I
was disposed at three, exposed, thereby, a villain by age six. I died hearing addiction—dialogue
made potent, African American by seven. mother was a ghost, multiple habits,
several personalities. a black hole, a goddess, so much rain pouring into her
heart. outraged several times, beauty waning, vulgar, with diligence. I should
to be—a maniac in dreads, losing too much to claim I owned it. so much texture
in ghettoes, eating loquats in ghettoes, hearing tragedy in ghettoes. surprised
to see faces, all breeds, our own creeds.
so
guilty of color, so abused by color, so pictureless in color.
raising
consciousness, blazing a cigarette, head low, I still rise.
by its genre, we adore women, some
men adore their own, some women cherish their reflection; much concerned with
passion, it gives life, so tragic we tripped into science; so robbed of
essence, such fierce vibrations, to give so much to remain intact; an idol in a
human, hoping, against nature, she doesn’t let me down; so opaque, such rivaling,
with rib, life, deaths.
Africa, Brown, or Pastel … so
required to be excellent, so geared towards mistakes, so much able to love in
plurality.
I’m a gadfly, a simple youngster, I keep
a bag of questions. too young that way, too old this sway, lights stollen,
pains endured, pressure forming inside.
