Thursday, August 9, 2018

Maafa, what's the rush?

He  wrote Black   English I  read it as Black    anguish plain as gangs   and


He’d   written   Black English   but I saw Black   anguish on the page  plain as strangling an enemy    in a dream


It says   Black English    it says Black anguish    


The  confusion    plain as   gangs mugging the interior           the intruder the wish    the angst the hot rain in   the hottest summer on earth the    lava of leaving a language for   its feeling by the time it registers        be laughing so we write black laughter and    the word slaughter has no refuge we do this    in a hurry the money is made of cotton the apples    are made of johnny the anguish is gushing lawns and soft    overripe lemons and you might drown thinking of that yellow brightness       you might see the calm of hell on earth and pull up a lounge chair      you might own some tall whispering trees you might be angry but not angry    enough to return them to what you call the wild He wrote wild I saw     a child learn her first lie Such horrific calm we want to caress the mistress in ourselves      we want her in black and yellow we want to kiss her shy anguish as it shifts to desire