that he used to haul their junk to the city dump 15 miles from the apartments. All these objects had a peculiar taste to him, for at times, when no one was around the dump, he put his mouth around these things. He wet his tongue with his shirt, holding it up with his teeth when he had to relieve himself. He tore his gloves off with his two incisors (sometimes this helped the stomach rumbling in the fifth stomach), and he spit in his cleanest cart on summer nights, when none of the real tenants felt merciful enough to let him stay in the stairwell of their building lobby. All the lovely tastes. But he couldn’t taste this final bit, and although you already know why because I just told you, he didn’t know why. He hadn’t put it in the thin lady’s refrigerator. She cooked fish everyday for her five sons. She left him the leftovers every third Sunday. Teach a man to fish.

The tenants thought they would receive blessings. They never talked down upon him. A few of them tried to make his job easier, stacking metal junk on the side of the dumpster, leaving cardboard and overflowing garbage bags in his carts. In return he treated them with the highest respect, but not because they ain’t protest his existence; rather, he idolized them because they knew he existed. He forgot he did a while back, especially when he took the first sip of the 40 ounce. His mouth’s tongue stroked the brim; merely a feeble suggestion of the sensual because how could one possess sensuality on the fringes of existence? At any rate, his mouth honored the mouths of his ancestors as he began to reject his being. The liquid had an excursion ahead of it, or maybe an escalade. As he took the first swig, a man approached with a trash bag. The maintenance man, small-mouthed and well fed.

“Alright now, how we doin’ today.”

“Alright now Mr. Randolph, I’m makin’ it just fine. How you makin’ it now?”

“Blessed and highly favored.”

The maintenance man threw the trash on the grayish mobile cart. The cart’s gray looked slightly less luminous than the gray that surrounded the two men. One man turned to leave.

“Weather ain’t too bad out here today is it, Mr. Randolph?” His jaws curled as his mouth rung out, almost in desperation, desperate to shrivel.

“Show’ll ain’t” the maintenance man replied, allowing his back to communicate his supposed disinterest.

“Mr. Randolph.”

The maintainer kept walking without turning back. It wasn’t disinterest at all, for most people kept conversation short, lest they find themselves on the end of a moral dilemma about whether or not they should donate a quarter. The maintainer was scared of him.

God bless him. God damn him. I know that nigger heard me. Ain’t shit no way. Who he think he is? Uncle Charles was a property manager. I can’t ask Frieda for no money! Charles would damn near kill me. You don’t need. You don’t need. You just can’t get right. Go ‘round telling people ‘bout some no good nephew. They ain’t got nothin’ I don’t got. Niggers just like I am. Blacker too! Black as hell. God I know I oughta love Randolph. You know he busy; he gotta get to fixin’ up them sinks. He bring me some good stuff every now and then. I got ten dollars for that refrigerator last month and two for his old can opener. “Alright now, how we doin’?” We. One flesh like Pastor Davis and Frieda on Thursday evenings. Davis and Randolph old lady too. Who is we; who know me?

“I’m tryna make it, Mr. Randolph sir; it’s mighty rough outchea’ you know?”

“Blessed and most high, my brother, and I got some fresh shit for you here.” I show’ll need a little something to wet my tongue, all this humidity in this gray. Gray be making me mighty thirsty.

“Mr. Randolph, this some gray outchea’ ain’t it? Make somebody real thirsty don’t it?” Lord ha’ mercy. My tongue parched. “Mr. Randolph! Mr. Rand.” To hell with it. Fool ain’t my brother. Agape Frater what Davis say. I ain’t seen Randolph in church. I may as well quit dwell on it. I need a suit to go to church. Ain’t no use in goin’. God, I done asked you for a favor. I’m thirsty, feel like I’m burnin’ up! Mr. Randolph made in God image eyes no. Ears neither. Nah nah, they see me. I’m show’ll glad they see me. They my brothers, but they don’t talk loud. Mr. Randolph got a child voice. Dear, baby Jesus, give Randolph old lady strength. She bow down to a child on some days. She need a black strap, hey hey! A strong mouth, real strong mouth! That’s what I got, lord knows. Lord willing I get somethin’ to sip. “Show’ll ain’t” good weather. All this gray make my mouth dry.

A younger man approached, dressed like a storefront preacher. His sermonic fabrics ensnared two iron pans and a ceramic container for the well fed, god-fearing, and faux jouissance seeking folks.

“Hey Mr. Beard! If I had yo’ hand I’d turn mine right aloose.”

The younger man gave a slight chuckle. Soothsaying? His mouth curved slightly but expertly, as if the curl had been rehearsed.

“Is that for me, young man? You can just set it right there. Don’t want you to get nothin’ on your $40 shirt.” The pan and ceramic dish fell into the blackish cart, the more used of the two carts, sturdier, earthier, but much more damaged than the gray. “Those kids ain’t driving you crazy is they?”

“No not yet,” replied the religiously dressed man, “I’m takin’ it…”

“Kids something else nowadays, son. Back in my day they showed respect for grown folk, you know.”

“Yeah, I take it one day at a time,” replied the younger person.

“Job like that make a man need a heavy drink, something cold, eh Mr. Beard?”

“I don’t drink.” The young man began to rotate his Holy garments.

Strange fellow must be.

“Well look here, Mr. Beard let me ask you: You know where Robinson Street is? I need to get there in ‘bout five minutes for a job interview.”

