Blueprint for Byard Rustin

Dark, a little dank, smoke-soaked, and blue/ His feet flutter in a soft shuffle, chiming in silence with the urgency of firebells, spinning in slow so binding circles. We need in every community, a group of angelic troublemakers Then he looks away, adamantly, with that shimmering abandonment in every black man's eye We are perfectly normal neurotics, crowding around our symptoms with humor and wit, geniuses because of it, helplessly hyper-aware, even when dignity is boring, even when pleasure is more traumatic than anything. Can you dig it? Can you dig it without treating it like dirt? Some of the trouble be angels, be us in the firm poses after dancing, all breath and glances and this is your chance to tempt the good myth to step in your shadow