I (We) published one of the two underground newspapers in the 1960’s in Miami. I did this while working full time on the research team in the Everglades. My next post will tell the story of how it came to be. We lasted something longer than a year, and I recollect four issues (I believe that is what I still have copies of). We had art, photography, fiction, reporting, academic articles (in an underground paper? Hell, look at who the publisher/editor was!) and our own superhero comic strip, Superhead. I will be republishing on this site some of the material from The PAPER. (Yes, you’ll get to read all the episodes of Superhead!)
More importantly to me, I had material contributed that never saw print as we ran out of steam, energy, whatever. I am going to bring it to the light of day here. Where I know who the author was, it will be signed by them. Where I do not remember, I may guess and tell you about the author.
I remember the name of this contributor but try as I might I can remember nothing about him. He may still be alive. Would that it were so! charlie (yes, lower case), are you out there?
I have the original typed on an old cloth ribbon typewriter on a legal sized lined yellow paper with the perforations across the top. It has been in a file for 65 years. But not anymore. I have faithfully typed it out with charlie’s line spacings; his visual is as much his art as the words. I think he might have changed one word in particular if the editor, me, brought it to his attention. But he is not here, so if you note an odd use of a word it is like he wrote it. I hope this is worthy of your attention. And enjoyment.
And one more odd note: this was three years before I began my own trek back in college to be an Anthropology Professor. How odd is that?
The Anthropology Professor
A squat bald man who reminded me of a Baptist minister
who’d come down for the pulpit for a closer look,
no tie, hairy, like the things he talked about;
you could see it in the V where the tie
should have been.
The bald anthropology professor that allowed his head
to spout out the secrets
without ever waking the body – his hands always
lay perfectly still when he spoke – told us
the tribes, cultures we should have belonged.
We would have all been kings to hear him tell it.
It was the week of Bantus: the good earth was rubbed
onto our bodies and carried around the neck
in a sack from hall to hall,
far from the lakes of Victoria, Albert, Kivw,
Eight million! Exiles from a tribe called Ha
Our professor is a medium, the mandwa
he is possessed.
Our professor speaks with gods, spirits,
the room could be empty
the knife is in his belt
the plains are alive with his victim
the head tells what it sees
the hands sleep.
The sleep is deep through the crack where Easly holds court;
his disciples sit across flat tables and search
for one to carry on –
Across the white African plains, Bantu
Bantu the sad
Bantu the frail, the undiscovered
Bantu the masters
carriers of a sack of earth and
tits bare to the world like in the films –
Big, beautiful black tits – the man cries
A hand frails the air like the wings of a dying bird.
The room is empty. His young warriors have gone away
to math and gym but the professor still sits
at the flat table as though there is more.
Heaven has made known the vision of kings,
And death has claimed It all with the clanging of a bell.
He slips through the soundless Easly crack, softly, unseen.
the wings close peacefully
the night is still
the lionskins purr in the tent
where the professor sleeps,
the moon rises over a black hill,
the lion blinks at the sudden light;
a woman, barebreasted like in the films
and yes aflame with seasonal fire
enters his tent
and lays her spear down beside the bed.
charlie brown
