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Eady - Brutal imagination pa

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    Brutal imagination pa
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Brutal Imagination is the work of a poet at the peak of his considerable powers. Its two central sections--which could be called song cycles--confront the same subject: the black man in America. The first, which carries the books title, deals with the vision of the black man in white imagination. Narrated largely by the black kidnapper that Susan Smith invented to cover up the killing of her two sons, the cycle displays all of Mr. Eadys range: his deft wit, inventiveness, and skillfully targeted anger, and the way in which he combines the subtle with the charged, street idiom with elegant inversions, harsh images with the sweetly ordinary. The second cycle, Running Man, presents poems Mr. Eady drew on for his libretto for the music-drama of the same name, which was a l999 Pulitzer Prize finalist. Here, the focus is the black family and the barriers of color, class, and caste that tear it apart. As the Village Voice said, It is a hymn to all the sons this country has stolen from her African- American families.

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Table of Contents ALSO BY CORNELIUS EADY Kartunes Victims of the Latest - photo 1
Table of Contents

ALSO BY CORNELIUS EADY
Kartunes
Victims of the Latest Dance CrazeBoom, Boom, Boom (chapbook)
The Gathering of My Name
You Dont Miss Your Water
The Autobiography of Jukebox
A MARIAN WOOD BOOK
PUBLISHED BY G . P. PUTNAMS SONS A MEMBER OF PENGUIN PUTNAM INC. NEW YORK
ACKNOWLEDMENTS Some of the poems in this collection have appeared in the - photo 2
ACKNOWLEDMENTS
Some of the poems in this collection have appeared in the following:

Ploughshares: How I Got Born, My Heart, Who Am I?, Sightings.

Fourteen Hills: Running Man, Miss Looks Dream (Under the title The Younger Sisters Dream).

My Face first appeared in the anthology In Defense of Mumia (Writers and Readers Publishing, Inc., 1996), S. E. Anderson and Tony Medina, eds.

Many of the poems in the Running Man section were used as the basis of the text for the jazz-opera Running Man ( 1999, Murray/ Eady), that ran from February 16 to March 14, 1999, at the HERE Performing Arts Space in New York City (story and music by Diedre Murray; text by Cornelius Eady; directed by Diane Paulus; produced by Music-Theatre Group; Lyn Austin, producing director; Diane Wondisford, general director). My thanks to all involved with the production, including the fine cast and musicians, and most especially to Diedre and to Diane Paulus.

The quote from Jean Valentine is used with permission of the author, and is from her book The Cradle of the Real Life (Wesleyan University Press, 2000).
Thanks to my friend Chuck Wachtel for providing the spark.

Finally, my thanks and love always to my first reader, Sarah Mick-lem, and to my editor, Marian Wood, the fiercest friend a book ever had.
To Toi, Sarah, Carolyn,
and
the Cave Canem family
"WELL, BOW-WOW!" - SON HOUSE
Then they let him go. Not
wanting him alive, not wanting him dead.
Their knees grind over the sea
and make malice. What is love? What does love do?
-JEAN VALENTINE, "BLACK FOR THE PEOPLE"
BRUTAL IMAGINATION:
The speaker is the young black man
Susan Smith claimed
kidnapped her children.
HOW I GOT BORN
Though its common belief
That Susan Smith willed me alive
At the moment
Her babies sank into the lake

When called, I come.
My job is to get things done.
I am piecemeal.
I make my living by taking things.

So now a mother needs me clothed
In hand-me-downs
And a knit cap.

Whatever.
We arrive, bereaved
On a strangers step.
Baby, they weep,
Poor child.
MY HEART
Susan Smith has invented me because
Nobody else in town will do what
She needs me to do.
I mean: jump in an idling car
And drive off with two sad and
Frightened kids in the back.
Like a bad lover, she has given me a poisoned heart.
It pounds both our ribs, black, angry, nothing but business.
Since her fear is my blood
And her need part mythical,
Everything she says about me is true.
WHO AM I ?
Who are you, mister?
One of the boys asks
From the eternal backseat
And here is the one good thing:
If I am alive, then so, briefly, are they,
Two boys returned, three and one,
Quiet and scared, bunched together
Breathing like small beasts.
They cant place me, yet theres
Something familiar.
Though my skin and sex are different, maybe
Its the way I drive
Or occasionally glance back
With concern,
Maybe its the mixed blessing
Someone, perhaps circumstance,
Has given us,
The secret thrill of hiding,
Childish, in plain sight,
Seen, but not seen,
As if suddenly given the power
To move through walls,
To know every secret without permission.
We roll sleepless through the dark streets, but inside
The cab is lit with brutal imagination.
SIGHTINGS
A few nights ago
A man swears he saw me pump gas
With the children
At a convenience store
Like a punchline you get the next day,
Or a kiss in a dream that returns while
Youre in the middle of doing
Something else.

I left money in his hand.

Mr. _____who lives in ______,
South Carolina,
Of average height
And a certain weight
Who may or may not
Believe in any of the
Basic recognized religions,
Saw me move like an angel
In my dusky skin
And knit hat.

Perhaps I looked him in the eye.

Ms. _____saw a glint of us
On which highway?
On the street thats close
To what landmark?

She now recalls
The two children in the back
Appeared to be behaving.

Mr. _____now knows he heard
The tires of the car
Everyone is looking for
Crunch the gravel
As I pulled up,
In the wee, wee hours
At the motel where
He works the night desk.

I signed or didnt sign the register.
I took or didnt take the key from his hand.
He looked or forgot to look
As I pulled off to park in front
Of one of the rooms at the back.

Did I say I was traveling with kids?
Who slept that night
In the untouched beds?
MY FACE
If you are caught
In my part of town
After dark,
You are not lost;
You are abandoned.

All that the neighbors will tell
Your kin
Is that you should
Have known better.

All they will do
Is nod their heads.
They will feel sorry
For you,

But rules are rules,
And when you were
Of a certain age
Someone pointed
A finger
In the wrong direction

And said:
All they do
Is fuck and drink
All theyre good for
Aint worth a shit.

You recall me now
To the police artist.
It wasnt really my face
That stared back that day,
But it was that look.
SUSAN SMITHS POLICE REPORT
My shape came from out-of-nowhere.
The way some things dont belong
Thats the way

I clanged up to the car
Trapped by a badly timed light.
Her poor kids never saw our image

Swell in the rearview mirror.
I was the danger of bulk; fast,
Nervous fingers

Barked the unlocked door open
And in I flooded, all the heartache
A lonely stretch of road can give.

Then she was alone, blinking in
The sight of an indifferent moon
Above the pines.

This, she swore, was the sound
Of my voice.
WHERE AM I ?
Looking for Michael and Alex means
That the bushes have not whispered,
That the trees hold only shade
That the lake still insists on being a lake.

I flicker from TV to TV. My flier sits
On their grandmothers easy chair. I hover
Over so many lawns, so many cups of coffee.

I pour from lip to lip. The town blossoms
In yellow ribbons, sprinkled like bread crumbs
Or bait. I crackle from cell phones and shortwave,

I am listened for in alleys. Looking for Michael
And Alex means each car is scanned at the
Drive-thru windows, that sightings are hoped for

At the self-serve pumps. Clerks long for the crook
Of my arm, reaching for diapers and snacks.
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