Allison Hedge Coke
 
 

Clowns Crowned:
in-RAGE

Look at me.  Its clowns crowned,  MY name splatters North Rapid,  aerosol flow bursting in blue.                 Look at it. Just proud when box cars sail  North Street junction overpass rail.                What do you think?  Look! Son, I think its sad you gotta send RAGE  all over the world on a box car.  What’s that name about anyways? Expression, youth, he claims.  I remember sentiment similar, not so sweet.  Internal fuming, fifteen.  Its evident here on his still boy arm.  Still delicate, suffered in tattoo. He shows me the other marks: Roosevelt Park tunnel,  a busted alley fence, public building post, street sign. His fellow projectionists up on charges,  cosmetic damage police claim gang-related, the kids here claim no ties, no lie, just SPEAKING out in flat paint over scads  of other’s long left words--tag on tag. Cops claim four to six thousand in damage  for RAGE without hate, for smiling clowns, crowned--the best of friends--in a world  where youth aren’t sacred anymore,  where unmarked lands and monument-less legacies  were torn from all our peoples Where THEY openly carve initials  of generals and land-rush pioneers into slate,  blast mountains into presidential faces,  testify to nearest cities, colleges by lettered whitened stone inlaid on every unshared still haunted  hunting grounds hill surrounding here, still belonging free as it once was.  FREE in the time  of greater ancestors all across this great, great land. And now they’re talking felony criminal damages, on property, paint on paint, PAINT on paint, reasons for juvenile time, cause for harassment,  strong-arm antagonizing, intimidation legal-style. Reasons for TIME in that ever-growing ghetto/reservation:  Juvenile Department of Corrections. I know his rage.  Rage at what we lost, at forever being mobile,  landless, non-status, unclaimed, forever surrounded by steady stream of billboard flashing neon signs.  Rage at his grandpa’s long-twisted hands broken by first teachers and at his own expression suppression  by contemporary boarding school staff. Rage at never being fathered, much less village raised. At never being able to compete with more popular nintendo buying friends on our tell-tale disability and sporadic creative PEOPLE's income. Rage at rage. But the clowns, they’re happy he tells me.  The crowns show we’re the best-- best friends, best artists, best at this one gig  that requires no membership exclusive. It’s nothing to do with gangs.  That’s a whole ‘nother thing.  RCPD #357/CUSTER don’t see it that way.  One-track, tunnel-vision, anti-young man mind. He’s x-d out all the RAGE he can.  Black on blue,  HE'S the man--licensed to aerosol-- shaking down the other taggers’ mom.  She’s calling every day, making State's Attorney pleas  PLEASE lower costs, just let us repaint the whole thing  save the sand-blasting for Rushmore. She tells me they’re coming.  My boy says it happened months ago.  Why now? Says they haven’t tagged since her kids  went off to treatment.  Says he’s been good, doesn’t understand criminal codes, says he’ll fix it all,  it was just a faze, he’s over it but still proud of stating RAGE, crowned clowns, RAGE.  Did you see the fine line?  Shading?  Teenage pictograph. Late at night my boy comes in, says, Will bleach take marker off a sign? Paint thinner for the paint? I don’t know we’ll try it, okeh? I love you, Mom.  Mom, can we take pictures first?  Someday I wanna go to art school.  And he slips off to sleep, RAGE on a box car traveling the greater dream world.

  (c)Allison Hedge Coke 2003