For you, Reader, that name might immediately conjure up the actor-later-turned-poet who starred in a score of gangster films. But instead I’m referring to the Oakland-based wordsmith who blew me away with his performance of Breakbeat Jesus. I can still see a screaming crowd of poets going on as if the first few lines of his poem were to a favorite jam from back in the day; that jam that once moved them in indescribable ways.

Since then the original has been recorded and posted on Youtube, along with its remix Breakbeat Jesus ft. Joshua Walters on beat box. But his range goes way beyond this powerhouse poem. So instead of trying to explain how much I’ll do what us poets do best, which is let the work speak for itself!

Cathedral

Keeping monks hours, I rise
at midnight to a false dawn
where the sun pauses at the horizon
to creep sideways like a crab.

Our crew chief materializes at the door
salmon roe dripping from his palms
large as prayer beads. Midair, he draws
the sign of the dollar. Then, I am Lazarus
summoned. Baptized in fish blood,
a rain slicker my shroud and am clumsy
as any thing newly risen from the dead.

Men in ripped rain gear lay stretched
along the hallway floor in obscene shivering
parodies of their former mainland selves

We pray over the burning incense
of a marlboro and return to the sanctuary
of our ice steeple. We chant
beneath a malevolent god—a huge metal tank
furiously hiccupping fish and drooling arctic water.

It stands, at the altar, a cross.
Like good apostles, we bow our heads
having already taken vows of debt, poverty
believing our lives prior to this
was a vision had between shifts.

We use herring for our communion.
They represent our sins and spewed
before us every 15 seconds are a new
assortment of reasons to repent.

Here’s a herring for every time I cursed my father
Here’s one for every time I wished someone
dead or reached into my pants whispering a girls name.

Here’s one for jealousy, for laziness, for blasphemy,
for idolatry, for rudeness, for selfishness, for vanity
for stealing, for cruelty, for lying, for boasting, for
anger, for envy, for greed, for sex
for chrissakes, make it stop!

MAKE IT STOP!!!

After eight hours, I spend breakfast
on deck surrounded by the quarantining ocean
so barren and desolate it is
even islands cannot grow here.

Suddenly, there appears on the surface
of water a severed stalk of kelp. I blink
twice before convincing myself it is not
a dead woman
floating, forgotten
her hair spread in a black web.
It’s just… uprooted seaweed
that, until now,
has only known sunlight
in its prayers

anyway, this apparition frightens me
because
this is the first time
I’ve ever seen a dead body
and was
envious

This Past Saturday At The Farmer’s Market

An African brother shoves a basket of boysenberries
at us as if paying a debt. They bleed
on our fingertips, plead sweet mercy on our tongues
Asked his name, the man smiles proper, his hand a gift,
says: “Too Complicated.”

We buy nine dollars in cherries
off him, all white and red and spotted
and sweet and sour, too. Flavors
turning in our mouths anxious as police lights.
We – no, I—nearly trip over this sister pushing a baby carriage
We know her, but couldn’t pull her name for nothing!
Her new daughter asleep in turtle shell carriage
her cheeks soft as rain soaked petals.
Her three year old son standing sentry
digs into our kettle korn sack only after momma
stamps approval with a glance.

Later: fish tacos for me, Himalayan
curried chicken for her, us both lunching
watching children bounce in the fountain–
hot pepper toes pickled cool in water. Giggles
going off like Chinese firecrackers!
Dimples in bloom! Tiny teeth at separate corners
of the mouth grudge matching! Thighs
you’d want to fried chicken bite so golden brown!
Pity another poor momma, her daughter catfish
writhing on her lap– mango shake shook
everywhere! The little girl on a straw
never blinks, channeling opium addict ancestors
thru the unique ecstasy of fruit sugar.

This is us at farmer’s market, circling
back to brother Too Complicated who
offers one arm for her, the other for me. A chain
of chins on his shoulders. “Where you been,”
he says double hugging us. “And why has
it taken you so long to come back?”

