CORDELIA'S CRUDE YOUNG BROTHER

___________________________________________________________________________ Cordelia’s Crude Young Brother ___________________________________________________________________________ “Physically, if not mentally, Cordelia was a potential prostitute…” —Wallace Thurman, Cordelia The Crude Fire!!! November 1926 ______________________________________________________________________ cordelia’s young—brother wasn’t a cheap tramp he be high class stuff. in the balcony—the roosevelt theater on 145th street. he was quite blasé—yet very mercenary in “nigger heaven.” up there in the dark—watching hollywood big stars on the silver screen. he was just sixteen—but tres masculine mature up there in the rear. mos’ of des’ sheiks—felt him up ‘cause he was hung he be mandingo. both physically and—mentally kane the crude was innocent, blasé kane wasn’t quite yet—a wanton mercenary he was just horny the moral import—of his promiscuity persuaded him tho when some guy up there—after a quickie blowjob slipped him twenty bucks. kane’s naïve lack of—keen discrimination changed quickly to rich men “twenty bucks” he’d say—getting rid of the riff-raff then his pants came down kane soon discovered—a lucrative profession as “bijou” hustler in the balcony—the roosevelt theater seventh avenue a cheap ticket date—near 145th street could make a nice bundle the foul-smelling depths—her favorite movie shrine hustling the darkness he’d pretend to sleep—they’d slouch down in the next seat press their leg to his soon down on their knees—getting what they wanted bad his big salami the high-yellow ones—with their sticky plastered hair silk shirts, dirty underwear they were the choice ones—some of them taking him back fancy hotel room kane was sixteen— undisciplined & yet willing half-literate kid south carolina—runaway from six brothers and sisters back home sick of raising pigs—hitchhiked to harlem instead a trick of the trade kane wore a head-rag more like a sultan’s turban a regal chicken i lived in a dumpy—cold walk-up tenement flat on 144th street a dismal building—between lenox & fifth ave crooked, creaking stairs they had his pants down—before they reached the top floor four flights up, the rear animal kisses—he was used to manhandling if they had some bucks he met bruce nugent—one saturday lenox night a house-rent party red smoke filled the room—he was loaded on gin & weed guys were mobbing him nugent moved quickly—took the lean-hipped pimply-faced kid back to his place in his studio—the niggeratti manor had kane’s clothes off fast but didn’t make him—just had him pose in the nude painting his portrait bruce was an artist—not the usual dicty with twenty fast bucks bruce painted the walls—nobody had ever paid attention to him bruce wrote poems too—he sat at the typewriter kane was blown away these were new negroes—dinge intelligentsia what were they all like? kane moved in with bruce—he met thurmond & jackman they got him writing some coke & some weed—started it coming outta him carolina cum except it somehow—oozed into words on paper something primitive was it african—pent-up & chained inside him how could that be true? miscegenation—and how much slave-master’s blood flowed down thru his vein? whatever it was—harlem men seemed to like it chicken ten inches soon he was tricking—outta bruce nugent’s gaudy artist’s studio they were curious—why bruce always stayed up there alone now with me i don’t know either—after we’d make love he’d paint he’d paint all night long the urban ghetto—its vast harlem night silence descending on him my eyes used to be—fixed blinded by the city my lips closed & mute i didn’t know words—i was immune to syntax until i met bruce and then that one night—posing in his studio i realized it… i didn’t know why—my phantom formed on the wall was it my portrait? harlem was asleep—gargantuan skyscrapers loomed thru the window and bruce were busy—painting me sleeping in bed carolina chicken i dreamed i was lost—i was entombed & entranced a ghetto sand-dune when i got loaded—the lemony-tart tangy knotted root of me too hot for kissing—he mixed it with his pastels painting me on walls suffused with my sperm—natal babypaste manhood my navel cord gushing up there on the walls—once intangible & vague seminal portrait