the beginning was like Creation, a novel, most
everything made beautiful. two acting coquettish, having ecstasy, hearing a
child will be born. like times in regions—the playful arts—those longer
promises; so intimate, more conversation, before one runs cold—before the
headstorms—prior to feeling lost, like most are telling/selling a story—as it
becomes a dream. i was born during
rebellion, similar to those passing flames, many needed even distribution—of
power, honor, eloquence, and pride. the child was moving souls, playtime was
extraordinary, grace was made over nobility, usage was normal. ants at times.
monkeys serve as links. Evolution challenges Creationism. Blacks are asserting
the right to have, to belong, to form community, to be included socially and
economically. i would appear years
after my birth, assorting memories, scolding essence of one fleeing as he flung—the
ghosts, the driven atmosphere, the beginning of the rotten. it didn’t happen
for us—like it did for Sherlock; the pieces were not fitting; the puzzle was
foreign to its design, its people, so much another beginning—right at the
ending. it was Gotham. it was kilowatts. it was street-scars.
i set aside the rooms, the gloom, sitting around those
days; the grimace of the face, so terrific the drilling, the stargate memory,
the starlit strips. read something by Sexton, it wouldn’t fit, like nights we
can’t remember. the beginning was ecstatic—not a thought formed—to hear—paints
the inner canvas. how would they hear—save one was sent?
