Like
religion, the women we love, like science, the way we make passion; turned into
a villain, the penalty of the furnace, the mystery of the chase. The missing
justice, seven million-dollar queens, eight souls in one person, running to the
poolhall. The clock still ticking, the methodology is to win, winning isn’t
expected without controversy; the corner soul, the balling soul, just being different
might be enough. The league of the godfathers—the sails of the seas, scoping
what ruined him; the value of the prayer, the energies pivotal, like vibrations
unbeknownst to a soul; to look and see, prone to something critical, with souls
trying to trigger the negative. (We let go. We don’t commune as much. We judge
each other. I don’t feel her, and she can’t explain me, and we never felt inconsequential.
The lease is over. The message is pushing. When I die, they’ll remember—the first
to assert it, the realist to live it, the talking means nothing.) At an inner
hydrant, at inner clouds, I wonder why it becomes significant when blacks do
it; others left alone, damn near forced to win, I hate to speak to a
conspiracy: they call us paranoid, so systematic, life is always sinister; the
opus in me, the glow in me, graduated to another level, still looking in my
rearview, if not, it appears like fury—it revolves inside, the axis spinning,
the ontology of the sins.
