Isaac Black
The Emperor's Love Letter
Some say I am a master poet, superior to William
Butler Yeats or Whitman. They say I'm "Acquainted
With The Night." That's by Frost. It's Sweet. The kind
of poem I would recite for you, Mr. Man, if you'd been
at the Edmund Pettus Bridge. And eye-balled
the mad dogs. But I prefer the Mojave rattlesnake's
bite. It's toxic, causes paralysis. You can slowly
go blind, choke. I love it that Rome didn't fall in a day.
I am patient to a fault. I find joy in those Krav Maga
pressure points, strikes to the Brachial plexus,
the temple, jaw, the beauty of that well executed strike.
I get around. In earlier times, I beat every Samurai
swordsmen, including the master Musashi (who used
two swords at once). Sure, I've stood over Bathsheba,
Joan of Arc, and Billy Holiday before the end. One
morn, I'll be at the San Andreas Fault, quicker than
a throw of the dice. I always wear a confident smile.
The day before the Twin Towers fell, you were close --
in that Borders bookstore. You browsed, even reading
a few pages about Rasputin -- about how he was poisoned,
shot, then drowned within a minute before he saw me.
He didn't laugh when he noticed the scythe. Wise one,
I've heard you talk about Eden, Einstein, the bullet's
angle that snapped Kennedy, the one at the Lorraine
Motel. As a kid, you used to be afraid of your shadow,
whispers calling you from inside your little Toot-Toot
trains. But now you're as Bad and flamboyant as this
world's hit's-makers. I can see you jumping over life's
turnstile -- studded black jacket and boots, gloves with
faux straps, giving me the finger or your Almighty hand.
But I like you, really. So this is a heads-up.
On Saturday, you're going to catch that young,
pretty woman's eye. It'll be your good looks
and wit, the three-button, single-breasted
tuxedo you're wearing, the one with the
clean, unbroken line and the satin lapels.
Tip: Don't take her home.
Hourglass
His was a brain that I entered at my leisure.
I'd go to a room in the rear, put the kettle on,
sit near the shelves of books crisscrossing
avenues and byways till I heard the whistle.
I'd have my coffee black, no sugar, wonder
if I'd ever hear, "Anybody there?" I figured
Uncle Harvey didn't know (or care) if I was
in his head, browsing in his Library. But
I was wrong. In his rocking chair, he'd aged
over time, white-haired, eyes always rolled
backwards as if he were gone. The rooms in his head
were lavishly furnished, everything conveniently
cataloged, tiered: The Universe, History (I found
trails along the Euphrates), Science, the Arts.
In one corner, always, I studied poems like
Hayden's Sphinx, Zeus Over Redeye. I worked
at Bronx Psychiatric Center (a nominee for employee
of the year). In all the stories about infamous
Ward 15 in the New York Post, they never said
I was a poet. No reporter ever asked how I could fly
up-and-down in the hallways, float in the air, or
stop someone from banging his or her head against
the padded walls. They all loved me -- Superman,
Praying Mantis, Almighty God, Elvis, Casper, Roto-
Rooter Man, Double-O7, or Ms. Pussy
(who said hers was on fire).*
You better believe this: I had special powers.
But I couldn't fire-up any Honey-Easel, or Hot Ice
poems for weeks. Uncle Harvey (I imagined) knew
I couldn’t catch my breath. He'd heard me say,
"Pilot Me," two words from a Hayden poem. One
morning he did that. He flew me over the longest
green lawn ever. I saluted security guards, docs,
health aides, tossed my ID at the canary-less stars.
After I tendered my resignation, I climbed to the sky-
high elevated D line, tried to outrun the Cockatoo,
Double-07, God. Over the years my son would ask,
"Why do I keep hearing sounds in all our bedrooms?"
I'd tell him my stories, teach him to moonwalk,
assure him that our guests wouldn't hurt anybody.
*Back in the day, Bronx Psychiatric had the only co-ed ward in the city.
Isaac Black, an MFA graduate of Vermont College, has work published or forthcoming in journals like the Beloit Poetry Journal, Boston Literary Magazine, Callaloo, Fjords Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Obsidian, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, San Pedro River Review, and Spillway. He's also a recent Solstice finalist for the Stephen Dunn Prize in Poetry (2017 & 2018), winner of the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize from Cutthroat Magazine (Cornelius Eady as judge), and the 2020 Black History Month finalist for the Columbia Journal. Prior awards include the Gwendolyn Brooks Literary Award for fiction and Broadside Press Award for poetry (Black World ). A Pushcart (7 times) and Best of the Net nominee, Isaac's a recipient of poetry fellowships from the New York State Creative Artists Service Program (CAPS) and New York Foundation of the Arts. He is the author of the African American Student's College Guide (John Wiley & Sons), and founder of a major college help organization.
