Ishmael Reed ⋅ « Antigone, This Is It » ⋅ Chattanooga ⋅ first published in Black World, sept. 1973 19 01 22
For Fred Whatever your name, whatever Your beef, I read you like I Read a book You would gut a nursery To make the papers, like Medusa your Poster Queen You murder children With no father’s consent You map your treachery shrewdly, A computer Click clicking As it tracks a ship Headed for the Unknown Making complex maneuvers Before splashing down into Mystery Suppose everyone wanted it their Way, traffic would be bottled up The Horsemen couldn’t come There would be no beauty, no radio No one could hear your monologues Without drums or chorus In which you are right And others, shadows, snatching things Fate, The Gods,…