I
read it my life, articulated in prose, where rivers swelled into oceans. I met
a daughter, to think of Trethewey, to cheer for Mississippi. West is moving,
from season to season, dying for living, a space for culture. It was Smith to
catch me, something so subtle, the power of bee hives. It was Traci to trigger
mania, to know for bipolar, the anguish of a sentence. I thought for Maya, the
dignity of legacy, to read for Obama; where Oprah paused, to trace the sorrows,
as purple as bleeding moons. The tales are Cone, the richest roots, to paralyze
possibility. I must for sight, the mind of Hippies, pushing for passionate
peace. I found in stillness, a love through hate, to escape a mirror; where
such is image, the fire of pain, to live the ambivalence. We mimic for peace, the
death of self, to war for identity. Its mercy this mind, humans at a table,
tiptoeing transparency. I thought of Douglass, to mend through hatred, to
finally snap. Its hell for roses, to court a wife, the two dying through
resurrection; insofar the night, to soar with dragons, afraid of shifting one’s
core. We mingle so lightly, to judge by surface, in dire need of stability. I’m
a culture lost, to live in-between, to converse with both winds. The days are
vague, to sip and die, afraid to confess our fears; where a woman watches, to
know for pain, a friend of the dying man. We say for equals, to know for
spaces, to tiptoe the conflict. I know for eyes, and tattooed rites, filtered
through nightmares. I see our work, the passion of our structure, to fly as I
read; we culture like passion, the many for the few, a legacy of literature.
I’m still behind, to find us near, shifting through cages; where greatness is
more—to motivate souls, the earth of this motion.
