The
sin is sickening, post-pandemic, so foreign, can we say post-pandemic? The fire
in us, the side ache, the minimalism. Just a little demon, wasting life, at
penalties for being part African. Love is so proper, I hurt her so deeply, she
misguided the soul; so much agitation, such a nerve, if possible, hear the
torture of her heart. She’s most radical, too ridiculous, in the ghettoes,
roaming like a queen, in the Hills, like a major sage—I hit the cigar, I was
sicker, life was aggravation. If bold at 3 a.m., shifting, she knows he’s
awake, feelers, the corner failure, the city miracle. I can’t let go. I must
let live. I imagine femininity, sexual prowess, many aches and pains, so
climactic—the father of the snakes, the life of the militant, so easy when nothing
is in shadow; kids so angry, boxing their souls, in a box, hating mothers;
father did his business, granny raised his kids, grandfather with a plate in
his head. So many Jamaican women, so aesthetic, I must admit it, Europe is
kicking flame—Africa is controlling the monster. A deeper aching, the furious
glens, like a fox in a trap—the doctor—too much to resist, it would never be
love, I dislike the practice of the affiliation—at her mind last month, refused
last week, asked to fucking die! Around the block, asking big questions, never
a body so esthetic, like knees breathing, like Jesus winning, her gorgeous ass
fire!
