The Sinner Man's Tale

M. Andre Vancrown

Roseland - Chicago, January 1992

He had sad ropes for eyes,

far off, reaching, under a January sun,

all frayed at the edges, wrinkled

like the scars

left by an old crow's foot

dragged like a tire-track across his vision

as though a spider's web

snagged them all screeching to a halt

—his dreams, elegant wings drawn in soot,

died in his eyes, the eyes—

bulging, like . . .

wolfman moons howling

through a shrouding cloud-rack, like . . .

moons trapped inside mirror shards,

moons howling to get out

moons, rising above a gorge,

moons, shining in a confluence

of skeletal dreams,

splintered

under the iron-hammer blows

of this ghetto forge.

..

I seen black roses bud in blood red mud,

donchu know.

I seen them roses grow in th' blood red snow,

donchu know.

I seen th' Lord Jesus wearin' a crown o' thorns,

an' once,

I seen a black mama weepin' for a son,

still lyin' froze' in th' snow.

...

It's a jagged buttercreme scimitar,

a sinister scar worn like a brand

stamped upon his neck.

You could tell the blow was delivered

overhand because it was fat

at the point of entry, near the trapezius,

a thick slice that dwindled

to a mere snick

at the sternocleidomastoid.

It should have been fatal.

But it wasn't.

....

I got me these ‘uns, together,

this . . .

(his smooth left shoulder slips through

the rat-bitten collar of his t-shirt,

reveals a puckered, melted disk)

an' this here'un . . .

(back of the left hand,

scarred, where a knife once raked across it)

too.

And because I just had to ask . . .

.....

Boy, donchu know I got me this shit over some pussy?

You're kidding?

Hell, naw, I ain't.

Sheeiit,

you know how this fucked-up shit

  just comes lookin' for a cat,

‘specially th' great ones,

They's th' ones gettin' it th' worst—

Boy, you talk ‘bout all them famous cats gone bad,

bet, he got hisself taken down by some fine-ass bitch.

Well, I ain't no diff'rent,

‘cept I ain't never been famous . . .

Shonuff, boy, you know some women got a devil in ‘em,

got tha' bad ol' juju,

rises up when it sees a righteous man,

sees a good'un, ‘cept weak all up in his insides,

tha' tricky ol' devil shonuff can sniff out that funky-ass smell—

Boy, I'm tellin' you,

he will sniff out tha' shit on you clean from a hunnr'd miles away!

Then all he's got to do's

send out wunna his succubuses

send her out like some kinda trick-ass ride,

send her, so she comes all pullin' up ‘longside

  whichever curb you happens to be standin' at,

all daddy-longlegs an' shiny, waxed up sleek,

comes atchu like a convertible wit' th' top down,

big ol' titties poppin'

FHOOM!

Got tha' fine ass all up in some shorty's daisy dukes

FHOOM!

Like tha' one ultimate ride

  you shonuff KNOW a nigga's just gotta drive . . .

(heh-ha!)

Least one time!

......

Well, son, she was like tha' for me,

my Jezabel,

‘cept it wasn't just once,

no siree,

my Nubian princess,

she made me her king,

and I done gave her everything

  I could—

Sweet as honeydew,

fine as fine wine,

fine as sunshine—

My sweet, sweet Jezzy May.

 

Shit, man.

Shit.

 

.......

This ol' ghet-to knows what's locked inside your soul

—so bury ‘em deep, son, you'd best

bury ‘em deep—

What secrets you keep, deep as they goes, it knows

—so bury ‘em deep, son, you'd best

bury ‘em deep—

Don't reach an' don't run, son, you just be coo',

an' bury ‘em deep, son, you'd best

bury ‘em deep!

 

........

Trouble was . . .

. . . she was married as hell.

T' some funky-ass Attila th' Hun muthafucker,

usta beat her down just f' fun,

usta beat her down just t' see the blood run,

so I figure he got it comin'

got tha' shit comin' real good,

so's I'm givin' it t' him real good,

  givin' it t' him through her, see?

Only, he ain't be knowin' nothin',

shonuff, not a damn thing, see?

And this cat, lemme tell you,

he big an' mean an' nasty,

  dirty ass niggerman, like tha' Gen'ral

from Planet of the Apes, or some shit,

be ridin' her all hard an' shit,

like she was his brokeback little Mongolian

pony,

an' tha' shit be makin' me all crazy,

‘til all my boys be's sayin' “you crazy”

an' I'm gettin' t' hate on this dude,

hatin' on this cat wit' all I got in me,

hatin' on him wit' tha' ol' black Congo hate,

tha' maddog, colt-44, gangsta hate,

donchu know,

  tha' hate be twistin' you all up inside

twistin' you up like some big ol' black African mamba snake,

hate runs s' deep

  a nigga cain't even think straight,

tha' shonuff, straight-up hate-hate!

.........

Jezabel's crib's up in them Cicero projects, up by I-55,

  nasty-ass place,

fulla them cats wit' they knife-glintin' eyes,

talkin' nickel-slick as felines,

panthers, all got up in they polyester suits,

wit' they spit-shined, ivory-handled nines,

cats talkin' ‘bout pride an' bruh-tha-hood,

pushin' they shit,

cats getting' all high on cocaine an' wicky-stick

dipped in formaldehyde, laced wit' PCP and opium,

drinkin' 40's outta brown paper sacks,

scarecrows smokin' hash,

hangin' out under them streetlamps,

cats walkin' ‘round talkin' they hardcore smack,

cats wit' black holes in they eyes, whirlin' sawblade mouths,

back ‘fore crack, way back—

Them cats

An' they long, black-finned Cadillac's.

