face # 54
page 282-290
I long when a black God shall bare-footedly climb down from the Mississippi pecan tree and give us the salvation that we seek or the innocence ancestral God shall be reborn from the savory salvation meat of a dark belief no longer moaning the landscape of our spirituality incorruptible by the incessant pushing of another man’s God I lone for the blacks born to the servitude of the cross it is a privacy to me held in the grove of our love that move toward the thought of the divinity that our fathers sought in the last persistency of our past cast me fast to the heart of thee let me not forget again the then history of his story told between the whip and the cross that we ply and glorify with the grace of our dark face where we dwell where blackness ring the knell of the unique brotherhood the trustee of the bold blood the executor of children give the child a pill to stop his childish ways concerta plays down the desires to play at learning the noisy alphabets ADD ADHD detoxing the taxing deed of a done deal of the demands of the diggers where the streets are painted with passer-byer where the ocher dawn of morning air pollution rise and stain the sky in the windless wilderness of germination as the tyrannical caressed promises advance toward the vertiginous dance that remain with its drunken blemishes tiding the perturb degradation of an ensuing suicide held in time the last of time will be bowled down the deserted streets where sunflowers are placed around the moods of the wind blown from Africa found in the mannered masculinity of poetry spoken to the moon wanted for assault found in the fine old worry in the final who you are now reach out your hands and join them together to praise the brotherhood of man that can not go as far as the million man mile stuck in the streets of the night’s debris that accept the stared skin suddenly found beautiful beside the pestilence’s bloated light pushing along the business end of a world wisp me away pass the sugar canes the cotton the corn the soybeans I aint got nothing at all so throw me out into the streets to meet the convocation of my maker with its tired trials omnipotent within the monopoly of beauty where the bones that wear the skin as an ill fit where the fat of my heart is calling for a freer hand when I can not see through the boredom kept in the measure of your hollow hands and the night is caught as an orphan who knows that it is time to fill his life with a thousand pigeons on the wings his voice proclaiming that the force-fed pestilence of the intelligence and strength of a rusted machine is held tightly in the production’s curiosity lost in the mechanic of the rain that wanes its way pass the last soldier of the soul crucified on the cross of last night’s moon light using the last change of what it thinks that we should know all about the easy way out of life the way that the sun is set upon us and everything in the world with their histories is aged to perfection and I have sold my shoes to be alone with you to see if you care to bother both my botch work and the bottle that keep me company O darkest of the blacks know that your skin is a prize where the black blood of Americus is cut to a lighter hue cut like weed with oregano as coke with baking soda as the baby’s milk with sugar water to you my high yellow brothers the other blood that flows in your veins proclaim the trials and tribulations of our beautifully born sisters mothers of the strength of our race that birth the innocent bastards born by the grace of God and the white man that took the liberties and bodies of our sisters in the age of slavery count yourself within the harmony of our race our open arms seeks to embrace all the yellow and brown hues of the mellow yellow we shall no more say black get back but lift every voice and sing the multicolor color darkness of our skin
The black kid-hood of being born black is breaking on the red bricks houses of Wichita the essence of being black is a forest of drums high in the high yellow sky I hum along and dance to the hunger of the beat backing me up down to of a high boddy the bones of my breath O black be with me my co-temporaneous architecture of a pyramid’s longing this instrumental music of words woven within my wants on the breast of a hemisphere with two brains I sang bicameral O blacks your bones are begging to belong to the American dream down about where the flesh begins all the while you abound there is no Americus with out you we are a must ever mindful of our undedicated hallucination of being inferiors the blacks with their honest harshness their strength African strength strong in their teaching of how to go in a land that disown them that seek to make them desolate under the browning sun full of anguish and contempt and hunger for the truth of the catechism of the drums beating the impassable enthusiasm of our country that will prostitute us if given half the change but we are not alone pitted against the poor white that we may fight among ourselves for what little crumbs thrown our way by the hands of a society that distain the conflagration of our hunger the connected motion and consumption of our passion our longing for the poet as liberator the restless squatting poets the ignition of the fire of the poor the poet that jimmy with his tongue the enthusiasm of the young the poet as hero with his sensual tormented soul offering us the slender splendid bread of revoke call the spirit of the poet your home therein are you taught that you are not alone on the brutal road of life torrent in its jerky motion that feed off the woes under the shadows of the glossy moon that can not know the harden fat of the hysterical trinity in which it shines upon
