The Big Smoke Read online

  ALSO BY ADRIAN MATEJKA

  Mixology

  The Devil’s Garden

  THE BIG SMOKE

  ADRIAN MATEJKA

  PENGUIN POETS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published in Penguin Books 2013

  Copyright © Adrian Matejka, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this product may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Pages 107 and 108 constitute an extension of this copyright page.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Matejka, Adrian, 1971–

  [Poems. Selections]

  The Big Smoke / Adrian Matejka.

  pages cm

  Includes bibliographical references.

  ISBN 978-1-101-61308-5

  I. Title.

  PS3613.A825B54 2013

  811’.6—dc23 2012045786

  Contents

  Also by ADRIAN MATEJKA

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  HURT BUSINESS

  BATTLE ROYAL

  CANNIBALISM

  HURT BUSINESS

  THE MANLY ART OF SELF-DEFENSE

  THE SHADOW KNOWS

  BLUES HIS SWEETIE GIVES TO ME

  SHADOW BOXING

  PRIZE FIGHTER

  FISTICUFFS

  WEIGH-IN

  SPORTING LIFE

  COURTSHIP

  “A GREAT MALTESE CAT TOYING WITH A WHITE MOUSE”

  LETTER TO BELLE (MAY 27, 1909)

  LETTER TO BELLE (MAY 29, 1909)

  CHICKEN & OTHER STEREOTYPES

  LETTER TO BELLE (SEPTEMBER 15, 1909)

  MOUTH FIGHTING

  SHADOW BOXING

  COOKING LESSONS

  INTRODUCTIONS

  “TEXAS AUTHORITIES WILL PROSECUTE THE CHAMPION IF HE TAKES WHITE WIFE”

  KNEE OFF CANVAS

  ROADWORK AT SEAL ROCK

  RACE RELATIONS

  SHADOW BOXING

  VEDI! LE FOSCHE NOTTURNE

  LETTER TO BELLE (MARCH 10, 1910)

  EQUALITY

  PHOTOGRAPHY

  “A STRUGGLE BETWEEN A DEMON AND A GRITTY LITTLE DWARF”

  THE SHADOW KNOWS

  COLOR LINE

  FRIENDSHIP

  “MACHINE CONTAINING JOHNSON’S FRIENDS WRECKED”

  ALIAS

  HOSTILITIES

  FISTICUFF DIFFICULTY

  BET YOUR LAST COPPER

  GOLD SMILE

  FIDELITY

  LETTER TO BELLE (DECEMBER 3, 1910)

  OUT OF THE BATH

  “CAREFREE AS A PLANTATION DARKY IN WATERMELON TIME”

  SHADOW BOXING

  THE BATTLE OF THE CENTURY

  RACE RELATIONS

  MARRIAGE PROPOSAL

  ARISTOCRACY

  COMPROMISES

  THE SHADOW KNOWS

  REMEMORY

  TICKET ON THE TITANIC

  IL TROVATORE

  NO DECISION

  HUBERT’S MUSEUM & FLEA CIRCUS (1937)

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Penguin Poets

  For my mother, Jo Gustin, and for my father, Robert Matejka

  Jack Johnson want to get on board,

  Captain, he says, “I ain’t haulin’ no coal.”

  Fare thee, Titanic, fare thee well.

  When he heard about that mighty shock,

  might have seen the man trying to Eagle Rock.

  Fare thee, Titanic, fare thee well.

  —“THE TITANIC,” LEADBELLY

  HURT BUSINESS

  BATTLE ROYAL

  Back then, they’d chain a bear

  in the middle of the bear garden

  & let the dogs loose. Iron chains

  around a bear’s neck don’t slow

  him too much. A bear will always

  make short work of a dog. Shakespeare

  said Sackerson did it more than

  twenty times to dogs & wildcats

  alike. & since most creatures

  are naturally afraid of bears, there

  wouldn’t always be much of a show

  in the bear garden. So the handlers

  sometimes put the bear’s eyes out

  or took his teeth to make the fight

  more sporting. I believe you need

  eyes more than you need teeth

  in a fight, but losing either makes

  a bear a little less mean. Once baiting

  was against the law, some smart

  somebody figured coloreds fight

  just as hard if hungry enough.

  So they rounded up the skinniest

  of us, had us strip to trousers, then

  blindfolded us before the fight.

