life is constant
brushwork the gallery of my screams the medieval of my blackness; more people
living, remember the dying, it looks suspicious. so traumatized, so used,
abused by most keeping a distance—the verbal ropes, those anklet chains, those
wrists wires—mother’s face made muddy, tears dropping, holding a lifeless son.
same industry, same struggle, where seeing it perfected carries deeper jealousies;
dreaming of high society, hanging with bourgeois women—the debt of the soul,
the need of the character, made of winning traits.
the rain was
heaving, game was wheezing, the miracle was the breath; the database was
sullied, the daughters were sullen, one truth, somebody cares, no matter the
outlook. was I evil—anointed, in backfields, losing sanity? maybe not—just guarding
gates—rereading symbols, drinking ideographs. the sting is removed, the sting
is insufferable, while we believe against evidence. if they knew, the debt, the
reality—like skating atop a train.
many pictures,
sundried mourning, fevered like crazy; I have an instrument, I saw a light, it’s
amazing how we communicate—
one love for
father, one pain it aches, so weaved together, so in-between.
the irony of the
mask, the eagle in me, the sorrow—eyes dripping, like blurry in American Africa.