“Well I would; I have to take my brother on a job interview on East.” The lie almost had no reservation. The youngster’s mouth didn’t even taste the deceit.

“Oh really? East eh? Where he working at there? Big money over there, don’t it. The old East”.

“Oh jus’ a cook. He might get it. Ain’t much money in that though, cooking up beef.”

“Oh no, not like teaching them bad ass kids. They getting on your nerves yet, Mr. Beard?”

“Nah, not yet they ain’t.”

“Job like that make you need a real strong drank ain’t that right, son? I’ll tell you what I do make you need ‘bout two or three. Ain’t got no massa’ degree like you. These people throw out some heavy stuff I tell you. Like that leather sofa up there down there. Likely 40 pounds on each side! And I tried to cut it with a saw Ms. Pope gave me. You know Ms. Pope up there on C- 16? Yeah she had a saw her husband used to use before he died. And do you know that thing was still heavy even broken up? Lord. Have. Mercy! You know Mr. Beard, Mrs. Pope got ‘bout six and a half kids. All boys. Sometime they help me lift some of this shit up to the dumpster. Some heavy shit Mr. Beard. Might be a little too heavy for you. That big leather sofa: my goodness! And don’t get me started on them hot water heaters. Things still got water on the inside of ‘em most of the time. Some hard work, son. You know, I ain’t got no massa’ degree like you now. Show’ll is some hard work what I do.”

“I imagine so,” the younger man replied. “Well I’m gonna get on in and cook this food.”

“Alright Mr. Beard, what you cooking tonight, poke chops? Eat them and you be sleeping sound after don’t it? Might sleep past time it is to go to work. Say what time you get up for work, ‘bout seven; probably later than I huh? You probably still in the bed when I get up eh, son? Just dreamin’ away, dreamin’ way! Dreamin’ you pull up to the school in an all black limousine with tinted windows and something cold to drink in every cup holder. Everybody see you, and you sigh: ‘Look at me now, look at me now.’ Look at me now there!”

The younger man uttered a laugh (reminiscent of the chuckle), false as the lies his clothes told worshipers, and began his rotation and descent.

“Alright, Mr. Beard.”

The young man left him in a stupor of vinery bliss, a black bliss.

Ah, I’m almost at the last lil’ bit. Don’t never last too long. Ole’ Mr. Beard. Dress mighty fine. Always got something on his neck. Don’t dress like most black folks oh no, dress real sharp. What happen when you get that massa’ degrees. Get some mo’ money and wear them $40 shirts and what not now. If I had my hand I’d turn yours right aloose. Them kids drivin’ you crazy at that school house ain’t it? “Not yet, Mr. Beard, not yet.” Mr. Beard I need to get the spot on Robinson, get a lil’ mo’ here since I’m runnin’ out you know? Know ‘bout this here don’t you. Yo’ work probably be wearin’ you out eh Mr. Beard? “First, I have to take my brother on a job interview on East.” Somethin’ strange ‘bout a man who don’t sip, but he a good man. Young man. I’m old. We both is black tho’. Between you and me, Mr. Beard, I kinda like being black. Mr. Beard, you a lil’ light. A little light, haha; talkin’ to a teacher gotta be proper ain’t it, Mr. Beard. This weather out here make eye get mighty thirsty though, Mr. Beard. “That’s true Mr. Beard, show’ll mighty true indeed. It’s gon’ get dark soon though, Mr. Beard. You gon’ be alright out here in the night?” Yeah, son, I’ll be just fine. We already black no way. You black ain’t you Mr. Beard? “I am, I am, I is. Show’ll is.” Right on Mr. Bea

“MASSA’! Somethin’ smell like fish!”  

Mrs. Pope and Mr. Randolph sittin’ in a tree/Mr. Beard cookin’ up some poke chop for me/Me and Uncle Charlie fishin’ in the sea/Then we gave Davis fried brim so he could preach! My mouth feel mighty swoll.

“SEE ME!”

A tenant looked from her window and motioned for her mother to watch the mise en scène noir. Each act, he performed expertly, as if he wasn't acting, as if he was instead the playwright. 

“I AM, I AM, I IS, I WAS!”

The bliss began to fade, and his mouth began to shrink.

“I was, I was, I was” he faintly whispered (or whimpered).

Man need a heavy drink, Mr. Beard. Why don’t you sip Mr. Beard? It make me forget. What you mean? Forget how big my mouth is. Especially when you get to that last lil’ sip, Mr. Beard. Can’t hear yourself right? Can’t hear myself right. Thank Mrs. Pope for the poke chop! I remember it real good. Mr. Beard when you comin’ back to take me to Robinson for that job interview? You can’t get no job say Charlie, old fool. But Lord when I do. I’m gon’ gone up there to Randolph house and spit at his door. If I still have some spit left by then. You will, Mr. Beard. You think so, Mr. Beard? You is mighty smart after all. But your mouth used to be much bigger see. That’s ‘cause I ain’t got no massa’ like you; by the way, what you got cold to drink in there? That’ll help my mouth right on ‘long. This last bit will give you just what you need.

He smacked his lips, unable to recognize the gray suffocating his outbursts: “COLD POKE CHOP”, unable to taste or to even feel his tongue in his shrinking mouth. The fish smelling gray rushed down, but settled at the center of his black throat. His black throat began to shrink into the void of being.

POPE EYE IS RANDOLPH BEARD I IS!

His eyes shook at his final demonstration of being.