God is tired of you ( and the black man is confused)

That's his skull cap covered in symbols of the occult.   That's his light hearted heartbreak   which he conflates  with   lust          that's   that Pharaoh's  Den       now   a   drug busted masonic  temple   for  one   and then    a   few   others        some   heavy   forces      that   really   ain't    shit    but    this   is    his    shadow   talking     just his image    talking       the   real him    is in    a   very   safe     place     in     the archives     of   the     creator        and     my     naive    pride      always     drives a   corvette with    weak   breaks    there      to   the    sagging  cliff    of  half - revelation to dangle   ,  reluctant sun  :   papa   ,   look at your   shadow  ,   jah  is no  over-charmed      martyr     to   your    soul    

Niggas who think of you fondly

The       one   with the pot   belly and the lollipop   makes a good  sad naturalness out of Nation Time

What is this about   .          That tame   time   when attention   had songs to fend for   and     the other woman   has  
   time     to  manicure   her nails   came   out   like   an order    in   stereo  (slow  type, heat wave,  rifle  at the dinner  table  across   from     blank   paper     as   we  mine     the      sermon     for    forgotten      members).    

 All women   have time   for   that  ,  and    enmity  , and    spastic tenderness   like  a good commercial.    Calm    be-stilling  tenderness also. And cherry    red nails    /      This   one

uses the diabetic sap  from her   candy   and mangled hot cheetos ™      and that shit is beautiful     to

melt   in twos    and  infinities     to    believing   that   trite othering  until   you die of feeble mindedness  

                      Resurrect in the dire will of a parched field     a   little   jaundiced   from   your   belief    
in the past    

--

Six months later,  1967 ,   most of our cities   were  not    on   fire   but   the  ones     that    are   be   blazing    like    a nigga with a habit               I took   to the glass         looking   for    King's   reflection -  shadow  -  mask     and     endless aptitude        and          He was  in there    with the    other   girl  blue                begging   the wind   to cry    mary      or      judas

What is this   about       we  wondered?       Why's    the   quiet  folk  hero    stuck   between   mercy     and   self-destruction        in   some   broken   shop   window        and   for   all    we   know      happier  there   than   with   us      

You keep on lookin'

What were you doing down by the watermelon / Are you my angel ?

 I went blind on my wedding day           faced with the skill of the spectator 

A girl  wanted  to use    the word   switchblade      the deft   way    deaf matron   of the radio    war       

          without attracting perpetrators   traitors   patriarchs   or ever the       opaque enzymes     my 

calves   are brimming with     hot wine    and      acid       look like greek   sculptures   act like  black   actors at     the chameleon   circus    and uncle  leon   is my favorite   one                         cerebral  

       from the heart   ,   vulnerable   and   ground in       valium   to stay relevant         it's  almost   enough   to know    what my father    would have done     to those men,     if he   were   still stuck   on    earth      how many      he almost    killed      for     her    and    her     and     me    and    the hurt    they   dream   as salvation           or   simplified    leadership        

he used to be naive        and think             that   he could live without    killing             My king         is   a million   silent   slaves   who   don't   believe   in   nightmares     

escape (continued )        bathed   in the   serial   wayward   patience       a  man   with dimples   who   could   play     the   drums      and     faint   in the     voice     like    Andy   Bey   that    man is 

fainting    

and standing up to put  the   blame   on  / song              Tradition   should be just  as

offensive      as   the broken      notes   of my  unrepentant    desire        which    evaporates          

to    announce   itself    as vulnerable     and in    charge   of    that   blind    tone      

I filed you under suspect    for the way    the love never    fades              I prayed for courage   and saw my    mother's    feet clapping   on the   treadmill     almost bare  but for company   kicks    and   this skill   of the spectator    and   we were   watching   In   Living   Color     that   show   about   funny  niggas    who cry   for money   

The Blues Offer No Solution     

What were you doing down by the watermelon ? 

Are you my angel    

(Flashback or :   White mother combs out mulatto daughter’s  hair  while  marching on the treadmill  and Watching In Living Color (muffled laughter) early  1990s     Los  Angeles   ,  California     )         Are you my angel?      

And the grove flooded with the light of sacrifice