The blacks full of the improvisation of language of the young the diss I am of an older school disrespect each generation language used anew to express the dine size passing of their time the Davy Crockett of my childhood remember the Alamo the television’s hand to hand combat 1955 the blacks of kool and lotto smoking breath of the lung where the eye of the sky shoulder the beholder of light in the daily stage of an ancient age that rage of a baby Robin at rest in the nest there where the rare air of its time told breath makes amend to the friend of the lost wind hustling about the Oak with its stroke of strength against the all together come what will weather weathering down the nest of used twigs and brown leaves the blacks I will try your charge in the court where you evidence of the testimony of what you have done to the ones that you love you put my heart into a restless sleep you are my love above all in the twilight watch you with your dreams high on the sweet taste of a bunt I am on my knees before your winged throat howling at the parasites of inferiority the skeleton key of your rage is cool over the pool of black blood in the school of leisure and pleasure where the seven fold heaven of your voice is a midnight train calling your name on an overgrown vein carved through south St. Louis you are a rose in the river to controlled to go radically free from the hour that you have spent beneath the tower where the guard with his gun watch you play watches that you will not escape the hidden bondages that they have placed around your mind you the blacks of the south who toil in the soil when spring have taken to the wing who toil in the lush thrush of summer’s growth who harvest the beginning of fall you have no need for the city life you are comfortable with the dirt of the earth between your painful rainful nails the cotton of your history is gowned in the continental home land the blacks who get drunk and look the same you caught in the stillborn motion when the wheels goes to sleep their roundabout notion have peeked to the shadows of streets the broken water of your tears shed by the impossible extreme of your brotherhood of your affectional friends poured onto the shore full of waves your new skin scored of an ounce from the pusher that never force you to buy you are the crown of the town of Detriol in your prime held down you are forever pushing upward with your large lips dipped into the sea of the middle passage your broad beautiful noise consuming the fuming enjoyment meant to keep you down but you keep a divined longing in your skin that bind you to the kingdom to the hiding bolder and beholder of a staged voodoo with its articulate spells of the aerial burial of the nineteen sixty’s rage now dead in the gale full sail capsized by the murderous men who then and now wallow in the white water of a long strong pain in the brain of our questioning gloom that looms on a down tune
The blacks of meatloaf Wednesday and Mississippi catfish Friday macaroni and cheese of collard green of banana pudding corn bread and pinto beans with smoked neck bones or ham hock or ox tails and lackeyed black-eye pea’s new year to fill the belly of the survivors in the night the moon have not forgotten to go a moaning the motion of the sea where so many died and was dumped when they was held in chains we shall always remember the brave dead their bones now decomposed in the watery grave you can hear them in the wind of the mind their cries that cruse quite fleet sweet on the ruin of water’s thunderous flowing in the reason of a season at sea I shall forever hear the melancholy cries of the captured made slave it gives me strength and keep me glued grounded to the ghosts of our race to the generational indefatigable needs for the mythical freedom of the truly free as the needs of the obsessive rain the selfishness of tress the somatic nomadic rivers the rhythmic anguish of the ocean the treacheries of the sun and moon I am drowning in the soil of my soul to soon I am gnawed by the temperamental melancholy and holy tenderness of an awakened hunger for the flesh of anger toward waste water’s ecstasy the liquid incandescence desires that curl around the yearning beached whale now bloated with the fat of death the scum of slums of death the huge sea long to see the likes life of it again when the sea feels betrayed by the wind when the wind feel betrayed by man for his torturing of the land when an African baby lay dying for want of food in a bloated belly then and only then shall the mistrust of Americus stupefied by the hunger of the combustion of the young raise above the excuses of TV told in the mono tone of light and sound and illusory motion drenched in the words geared to selling you the excesses of a rotting society built on making as much money as if money is the salvation that devours the souls and makes excuses for the disrespect of the frenetic old in their youth body bold and bound by a bodacious need to fit in the mold set by the commercial that glow in the fold of a deadly night fit for a fight when the drunken light spill its guts onto the hard concreat streets