..........

He sat holding the six of cups

between sunrises and sunsets,

waking with the piped

morning churchbells,

the sun his fancy clock,

setting fire to the drapes,

marking time between the sheets,

and the moon, what a moon!

silvering his shambling nights

smiling down on him

in his shonuff shambling blues,

each night he went shucking home,

when a boom sounded

from the maw of Capricorn, past

devils dancing by canned firelight,

kept his secret stuffed down low,

kept it low as a pair of striped

tube socks stuffed tight

in a white man's jockey shorts . . .

. . . ev'ry mornin' at this partic'lar bus stop

he always be askin' me why I don't ride

th' same bus he be ridin'

an' I usta be all tellin' him all how I's waitin' on a ride

from my cousin,

an' next thing he be askin' me why my cousin

don't jus' pick my black ass up at th' crib,

had me some balls big as churchbells back in them days, boy,

I'm tellin' you,

so I straight-up lied to his monkey ass,

lied for all I was worth,

sayin' I lived up wit' my moms an' my moms hated tha' cousin

for some shit he done.

And damn if he di'n't climb on tha' bus,

like he done a hunnr'd times befo'

wit' me watchin' them big-ass work boots o' his

stompin' them plate-metal stairs,

tin man clankin' an' a smilin' an' a wavin'

like he's climbin' away t' my own sweet juju heaven—

Me wavin' back, and grinnin' through my teef,

thinkin' to myself, tha's it, son!

Get on th' muthafuckin' bus!

Take your stanky ass t' work!

I's goan git me li'l some'n!

Goan hit tha' shit good!

 
...........
Until, at the basking beauty
of midnight, a crowd of ugly
young sisters gazed out at each
other across a card table
like the three Fates times three,
transformed by second sight,
becoming old crones, standing
tall on a mound of crushed corpses
glass shells of sweet white grapes,
their hearts swelling, sevens to nines
all up in arms in jealous outrage,
their lips flapping faster than a finger
wags, their lips tripping back flat
to reveal
a ruby shade of lipstick
stains the teeth red,
like the blood moon rising mean
serpents bowing to a darker nature
serpents crawling out of old sewer
grates, each serpent with a fang
to poke the egg
peel back the cracked outer shell,
layer by layer, and let loose
a baby Frankenstein
of patched, stalking language . . .

. . . set loose
some of tha' ol' necromantic
voodoo on my black ass,
donchu know they
conjured up tha' ol' black hate
in th' same dinin'
room, where
they kep' a paintin'
of Our Lord Jesus,
hangin',
crucified.

............

. . . an' my man, he already knew

he done heard tha' shit on th' grapevine,

so he gave us jus' enough time

f'me t' get all up inside a her,

balls slappin' that sweet dark chocolate

mmm-mmm

when all've a sudden tha' ol' door comes bustin' in off the hinges,

an' shonuff here he comes,

big an' mean an' mad as big daddy death,

thirty-eight in one hand,

scalpel in th' other,

hollerin' bout

“which one you want, boy,

  you take your pick, cuz you's gettin' one

or the other!”

.............

Jezabel screams,

an' I'm already up, see, like a shock of ‘lectricity

came an' blew me right offa her,

my dick stickin' straight up an' hard,

still wet an' all shiny,

stickin' straight up at her

like an accusation o' what we done,

when he steps up an' cuts me quick

in my neck,

an' my blood starts squirtin'

everwhichway

squirtin' hot though my fingers

as I clamp down tight,

an' he musta been crazy mad cuz he sees th' blood an' smiles

tried t' do tha' shit again

tryin' t' chop off a nigga's head

cuttin' across the top o' my hand instead,

an' I dunno, I ain't lettin' go,

everthin's gone all foggy now

but I know I musta pushed him or sumthin',

cuz he slipped on tha' hardwood floor,

went down hard cussin' and spittin' like a two-legged dog

went down, see, on some o' my blood,

slippin', an' I'm out th' door

runnin' naked down th' hall,

when he up an' pops his gun,

  shoots me in th' back

an' out through my shoulder,

but I kep' on runnin' an' runnin'

naked an' scared shitless inta them streets,

under them same ol' streetlights tha'd all gone out,

runnin' inta th' cold, dark black,

runnin' til I cain't run no more,

til everthin's done turned black,

then,

I kep' on runnin' s' more.

..............

Woke up two days later,

nurses an' th' poh-lice askin' they questions,

tellin' me I's all lucky an' shit—

Nigga please!

Said they found my naked ass

up in th' middle o' tha' street,

half-dead in a pool o' my own blood,

when I axed them ‘bout my Jezzy May,

they just said she done up an' gone,

an' for all I know, he coulda kilt her ass dead tha' night,

but I'll never know,

I never went back,

still, after all these years—

She was th' finest woman I ever had.

You know tha' shit just ain't right.

It ain't right!

Shit, man, shit!