Tick, talk
By Adam Dalton Blake
--
Tick, tock, tick, tock
but
no
one
tick,
talk, tick, talk.
--
I
might have a house now,
A
house, a tent.
A
tent
cannot
be a home.
A
house it can, but a home is not given
to
me
by
foreign arms.
We
sit,
talk, sit, talk.
I
don’t need no government
to
give me cheese,
to
give me a shirt
that
says Coca-Cola with
MATTHEW
written on the
tag
branding
me with the English label
of
zero grams of sugar.
Zero
grams of anything sweet.
Bitter.
They
give us, give us,
but
they
leave us, leave us.
tick, tock, tick, tock.
Right
on the clock it’s no shock
That
we walk in lines
To
get.
Too
much get.
To
get shoes.
Just
to keep walking in that line.
But
how long must we wait?
We
wait and wait while we
wait, talk, wait, talk.
But
never
tick, talk, tick, talk.
Sure
we talk.
We
be talking now
‘bout
what we want.
Mama
says that we want what is
not
what
we thought
ought
to
be our Mama country.
Gimme
a job.
I
want to work.
I do not care to sit, talk.
I want to tick, talk.
My
country is not America
not
France.
Teach
me to work for
my
home
Not
for your snow white
faces
and
glove
covered hands.
You
cannot
catch
a
tent city.
Nor
can you wash it
off
with
the
water you bring
in
bottles of foreign
Dasani.
--
My
country is my home that I hate.
Haiti
is my Mama who
gave
birth
to
too
many
children.
Stephane,
Emmanuel,
Bronte.
And
could not support
by
her own hand.
Haiti
is my Mama who
I
know
is
a tried tired train wreck
with
Father
coming
around
at
his leisure.
--
My
government is a gangster
that
changes through gun shots
and
dumb shots
at
my tent town.
Girls
scream
as
they come stifle some
of
our already quaked lives
and
tear those
tears
into
nothing
but
empty noises we used to.
Their
radio static screams that once
played
the tunes of dance and trance
have
no chance
to
take a stance
against
this tragedy.
Father
comes in to ground.
To
punish his dogs
but
without a leash.
We
all look alike
To
Father.
Daddy,
Don’t
you see,
He
is
unfillable
as
the criminal he is.
No
dog tags
Or
leashes on the
mutts
escaped from their
collapsed
kennels.
They
hide in my town.
Town
used loosely.
But
not loose enough.
Just
loose
enough
that everyone
loses
except
those
who
chose
to
pose as our
gangster
leaders.
We
scared into obedience
from
our own
dogs.
sit, mute, sit, mute
Even
when you try and scream
Father
cannot help
Because
he does not
Know
his children.
Every
child
to
an absent Father
Looks
like every other
Stephane,
Emmanuel,
Bronte.
When
we can scream,
We
wait
for
Uncles to come by.
These
are people like us,
But
are first kin to
Father,
Then
to us, Sisters and Brothers.
--
We
move back to
sit, talk, sit, talk
unable
to
tick, walk, tick, walk
away
from what we are unable to fix.
I
was born to this Mama
And
not to
White
Father handing
me
my Coca-Cola shirt.
I sit talk, sit, talk
In
my voice
cuz
my choice
is
decided for me to stay
in
my tent.
In
my house, but not my home.
My
home must
be
with
my
Mama
slowly
breaking because
Father
keeps coming and going.
She
is broken.
Heartbroken.
Her
heart spoken
for
by
my Father.
She
gets a monthly allowance
Of
socks, underwear, and shoes.
But
who’s
going
to tell her
how
to
tie
them
up.
My
Father does not have the time.
“I’ll be
back,”
he
says.
But
never stays.
stay, talk, stay, talk.
Who
would stay
More
than a day
in
an array
of
hell.
I
am used to the fire of these houses Father has bought for us, but we
stay, talk, stay, talk
sit, talk, sit, talk
Never
walk, talk, walk, talk.
Those
who
stay, sit, stay, sit,
are
those who love Father.
Everyone
loves my Father.
Not
I.
Not
me.
Not
me as his child,
but
rather some postcard
asking
for
more
Tents.
I
hate him.
I hate that he’s
never around to do
more than give
us.
I need him
to help Mama
stand
on her two feet,
one of which
is attached
to a broken leg.
Both of which.
are wearing
shoes.
--
Father was
around for
a bit when I
was younger
but my hunger
was never satisfied
because I
was never taught
how to
cook.
I don’t think
anyone
in this country
can cook.
We have
absolutely no successful recipe to follow.
Father would
bring his cookbook,
but then he took
the book
back with him
across the seas.
We can try and
make a pie
but without the
knowhow.
Sure,
Father drops off
flour and
apples and
cherries,
but we just eat
them as they are.
They are
ingredients
we
see
as nothing but
food.
I have never
learned
That apple and
flour
Can equal pie,
But I know
that apple and
flour
Can feed I.
eat, talk, eat, talk.
I don’t know how
to make a pie,
But I
Know how to eat
Someone else’s
pie creation.
Mama needs
someone
To crack an egg
for her
beat the egg for
her.
But for her,
she has
too many children
to teach each
of us
to bake.
--
The
ground shook, right?
Then
all became white.
White
help
White noise
White light.
--
I
might as well
have
died
we
sighed
cuz
we not surprised
anymore.
Our
city was
Already
a crumble
With
no thimble to protect us
From
pricks.
prick, talk, prick, talk
I
can’t remember
whether
it be
before
or post
that
our space be host
to
fallen.
constantly
breaking
down
in
material
but
not
in
Spirit.
Father
does not need to
teach
us
Spirit.
‘Cuz
Mama taught us hope
through
osmosis.
Even
our water,
though
poisoned,
can
teach us something
I
guess.
--
All we have is
guess
because the
rest
is decided for
us by our Uncles.
Our Father’s
brothers who look
like me
but act
like him.
I would much
rather play
With my Aunts
from
Mama’s side.
My Mama’s
sisters who
Yes,
have
their issues
but know how to
braid my hair,
rather than just
give me a comb.
But my Uncles,
My Uncles think
they know what
Father
wants
and then forget
to listen
to Mama’s
stories.
--
We must not
forget,
that while we
don’t
Tick, talk
we do
stay, talk
sit, talk
eat, talk
prick, talk
One day
We will
Tick, talk,
and I’ll be
content
not in my tent
but in my con.
I am a con of
Father,
And a pro of
Mama.
I will
Tick, talk,
But when we only
tick, tock,
we will stay in
that queue
because who
knows how to
bake?
--
--
