I ponder simple questions: Was Jesus white? Is brown/black in Ethiopia? Were Asians at Africa?
the song is so low. I reflect
on mother—those gates such irrationality, where one is unsatisfied. the lot of
existence those watts flickering our caves filled with herbs, emblems, or
courage. by first participants such a low class to hold glory. our world so
hectic our screams so loud our flesh baked, broiled, or raging. a set of
thoughts, prompted by color, while most need their bottoms puckered to. I met a
man. I saw his insecurities. it didn’t take long—our envy our damnation our contempt.
but Love is my daughter, or Love has dreams, where we discard such radiant
pain; the fool needing in me those hours sketching in me, where Love is soft
sadness. at such a corner or walking cobblestones or so heavy it feels like
loneliness. it was with me to hear devastation to know by schism—those lakes so
subdued those creeks at ruins or bystanders showing most pity—to need rubies or
celebrate triumph while life is at its operas. or, to love you to have
something paternal where it hurts so many withdrew: the bird can’t discuss her
wings, while the snake may discuss her venom. as sunk essence bleeding miracles
to know so many have hatred: they hate true color they force servitude or treat
what they love as if dung is dripping their lips. by recourse unto something gray
where two decades prove you hate me. but Love is something pensive or something
fey while I could never be—those lightfast memories or souls connected in adolescence
as so much took its excursion. reamed or discarded as stripped or graphic but
creatures playing for anything to annihilate color: his memory his art his
dedication surpassing survival. a cozen moon an abhorrent grandfather—for how
do we unvet orientation? to pursue our anxieties to have rhythm in our rules
while most determine to see blacks crawling. to adore or love community, at
least, where it fits us, while universal love is blasphemy.
