Sunday, June 21, 2020

Black Republican Woman


it was uneasy as to sense articulation where beauty augmented pain. by magazine appellation a name in crevices to unwrap a miracle. such political language, speaking to autonomy, or a man severing from his state. such licorice sweetness such house mathematics while attraction is unversed. by prose in a man as to exhaust his reach where it would be one great argument: such gesticulation, such matchbox intention, where fire unlocks its dungeons. (but tender aglets or jamesia flowers so abandoned as someone’s puppet; a curse they assert, a black man’s dynasty, while sullen or serious, or stern; a map in England, a vest in Rome, such passionate pain or pleasures in Africa. to have died with regrets, to have loved like wilderness, while tears were held in blindfold.) such a power figure, too aesthetic to resist, too fierce to approach; but death was sweeter, the tweet was speckless, our stockyard was fraught with wreckage: as gorgeous Asiatic’s or sour politicians where anger was so experimental; eyes talking courage, or minds vulnerable, if but to live as refugees. such Kenya hips, or European breasts, or a neck from Austria. oh for Algiers or Korea as running to exile: a believer in dialogue the burning skies while a man would try harder. such inspiration to battle with America, or better, to rise against imperialism. so threatening so hurt where love for elements which discount color. but such evidence, as it works an agenda, where a woman is discredited by her skin. to try for property, or to vote a complete ticket, where the love committed is the love disgraced. while over there, a soul is raising a flag, in honor of physicality. looking for a watchword, something to justify acceptance, but finding beauty too delicate for such a battle it claims. so different from life, so estranged from its color, while many fret comforts in a different park. by cars or engines while we search for lots if but to lark for a given second. where history supports Republicans which is overwhelming while our present flame endorses classism: if but celebration if but accuracy to prescient a woman too unfair for a heterodox.

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...