Poetry

Bull Connor,
like the Dutch Boy from Haarlem,
put his finger in a hole
to plug a burgeoning leak.

But Bull Connor,
unlike the boy from Haarlem,
did not foresee
the raging torrents of history,
smashing against
the crumbling walls
of the porous dike
he sought to buttress.

His decadent heroism
held no moral authority
to sustain
his ungodly labors.

His savage dogs,
hungry for meat
bent on aggression
for a twisted masters bidding
were devoured
by the teeth
of a movement
hungry for justice.

His water cannons,
tiny water pistols,
pissed
into the mighty squalls
of a raging hurricane
that blew the stinking urine
back into his face.

The weight of history
moves with the just.

Untruth,
archrival of justice,
is blown away
like an expired candle
snuffed out,
blessedly extinguished
from the first breath
of a glorious new day.

Bull Connor
doesn’t rest in peace.

He stands on
the other side of the river.

He is the rich man
driven by
insane thirst
begging for water
from a comforted
Lazarus,
now secure
in the bosom
of Abraham.

Bull Connor
looks across
the chasm of fire
he knows
he'll never bridge.

Medgar Evers
and MLK Jr.
stand as keepers,
collecting tolls
for a heavenly passage
from the wages he earned
for his earthly work.

A forlorn
Bull Connor
forever searches
deep empty pockets
for fare
as Martin
and Medgar
patiently wait
with outstretched palms.

Music Selection:
The Soul Stirrers,
Jesus Gave Me Water

MLK Jr. Day
1/20/86
NYC

jbm