Rehearsal for God Bless the Child (1)

There are no wealthy black people, I overheard.  We get  rich  though.  We show up in gold with delicious appetites  for luxury and leave in rags and discontinued yeezys. Find some more gold and pawn it for chapels. Capitalism lacks a redeeming fable. We are that fable. Blackness is that. Black people. We wave the bull into charge with nowhere to run but toward him. We break this constant danger into its lyric shame or shambles and roll out.        Roll out.