Social Justice ∼ 4 Poems by Bob Cooperman
Social Justice/Injustice
∼
4 Poems by Bob Cooperman
Narration by Charles Rammelkamp
4:20
A few years ago,
I asked our nephew
what those numbers meant,
supposing a reference to the Bible:
smiting Amalekites, the Song
of Solomon, or burning witches,
in one sacred book or another.
He informed me
it had to do with smoking pot.
Why those particular numbers
he wasn’t sure, something,
he thought, about the time of day
someone in Amsterdam
had once fired up a joint.
A relief, since I’d feared
4:20 referred to Hitler’s birthday:
April 20th, something kids thought cool,
Nazi salutes and goose-stepping—
jokes their idiot parents wouldn’t get.
A woman I knew went into labor
late one April 19th; and ordered
her doctor to perform a Caesarean.
“I will not have my son
born on that monster’s birthday!”
the memory of the numbers
burned into her mother’s arm
still a blue-hot flame,
even while we’d smoked
lotus-dope in carefree college.
A Bar in Bamberg, Germany, 1962
You and Billy Young—
G.I.s from the base—strolled in,
ordered shots, a couple more,
when three white soldiers blocked the way.
“What,” they demanded of you,
“is he doing here?” Bamberg’s bars
segregated as Alabama’s.
“He’s cool,” you assured them,
“a good friend of mine.”
“Yeah?” the smallest, meanest looking
guy shot back. “Let him take his cool
black ass where it belongs,” nodding
at his friends, they stomped out.
One more shot apiece
and you tossed bills on the bar
and hoisted your belts to leave.
“They’re waiting with knives,”
the barmaid warned, and you recalled
the black G.I. stabbed in the wrong bar,
a few weeks ago. She led you
to a back door, down stairs to another
door that opened onto an alley.
You both tried to hand her some bills;
she shook her head and said,
“This is how my father smuggled
Jews out, when I was a little girl.
I still have nightmares;
I don’t need any more of them.”
Rex Calhoun, Former Class President of Underwood University
Comments on His Blackface Graduation Photo
I honestly don’t see what the big deal is.
So I wore blackface? It’s not
like I lynched anyone, or draped
a noose over a limb of the Commons Oak,
under which I used to make out
with Lydia Garfield between classes.
What a sweet piece she was,
even if I had to convince her going all
the way was what she really wanted.
But anyway, blackface? Really?
I was trying to be funny, but Jeez,
some people just seem hell bent
on reliving the bad old past,
before we had a black president,
who I didn’t vote for
and am damn happy for Trump now,
who knows how to handle things
and doesn’t let shit-hole countries
or sniveling minorities boss us around,
with their whining, “You owe us!”
For what? Slavery ended,
like, centuries ago.
The Billionaire Arrested at a Massage Parlor
When the cops caught the gook bitch
going at my All Day Sucker,
I thought they’d apologize
as if interrupting Billy Graham
in mid-sermon. But they let her go!
And when I demanded,
“Do you know who I am?”
They told me I was under arrest
and threw my silk shirt at me
that cost more than those bozos
make in a month.
“Your boss will hear about this,”
I warned, but they didn’t blink.
“Why are you busting my chops
while treating that illegal whore
like Nancy Reagan and Barbara Bush?”
Still not a word, so I tried some sugar,
my voice smooth as aged scotch,
“Can’t we reach an agreement?”
But the bastards slapped the cuffs on.
Once my lawyers start digging,
they’ll find shit to smear these fuckers with
the rest of their lives. Plus, my security
boys will take care of the flat-chested
broad if she tries to testify against me.
At least my grandkids are too young
to know about massage parlors,
and my ex has gotten her claws into
all the alimony she thinks she deserves,
for, and I quote, “Marrying a scumbag!”
Hey bitch, what does that make you?