  They turned us in hard circles a few

  times on the ring steps like a motorcar

  engine before pushing us between

  the ropes. When the bell rang,

  it seemed like I got hit from eight

  directions. I didn’t know where

  those punches came from, but I swung

  so hard my shoulder hasn’t been right

  since because the man said only

  the last darky on his feet gets a meal.

  CANNIBALISM

  Coloreds were here before these

  United States were even dreamed

  of. We have always been on this

  land. That’s why I don’t bother

  about what Booker T. Washington

  says. I’m a pure-blooded American

  of the first rate & I don’t need

  to cast down a bucket unless there’s

  no indoor toilet. After the Great

  Storm hit, the Times called us “black

  ghouls,” cannibals eating coloreds

  & whites like Sunday chicken.

  They said we left babies in the street

  just so we could take a dead man’s

  shoes. They said we sawed off

  fingers at the fat meat for rings.

  I was there, so I know what’s true:

  whole families of coloreds shot

  down by whites. “Protecting the dead,”

  the sheriffs said, sending buckshot

  at any colored in sight. Those

  dead people didn’t need any more

  protection than the mud & rocks

  covering them. After that storm

  moved through, me & the other

  Galveston boys slept where we could,

  spent our days searching for anybody

  alive. We got paid whiskey & potatoes.

  We found dead mothers & sons,

  dead cats & skulls cracked
>
  like teacups under the wet wood

  & rock. That’s all the storm left.

  HURT BUSINESS

  Willie Morris was much larger

  than me & struck me in the jaw

  for no apparent reason. Grandmother

  Gilmore saw the whole thing

  & said, Arthur, if you do not

  whip Willie, I shall whip you.

  It’s always better to whip than

  to be whipped, so I took the fight

  straight to the bigger boy. Not long

  after, fighting became a way

  to make money: on the Galveston

  docks, the fresh smell of fish

  & stevedores sweating out lunchtime

  booze. Thirteen & I was already strong

  enough to toss a cotton bale out

  of the way like it was a bad idea

  & I could jump five feet backward

  from flat feet. My fists weren’t good

  then & those men gave me the kind

  of beatings that made me want

  to go back to the schoolhouse.

  They laughed while they put it on

  me & seagulls circled us thinking

  there must be fish in the middle

  of such a fracas. Those lunchtime

  brawls taught me to mix it up outside

  the gentleman’s rules—quick

  punches to the manhood, stomped

  toes when cornered, eye gouges

  to get out of a headlock. Of course,

  I always abide by the rules inside

  of the ring. Those dock fights were

  more about survival than winning.

  THE MANLY ART OF SELF-DEFENSE

  Chrysanthemum Joe visited Galveston

  to “instruct” in the art of self-defense

  since prize fighting was against the law

  in Texas back then. Joe was a dandy

  dressed up as a prize fighter. A sport

  with blond waves, a little too comfortable

  in his bright red costume. Joe looked

  small, but I heard he hit Jim Jeffries

  so hard the bigger man’s teeth came out

  through his lip. Jeffries once kept a grizzly

  as a pet, so what does that say about Joe’s

  disposition? It didn’t matter that Joe’s

  hair stayed fixed in place like he used

  macassar oil or that he looked like he

  would rather be at a poetry recitation.

  Our meeting was the shortest fight

  of my career. The man pursued me

  like it was personal & I went down

  in the third thanks to a hard left to my eye.

  His fists were so fast I’m still looking

  for them. I was up quick, but the rangers

  stampeded the ring, six-shooters gleaming

  in the lights. Joe & I ended the evening

  in the crossbar hotel. Lucky for us,

  Sheriff Thomas enjoyed the fistic science

  & “suggested” we spar to pass the time.

  No ring, no gloves—just an abundance

  of split lips & name-calling. Joe instructed

  me during those long, gloveless brawls.

  Right-hand leads, snake-strike lefts—

  all while working to duck the other

  man’s fists. He told me, A man that can

  move like you should never take a punch.

  THE SHADOW KNOWS

  From day one, we aspire

  to be more than the average

  Negro. None of that yassah,

  boss & watermelon rind

  smile for us. We want quail

  cooked in butter. We want

  gold where that gap tooth

  should be. Clarity for Negro

  caricature. We want high-

  styling clothing, gold rings

  on our fingers like Greek

  architecture, & gold pocket

  watches in our vest coats.

  More women than coats.

  White women in our architecture.

