Читать книгу Providential - Colin Channer - Страница 6

REVOLUTIONARY TO RASS

(for Perry Henzell)

Rangers.

That is what they are.

Perry shifts in a pink Adirondack

rooted in the grass. We’re on a cliff between

a white adobe cottage and the sea.

Canoes crawl far on the red skyline.

In these last years, last months, last days,

he talks like he’s always—

grand and sweeping.

The white beard mops his neck.

He plays prophet.

Facing twilight with his son-out-law

relaxing

in the second chair,

the director

who shot Rhygin in a star shirt,

made Cliff reggae Django,

talks like he knows. Still, he proves.

As a boy, and don’t forget,

he rode bareback around Caymanas,

prime cane acreage run efficient by his dad.

Yes, man, he’d go riding, boy Perry,

leave the fields, the factory,

the maid-appointed luxury of the busha’s lodge,

hair mad like a Hollywood Indian,

track the hill to Pinnacle to scout the Rasta mass,

originals taking refuge in hundreds

homesteading in the pledge of Howell.

Gangunguru Maragh,

vegan, ganjaman, black boss and prophet.

The Gong.

It’s not black and white, says Perry,

whiteness warming into ochre—

the sun a setting gel.

It’s never been. Look at the sea.

Whether you like it or not—who knows,

you might be into navy, periwinkle more,

I hope—

feelings don’t affect a fact.

That water has no color, what you see is an effect,

and, listen, ignore my logic if you want

for I don’t business. True is true.

Rangers. That is what they are.

We don’t have police here—we have rangers.

Employed by the landful against the landless.

Paid to shoot to kill.

So check it. This whole facking island

is a damn estate, a checkerboard

of traps and schemes. Power game.

What you can expect?

Listen, if I was black like you, Colin.

Well, not like you—you know what I mean—

I’d elect to take up guns.

Ahhhhhhh, Perry.

Revolutionary to rass.