Is melanin
identity, the curse of identity, the description of identity; aloof to it,
found in it, spatial with it; our quadroon daughters, our white mothers, are
they but melanin? I ask as if deranged, I settle as if paged, I return like
lightning; those black rivers, this ex this or that, this terrorized new
identity; for memory dies with pain, our distorted impressions, while realizing
pours-forth an ocean; chestnut roses, a silent casket, our screams, our rage,
our handicaps; eyelashes filled with tears, irony striking our bones, this damn
phone keeps knocking; those old motifs, this old shame, this rain coming from
afar; our Eastern Libraries, our Western Habits, while Jesus was so sweet; our
paradoxes, our absconding lives, at pure shadows by caprice; our young Swan, so
gifted with interpretation, as mother and father walk through prose; an
assonance here, a consonance there, plus, a plethora of alliterations; a tone
shift, an interior dialogue, and something the author did not see; this stage
by life, this daughter through grays, while bathing in baptisms; so craven
those days, if but a simple discussion, to permit both those islands; this
getaway, this culture, our rules, our insecurities; to fawn again, to disappear
again, to pet a little kitten again; such latent love, such dormant
retaliation, while older folks are sensing something peculiar; I, too, at this
lake of fire, at this universal travesty; such raving tragedy, so sweet its
feeling, so bold its reservoir; as never quite clear, this solution in Judges,
where humans, untaught, uncultured, and singing heaviness—those black shivers,
this black diamond, or this white robe; such willow-faith, such plastic
animosity, while we desire to feel loved—even adored; this cake with fury, this
angel with problems, or those beautiful, bright engine billows.
…so
distant, so embarrassed, where adults ask for quick miracles; as all I’ve
known, as one mis-taught, fiddling this armchair of tyrannies; such tragic
literature, where one feels damned, if but today happened in yesteryears; our
beige, filthy and illuminating carpets; our mental bookracks, our ceiling
bookcases, or books activating our unconscious habits; so thrown that way, to
respond suddenly, as to realize transference; such a moment, sighted in psyches,
where we reflect quickly; but life isn’t mostly kind, and knowing doesn’t
denote teaching, wherefore, we become vulnerable to something dangerous; this
hunt to get in, this need to teach, this voice in this prose; an ankh for a Swan,
a mandolin for a mother, a fairytale for Invisibility; for we must decide, and
quickly so, If God is hands on? if determined this light, than our
behaviors are monitored, if not, than behavior is dependent upon human
construction—where we decide upon authenticity; but deep consensus, explains
certain maxims, whereby, we act in order to concern better-ness for each
person; but yours is different, your behaviors are quick-witted, while a fable
enlightens in some capacity; at times filled, this chi-life, adrift this
vista of agitations; such purer behavior, even while askew, for its comes by
natural forces; unless, one is meditated, full choices, deliberately deceiving
an audience…!
…so
many tombs we acquire, so many graves we cater to, while seated upon a natural
inclination; our voices mumbled at times, our resentments running deeper, for
we feel others should intuit into our miseries; our wooden dressers, our
faithful mothers, despite indiscretions; our wrinkled aches, our treasured
minds, our chattering lives; gilt in beauty, living comfortably, but something
is fraught by nudging(s); at gorgeous museums, at terrible prettiness, or
enveloped in something too distant to relate to; this truth in us, where others
are terrified, while we become a bit apathetic; not as suffering abnormalities,
but more nothing was developed, and, therefore, nothing is missed; so we drift
as confident, this edgy reality, wondering why so much fire….