  We want peculiar & instinctual

  satisfactions. We want to be

  prize fighting’s main attraction:

  the Heavyweight Champion

  of the World. When we rise up,

  the whole Negro race rises up

  with us. When we get to the top,

  it’s just us. No use for Negroes

  then, not even ourselves.

  BLUES HIS SWEETIE GIVES TO ME

  I was out-of-doors, eating snowballs

  for dinner & sleeping by Lake Michigan.

  Nights so cold even the Chicago police

  weren’t up for rousting me. The soles

  of my shoes so thin I could step on a dime

  & tell whether it was heads or tails. If I

  had a dime. Sparring with Frank Childs

  was my first bit of Chicago luck. They

  called Frank “The Crafty Texan,”

  but I have yet to meet a colored Texan

  who isn’t crafty. In the ring, Frank followed

  me like I was the one who ran off with

  his wife. He’d grab my shoulder with his left,

  then hook my ribs with his right until his corner-

  man pulled him off. I was smaller then

  & couldn’t defense like I can now, & Frank

  was a big man—grappling gloves & red eyes.

  But when somebody told him I needed

  a place to stay, he let me sleep on his floor.

  I had to leave when his no-good wife decided

  to come back. In the middle of the night,

  the snow coming down so furiously even

  the bricks in the buildings wanted shelter.

  I spent that night seething underneath a statue

  of General John A. Logan. It was so cold,

  it seemed as if the bronze horse the general

  sat on turned his head away from the wind.

  SHADOW BOXING

  Shadow, hard work

  is the only way I’ll

  get to the heavyweight

  championship. That’s

  why I’m the one

  fighter in Philadelphia

  doing roadwork on

  Saturday night. I’m

  the only one chasing

  these chickens & doing

  calisthenics in the gas-

  light. I could be on

  the town, a pretty lady

  in my lap & my arm

  around another. Instead,

  I’m sparring with you

  while other fighters

  are out two-stepping.

  Ring the bell, Mr. Might-

  Be Negro Champion.

  I got this dance.

  PRIZE FIGHTER

  I love horses because they will outrun

  the fastest man. They are majestic,

  as stately as a Saturday woman

  before a party. Horses smell like what

  it means to be fast: sweat & gravel

  kicked up on early morning runs.

  The in & out of breath like gravel

  in tired lungs. I groomed & raced

  horses from Texas to Philadelphia until

  one broke my leg bone with a back

  kick. Thanks to that break, I can’t ride

  anymore. Even if I could, we’ve got

  these automobiles now that can carry

  us a mile in a minute & I’m buying

  the fastest one I can find once

  I
get my money together. I’m like

  an automobile in the ring. My fists

  work like cranked-up engines. I’ve got

  the kind of elasticity other fighters

  dream about after I put them to sleep

  on the canvas. When I clinch a man,

  it’s like being swaddled in forgiveness.

  When I hook a man, it’s like being hit

  by frustration. I can’t tell if horses

  are happy or confounded by the new

  means of locomotion, but I can say

  with certainty my prize fighting cohorts

  are decidedly dissatisfied by my presence.

  FISTICUFFS

  Some reporters say I fight yellow,

  but I don’t need to use the dirty tricks.

  I don’t rabbit-punch a man’s manhood

  like Mexican Pete or gouge an eye

  like Klondike. Their kind of fighting

  isn’t boxing at all. It’s like trying to sell

  a toothless man a gum shield. I wait

  for the punch instead, move to one side,

  then punch back: a left hook straight

  to the temple. I named the punch

  after the first woman I loved: Clara.

  No man met my Clara & was still standing

  to talk about it. The woman quit me,

  took my jewels & my roll with her.

  I took a train all the way to St. Louis

  to get her back, just so she could take

  the rest of my money & leave again.

  Clara is the reason I don’t deal with

  colored women anymore. I never had

  a colored girl that didn’t two-time me.

  WEIGH-IN

  SPORTING LIFE

  People are always talking about if

  & suppose like those words are worth

  more than money, more than the crease

  a silk stocking makes on a woman’s

  thigh. More than the grumble of a Thomas

  Flyer engine. So I take the side of my

  pleasures. Two small words, if & suppose,

  & nobody can explain them. We get

  in this world what we’re going to get.

  After all, one man can roll out of bed

  & be killed, while another man falls

  from a scaffold & lives. A man can get