Black Spring: Ceiling Fan Scream

It’s Juneteenth     the paper plane landed  on the fan blade and scratched  the air for hours, what balance between confession and surrendor! The tiger  or the clown is cringing and I’m  never again contemplating Moby Dick the  ocean goes to the soda crackers and sharks, all  our roads are rivers. I want it to mean evolution but   there’s something chemical about the spinning plateau and   did I kill him or row him to shore I do not know    I just don’t know What I’m sure of: there’s nothing more upsetting than   a dark room lit by the aquamarine glow of a flickering television   there’s nothing I dread more that too much accountability in black  America just let us be evil-valuable my picture is on the evening news but    with a straight perm wig, snatched, and freckles jammed onto my cheekbones with  brown eyeliner they’re calling it a manhunt I laugh and the room goes dark   with my innocence and the spirits are a sway of pitchers playing catch in a cornfield  the slap of leather on leather a drum he’s over there mosquito on a street lamp            begging please will I clap him into smithereens and watch some housewives meet for cocktails to take the  edge off