Friday the 13th Part 14 L Is For Love

Oh, to be married
yet
not be able to
say the words, ‘I love
you, darling’
–is what Jason has for nightmares.
Jason remembers
standing on the shore
of crystal lake years ago, trying
to make those word-sounds
like the kids,
Yielding a noise from his throat
like gargling
like moaning
like the blues.
This is what led him
to speech therapy.
Working with Dr. Amy
(simple enough to say by week 2)
teaching him
for the first time
the alphabet.
‘A is for axe.’
‘B is for body’.
It took months, this
process of learning–
of feeling words, whole
complex words in his mouth
Say: Library. Say: November
until what was left of his tongue
would lay exhausted against
the crumbs of his teeth.
It was like dating in a way..
He and Dr. Amy,
would have lessons
while walking downtown.
Say: Mailbox. Say: Bus Stop.
And they’d have the best time
sitting drinking tea
Say: Toast. Say: Milk.
Until one day
Jason stands toe to toe
with his wife: “Who
was that whore I saw you with
downtown today?”
And Jason learns
how easy it is
for words to get stuck
in the throat. Say: Stutter
And in his next
lesson he asked Dr. Amy, how
do you pronounce a lie?
How Do You…
Say: Old Friend?
Say: She just asked me the time?
But in marriage,
secrets don’t live very long.
After a while, it was Jason’s
wife who stopped talking.
Until one day, while she
peeled potatoes
in the kitchen, Jason
returned home and
placed Dr. Amy’s
head in the center
of the dinner table,
her hair a potpourri of wild flowers
all easy now to pronounce
–roses, daffodils, irises, daisies–
and, for the first time,
said to his wife,
“I Love You, Daring.”
A is for Always. F is for Forever.

Negro-Geist!

I. Daddy

old crow, jack daniels understood
my father mouthfuls at a time.
Jim Bean and Old Forester
were uncles in hard glass suits
they’d roll up in the knuckle
crack & sign of hennessey
taking its first breath, then hound
dog laughter & dominoes
falling in hail on the grave
yard of the dining room table.
Relatives who existed
through stories would ease
in like zombies on ropes of
blue marlboro & newport & camel smoke
then demand a séance in spades, coon can
& texas hold em

no wonder they call it spirits!

Spirits baited my father with
couvoisier, snatching him out of his body
like a river catfish and he’d vanish! like that
spirits made him burn rubber scream
in the driveway, stand on my bed a sloppy
marionette & speak in tongue
or just toss pans and skillets at midnight

I wouldn’t see his ass again
till the next afternoon looking
like something had chewed
all the sugar out of him
and spit the gray pulp on the couch

II. Johnny

My cousin Johnny volunteered
for possession every week.
Spirits lit that nigga up like vesuvius,
he was certified!
electroshock exorcisms did nothing
empty bottles & cans
were his weekend storm warning
old english, colt 45, crazy horse,
cisco—they’d demand sacrifices
in blood so bottles of
haldol & thorazine
would dice roll under the couch
Friday nights, then doors
slam to splinters, tables
get flipped, walls
kicked until strait
jackets lay waiting on
the lawn. Momma
would site visions of gang
boys with tire iron erections
& johnny’s convertible skull
with its metal vent as if
it explained anything.
it didn’t.

‘tween dusk Friday and dawn Saturday
he’d still be ready to
blow this muthafucka up.
You want some of this?
Do You Want Some Of This?!
oh no oh yes oh no oh yes
I’ll be damn I’ll be
damn I’ll be
damned!

James Cagney is a writer, poet and performer from
Oakland, Ca. He’s appeared as a featured artist at
venues such as The Starry Plough, La Pena Cultural
Center, Above Paradise Lounge, Spasso’s Cafe, The Java
House, Mahogany Restaurant, OK Hotel among others. He
has also appeared on stage in the Afro-Solo
Performance series, Four Brothers with Will Power,
Ritual Theater 2000, and Celebration of the Word with
Maya Angelou and Quincy Troupe. He is the author of
four volumes of poetry including Transmitting The
Disease and Hot Death and the forthcoming Blood
Strangers. His work has been published in Asili
Journal, Cake, Drumvoices and Sussurrus.