miles
to feeling accepted or years to disguise decisions or self-asserted perfection.
the beauty of the harlot the defensiveness of the closet so hexed in turmoil. I
was expected to fail. such terms of its contract. so many ghetto children in
Haiti; as running into killing fields as freebasing miseries or one might break
free as never to return. a woman watches. she expands options. but a person is
void of etiquette. I understood
Tiffany Boone, but I didn’t agree, where it’s evident; internal classism, while
a person undergoes war, where police are claiming zookeepers. the pain of the
petal the freezing of the soul, while we invest so little in truth. the aged
old complex the antiquitous polemic as such a desperate motive. if but to die
holding scarves or to seclude in a jungle while too many are too young to find
self. a valley over there, pleasures as fleeting, while a man met a gifted
woman. our black shows, our black
lives, while we are depicting our stereotypes & ideals. such topaz eyes or
turquoise glitter by fuchsia grays or paranoid episodes or our government as
our enemy. we were never friends, not
in a healthy sense, which became evident: those alleys those cops those
years. needing a Cyrus figure, or
another Malcolm X, or even a standing Gandhi. our souls exiled our minds
polluted our guts angry; such a personal stenographer or five minutes of rhythm
at media with shears; so abandoned by fathers, so affected by decades, where
most never catch their reflection. so
much to participate, our souls seeming disinterested, our saving graces!
by rickshaw or
kernel by innocence in responses while they remain angry. nothing to soothe most
monsters where reality is so wild—the misfit design we will into
normalities. by ruling elements by proximity by ghosts into a land where pain
is unspoken. the fire of the lake the daughter of the music the adult of the
promise. it amazes our quick discounts where a person is determined as anything
in which we’re not threatened. the man is a misogynist the woman is promiscuous
or races are given to stigmata(s). —so low into crosses as crosspollinating
where poison is sweet venom. too close to see you too late to efface you while
happiness was never an objective—
our
rock-homes our parent-friends our ill-determined feelings. as cursed in
America, aborted by Africa, given to curious white Americans. so unlocked our
wizards & wiccans where we feel better with something pagan. those first
roots or an objectified species where no matter what, it never gets better!
upon visual such dear hatred even to doctor up division. our deeper aches our
interracial passions where most are in wonder: the wheat we sale, the cotton we
pluck, or those doors we must close. so groundless in our homes, or certain
feelings are depleted, while decency is a throw of dice. such unbridled silence
where souls are desirous of something vastly reflective.
or it gets normal,
the waves pass by, those agonies simmer into stews. such furious fires as sure
extinguished where it was deemed appropriate. our sons running our daughters
running while no one is fitting into those crevices. such unease for straying
such rebukes inside while most might assert, they have given up nothing! the
miracle of the two, ever dedicated, where most whites might ask, “What shall we
give?”
many
strains at a gnat where an elephant is raging but deflection is oh so sweet.
mothers have tried harder. fathers are miscalculated. where for most, it isn’t
an issue. those poles they sing where Love might be the best. those poolhalls
so filled with deaths so many living beyond the contract. outwitted destinies
or running from monsters where a woman might claim a certain falsity.
truth is never an
issue until it comes closer, where one needs absolute clarity. so purely
unmixed a soul as unrelated while one fights for an audience. our souls at
deterioration. our women pulled by cadence. our morals are seasick. such
stomach aches, such vomit, so wild into our sawmills.
