I want to worry or complain, who’s listening? I want to fix souls, it’s hard to persuade a soul in his gutter. I was dealt a hand, I play cards, I do it fairly decent. Not as a brag, but I’m still here. It’s monopoly, deaths, & begging Jesus. Blackness is different. We can’t claim but uneasiness. Enough of that. I was a seed, looking out into wilderness, a desert for a monk, obedience for a priest, desertion for color. So close to God, close to suffering, bathed in misperception—a people analyzed, misrepresented, & forsook. I was a lad, reading it, saturated, a ghost with it; claiming Wisdom, loving her guts, trying to fix the tides. Haphazard waves, capricious skies, havoc reigning across countries. We might assert a little difference, a president, while some wonder if he was as he appeared. Nevertheless, plain battle, assertion of color, pleading like normality is good enough. I don’t know consensus, it changes with time, each situation calls for new rules. I was sick with life, angered as hell, forced to get right. More in calmness, more in a leveled head, if trying to aid a culture—to change a soul in his mirror. I heard sirens. I watched as life churned; many were so angry. I want to worry or complain, who’s listening? We trim words, sheer affectation, listening to woes—asking a vital question: Why so much of it, Why so great the suffering? DAMN APOLOGETICS! We ask Father, Father goes deaf, how in hell! Something reverberates, many say it’s humans, despite certain phenomena.
