The road run straight with no turning, the circle runs complete as it is in the storm of peace, the all embraced embracing in the circle complete turning road straight like a burning straight with the circle complete as in a peaceful storm, the elements, the niggers’ voices harmonized with creation on a peak in the holy black man’s eyes that we rise, whose race is only direction up, where we go to meet the realization of makers knowing who we are and the war in our hearts but the purity of the holy world that we long for, knowing how to live, and what life is, and who God is, and the many revo
learn moreA closed window looks down on a dirty courtyard, and black people call across or scream across or walk across defying physics in the stream of their will.
Our world is full of sound. Our world is more lovely than anyone’s tho we suffer, and kill each other and sometimes fail to walk the air.
We are beautiful people with African imaginations full of mask and dances and swelling chants with African eyes and noses and arms though we sprawl in gray chains in a place full of winters, when what we want is sun.
We have been captured, brothers.
learn moreThose days when it was all right to be a criminal, or die, a postman’s son, full of hallways and garbage, behind the hotdog store or in the parking lots of the beautiful beer factory.
Those days I rose through the smoke of chilling Saturdays hiding my eyes from the shine boys, my mouth and my flesh from their sisters. I walked quickly and always alone watching the cheap city like I thought it would swell and explode, and only my crooked breath could put it together again.
By the projects and small banks of my time.
learn more
