when we speak of ghettoes and slums
in screams—we speak to loquats, sour lemons, bold, audacious ambition, drive,
to make sense of something senseless.
to die in arms made metallic, or of
wood; symphonies in the ghetto—the ambition of the pride in the ghetto; pure
silence of the slums, a billion-dollars passed through the poverty; life was
meant to be lived.
I must fawn: you would destroy a
man, set in affliction, priding womb, death, and gelada; to sink into you, that
offensive word, as gathered by vines, walking rocks, the flint of the forests.
the beautiful awe-fearing ghetto,
the plunge of the spigots, the waterfalls, so tender an odor he can’t escape.
rising in excellence, fire in
stress, so hungover those memories; seeing majesty, as bending travesty, so
sweet the flame inside.
made warm, such cushion, hitting
bone and agenda.
the fire of the man, the ambivalence
of the sinners, the courage of the furious lakes; aborted as a seed, placed in
PTSD, rites performed by disorder—the screaming face, the wrinkles in souls, if
a man dies—he yearns for you.
let the redeemed say so.
if to remember the mystery, to cage
with violence, such satisfactory lusts;
the last to confess—the move was sour—let
the redeemed rebuke the naysayer, let the lady that lived it, born into
Jerusalem, let her win it!
