They spit on Jack Johnson,
Jack Johnson,
Jack Johnson!
A man who could crush them with one mighty blow.
And later Joe Louis, the so-called Brown Bomber,
despite mobbed-up fight games, still gave them a show.
Cassius Marcellus Mohammad Ali
stood up for his rights as an athlete who was free.
But they took back the title he honestly won
and named him America’s least favored son. 

Greek games reestablished was fascism’s chance
to capture the gold and to watch Hitler dance;
but then Jesse Owens, to the Nazi’s disgrace,
Sieg heiled  with his victory in Der Feuhrer’s  face.
But when Jesse returned to his old home down South,
They said “Just stay in your place, boy,
and do shut your mouth.”

Olympics, Olympics!
Black fists were held high.
Did it end our damn racism?
Did we give it a try?

When slaves were collected by Arabic mobs,
they were targeted often to do certain jobs.
The plantation owners near levies so steep
needed river homes stilted when the high waters seep,
so they snatched them some architects of the Black race
to shore up their mansions
--to our nation’s disgrace.

Now slavers raid high schools in poor neighborhoods,
but their promising contracts can’t be understood.
In place of diplomas false dreams are instilled,
and the teen boys are slaves soon, against their own wills.
 
And then, if they’re lucky, a rich bigot walks by
and promises them everything up to the sky.
Forget that he’s evil and forget all his sins
and concentrate only on assuring him wins.
He gives young men bling and big fancy wheels,
figures they won’t notice the stench of his deals.
As long as they don’t pry or ask or wheedle
as he tries to pass camels through the eyes of thin needles.
 
Great wealth controls athletes throughout the land.
If you fracture your kneecap you can still join the band.
But you can sit in the front when you get on the bus.
Not eating enough? Well, don’t cause a fuss.
You could soon be house-bound and out of the fields,
with houses and cars and Sterling-clad deals.

Rich trustees of colleges can’t write or spell
when it comes to revealing their pay checks that swell.
Two million per annum for their overseeing,
but no lunch or snack time for young human beings.
Caviar, lobster and big Champagne dinners
for coaches that bring their schools national winners.
The kids? They learn lessons of struggle and need,
but won’t even earn Twinkies when their team
wins
first seed. 

Well not anymore, kid!
The clarion calls,
It shakes all sports’ rooftops and rings off the walls--
free agents, free sportsmen, free Black, Brown and White,
you’re not disenfranchised, so take back the night!
A new day is dawning when athletes make rules,
and our first request is: “Dump all racist fools!”


Art Gatti
5/6/2014

They killed Archie.
I never said they could,
but who am I anyway?
No longer a reader of Archie Comics;
I'm not a pal of Jughead’s,
nor a foe of Reggie’s.

I’ve had my Betty and Veronica moments,
lived through decades with each,
one at a time.
Friendly divorces too.

Thank God no kids! How could I explain to them
being in high school for 47 years?

I guess it was about time to say it:
“Goodbye, Archie.”
(I thought you were dead anyway.)


art gatti, 4/15/14

 The hot room with its high, doily-covered dressers,
their mute, framed faces staring down at me:

Men in black cassocks
showing me where my gene pool ended
in that small corner of the Old World –
scattered, sterile seeds,
lost in cavernous, dark seminaries.

An ice box in the corner,
drip pan beneath, sparse provisions within.
All the rest victims of the hot room with
its thick, drawn drapery.

Hard cheeses, sour auras redolent when you’re near,
wrapped in cheesecloth,
aging in the open air;
flagons of wine
and a green viscous oil that it would take years
for my American palate to love.

My grandparents would mutter
in their strange and fluid tongue
and urge me to mangia.
I was too thin–“Fagiole!”

The salad of crisp green--
cool, ignoring the August day–
greens and orange slices.
My little face cries silently at the first taste--
why did they douse it like that?
I liked olives–if they were pitted...
and dyed black, and swimming in a can
under murky, innocuous water.
But this green oil was from no olive I knew.
And with the black pepper, too,
the oranges were spoiled for me.
Bitter and sweet, bitter and sweet.

Why did the old people mix bitter with life’s joys?

I would not mangia,
me, with taste buds
not yet born into the flavors of my people.



Art Gatti
04/25/2014