Thursday, February 18, 2021

Most Blacks Aren’t Accepted

 

I get by science so spliced a hybrid child: a little different for us like rare orchids upon a herring bone. such outcrops such grieving while unaccepted. to imagine a golden spoon while mine were silver or plastic. but a smokestack in a farmhouse if but three meals consisting of pork. maybe fried chicken maybe a baked potato or maybe a good night. either stuck or unstuck. running through backstreets. pausing at street-furniture. a fever for a fool a delight for Ms. Delicate or so engrossed I wasn’t there. Marina obsession stopping at Old Navy, plucking a pair of denims. so rushed so abandoned while we sense something went right. a younger machine some psychodynamic something giving endurance. I loved taller fountains or shorter locomotives where for me, it’s always been something unfaithful. I listened to Billie Martin, a song named Cursive, I’m skipping around. So, it was muddy steps or beige buildings, or a neighborhood nanny—as sipping gin a repeated example but resolved to act in accordance. Dreams of a Maserati rushing to touch cash, an invisibility where it all looks the same. but more to colleges or membrance of excellence while unfamiliarity breeds passion. a low brow mashing potatoes or eating neckbones. such meals as tasty reality while unspent by taste buds. a first car while driven to succeed a few habits untamed. a Ghost in me a doctrine in us where it seemed viable. a threshed intellect a revving intuition such a paper due at midnight. a virtual feeling a chorus in lights as stumbling into stoicism. or so alluring too hurt practicing perfection—the green horizon as never a curse but trying to balance a hidden handicap. 50 meters high gripping to branches looking at a possum. those wings on passion those legs on moving or those smiles a dent into a psyche. starling shows for starling skies, or a firefly frenzy. I looked with affection, she looked with disdain, I often wonder how we become imperceptible. a winning strategy, but Love was smitten, so it’s easier that way. we exit a district we enter into a colony where most blacks aren’t accepted.    

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...