We walked around that desert, and held our screams in check
and the objective stance from which
I we attempt to love them the tender wintering of the W Hotel bar / seminary / that picture of James Baldwin, eyes rising like Gershwin scams, not scams, mercies , above the God is Love sign, the camera, the muggy autograph of spectators the chimera the crime my husband commits to become my hero living in Hollywood obsessed with adultery as the one true thing bringing us closer to Africa and persian rugs, did we want to come closer the billboard on Sunset tallies ebola deaths in Africa snug empire of regretlessness did we need to know more about the west and not just as middle class negroes who go to one of their colleges and come back crazy / enlightened wondering what to do with this immense wealth, this education still acting like a slave — But love builds up anyways even passion until we master the art of oppressing ourselves with them with love and passion and even subtlety matted in the alien language of another tribe no longer satisfies have we exploited our own suffering for long enough to transcend it yet are there any brown children playing in the snow on purpose that imperceptible grecian approval is so gratifying I almost realign with its domesticity just to grieve
our blind leader crossing over from preacher to pimp is one way
while the strippers become praise dancers in a prank pink knees and needs and
Amiri Baraka weeping and reading Ulysses until he gets kicked out of the Airforce on purpose
oppression the shape of fame
