like
dying was good, or living was bad I sing to my ghettoes. so under-achieved, so
little with priority, as needing riches to maintain culture. the blue valleys
the ink alleys like resistance was illegal. so forced so behind such innocence
in anger—the rage of council those wild ass cliches or barbequing at 2 a.m. I dated
Love. Love is a sickroom. Love has a mental anguish. but polite exchanges until
pain hit where I repented for father’s mistakes. sinks on highways old couches
with insights like running back to all which hurts. a fool for a white woman a
maniac for a lover like addicted to fixing my future. so clairvoyant so
prophetic like a damn clown. some harlequin something to entitlement while
figuring a Negro is a bit different—the planet dying or Love feeling trapped or
mother insisting daughters just accept sorrow. a capture, so critical, he just
joined a gang. not a week passed, when police came, he was arrested for a
double homicide. they hate us runners they have an opinion, where we put stock
in keeping it real.
“it didn’t kill me
it made me stronger,” I get tired of this damn cliché. I was abandoned by
father, mother was a booklet addict, everything was tragedy. I was a certain
temperament a certain style a raw ass go-getter. but Love was raped it fretted
like memories, so wild, loving more, to break freedom. mothers in alleys a book
of pages opened, a real problem we ignore. pictures of nakedness, boys on boys,
girls finding their first experience. bread and cheese. pickles and Kool-Aid.
or pig feet and vinegar. sure pride rice with sugar, peas with grits, so alert
the room is pictureless. palms with brown rice, principle at high risers, Cream
& Wheat and a slice of bacon. indeed, hot water boiled, the tub is clean, but
a roach at the chicken. lights out, the day ends, we sit with spiders crawling.
yes, it was graves, the darkness filled with liquor while most were cringing
morning court.
years
into a dimension or fevers rushing waters a ride so far it felt different. many
will do much for money, to become a new person, where many hustle like dying is
beautiful.
