Practically screaming at us, foreign & native,
close & far away;
some careful creation, indebted to minds, fleeing God.
Memories as evidence, a shaky island, an intellectual
mansion, a delusion, at best, a phantasmagoria.
To hear what you can’t see, stranded inside, walking
in circles—bleeding music.
I came to win, a hard notion, especially, for colored
folks;
at each ingress, blockage & bowels, tender
leakage.
Never thought of love, not like Woolf or Samone,
rather young at her wings.
If dying is illegal, & heaven is inevitable, what
gives for witnessing?
I came to win, to conquer land, to plant my flag.
Indeed, I came to overthrow religion, to plant an immortal seed, to be
crucified for every future to worship Christ.
It begins to dispel itself, like dealing with some
perfect creature, to imagine tears & gloom.
I came to abolish slavery, knowing I must pass away,
knowing I’d become a martyr.
Nothing is unsacred, & nothing is too sacred, this
is nihilism.
I could fathom mental manipulation, shadows at full
force, but an unending curse, upon culture, it begins to feel uncurrent.
And you would visit, seated in your den, making echoes
& linguistics; oh perfected dice, rolling into heaven, a seven felt
unlucky.
