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Dir. Joe Steinhardt
Asst Dir. Alyssa DeHayes
Lyrics:
The thieves called it Terminus.
It means end of the road.
They torched Pakanahuili,
tore down the Bankhead Projects.
They rebranded it Atlanta,
sold tomahawks to
tourists, diluted trap music
for the global markets.
Sometimes it feels like home.
Ms. Rosa’s peach preserves.
Hugging necks at the church.
Taylor’s Southern-fried drag shows.
But this deathless city
don’t mourn the front-porch laughter
or the sweet hickory smoke. It marches
on into the glass and the chrome.
The City trashed Mike’s tent.
We picked his wet clothes
and mementos off the sidewalk,
loaded them up in the van.
Watching the rows of fortified condos
blur through the window, he says,
“I’ve lived here all my life.
Gonna die here if I can.”
Now, some general died
over by the title pawn,
according to a metal sign.
Its paint is all chipped.
But the sign don’t say, and it’s hard to tell
from the deep red clay,
how many poor Georgia folks
are lying in that ditch
from the Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
La Raza streams from his backpocket—
Trump, Fox, NAFTA, el pared—
deep in a thicket by the
ruins of a shotgun-house.
The maestro ties the bandana
around his head. Lights a
smoke. Says, “Vato, they’re always
trying to keep a working man down.”
Some fool said a worker’s only as good
as their tools, but Summerhill breathes
the ghosts of the Rebellion
and the Washerwomen’s Strike,
and Jose Luis shows me how to
clear a kudzued acre
with a duct-taped machete, a rusty
hoe-axe, and a truckstop knife
like the Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
In a dark corner of the museum,
far from the blazing
corporate campaign of a
city too busy to hate,
a silver photo shows a multitude
swelling the sweet black
avenue, where now the rents
are like to make you faint.
Those college men searched the city’s
tattered skirts. I’m not sure where
they found his chariot—Hapeville,
or damn near to Coweta County—
but I read he’d said, Y’all,
when I fall, I don’t want a
limousine to haul me.
Carry my body by mule and buggy
through the Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
The Battle of Atlanta.
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