Sunday, June 11, 2017


Yes; the moment they took it down from the wall
and passed it around as a cocktail, I thought to
myself, 'Hmmm. This is good!' But then, just
as much, I had to say, 'What am I doing here,
in such a place as this, where they serve
these things?' Right after that, the black girl
came over and wanted to talk, and that was
the end of the evening for me. Her father, it
seemed had been Minister Alton Jeffries, who'd
been killed by the cops in old Atlanta over 
fifty years before. As she put it, 'Back then,
before that, Atlanta hadn't even been the big
city you know of now  -  it was just a pilgrimage
along the way, Ted Turner and all that white 
crap. They all just keep expanding the city 
limits to engulf the plantations lands and
little black villages all around it. What they
'wanted' this Atlanta to be. They never cared
who they hurt, hell, who they killed. Just
buy up the shacks, or take them, and build
up the city around them. And they did. And
they killed my father, as an 'obstructionist,'
a black leader of no cooperation and a bad
attitude. I was 9 then. No one was ever 
charged, it was all squashed, and my father
ended up, of course, looking like the bad
guy, the black, evil one, the renegade church
leader. Everyone made their money, the
city expanded, and they just kept building.
Their ball teams, stadiums, academies and
arenas. I still get angry thinking about it, and
I make sure my kids get it all too. It's not
going to die with me, I'll make sure of that.'
Man, how do you reply to words such as 
those? She held an impression that maybe I
could help her, write this up, report on the
old scene. I think she misunderstood what I
was. Someone must have foolishly said to her
that I was a writer, newspaper, maybe, she 
thought. Whatever, As I figured what she
needed more than a crazy poet type was a
mystery writer, a whodunit guy, some sort
of a legal thriller like they sell in airports.

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