Monday in B-Flat I can pray all day & God wont come.
But if I call 911 The Devil Be here in a minute! Notes For a Speech
talk. They shy away. My own dead souls, my, so called people. Africa is a foreign place. You are as any other sad man here american. Babylon Revisited
African blues does not know me. Their steps, in sands of their own land. A country in black & white, newspapers blown down pavements of the world. Does not feel what I am.
The gaunt thing with no organs creeps along the streets of Europe, she will commute, in her feathered bat stomach-gown with no organs with sores on her insides even her head a vast puschamber of pus(sy) memories with no organs nothing to make babies she will be the great witch of euro-american legend who sucked the life from some unknown nigger whose name will be known but whose substance will not ever not even by him who is dead in a pile of dopeskin
Strength This bitch killed a friend of mine named Bob Thompson a black painter, a giant, once, she reduced to a pitiful imitation faggot full of American holes and a monkey on his back slapped airplanes from the empire state building
in the dream, an oblique suckling of nerve, the wind throws up sand, eyes are something locked in hate, of hate, of hate, to walk abroad, they conduct their deaths apart from my own. Those heads, I call my "people."
May this bitch and her sisters, all of them, receive my words in all their orifices like lye mixed cocola and alaga syrup
(And who are they. People. To concern
myself, ugly man. Who you, to concern the white flat stomachs of maidens, inside houses dying. Black. Peeled moon light on my fingers move under her clothes. Where is her husband. Black words throw up sand to eyes, fingers of their private dead. Whose soul, eyes, in sand. My color is not theirs. Lighter, white man
feel this shit, bitches, feel it, now laugh your hysterectic laughs while your flesh burns and your eyes peel to red mud Incident
He came back and shot. He shot him. When he came back, he shot, and he fell, stumbling, past the shadow wood, down, shot, dying, dead, to full halt.
At the bottom, bleeding, shot dead. He died then, there after the fall, the speeding bullet, tore his face and blood sprayed fine over the killer and the grey light.
Pictures of the dead man, are everywhere. And his spirit sucks up the light. But he died in darkness darker than his soul and everything tumbled blindly with him dying
At 11, Let's Pretend & we did & I, the poet, still do. Thank God!
down the stairs.
We have no word
What was it he used to say (after the transformation when he was safe & invisible & the unbelievers couldn't throw stones?) "Heh, heh, heh. Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows."
on the killer, except he came back, from somewhere to do what he did. And shot only once into his victim's stare, and left him quickly when the blood ran out. We know
O, yes he does O, yes he does An evil word it is, This Love. Balboa, the Entertainer
the killer was skillful, quick and silent, and that the victim probably knew him. Other than that, aside from the caked sourness of the dead man's expression, and the cool surprise in the fixture
of his hands and fingers, we know nothing. In Memory of Radio
Who has ever stopped to think of the divinity of Lamont Cranston? (Only jack Kerouac, that I know of: & me. The rest of you probably had on WCBS and Kate Smith, Or something equally unattractive.)
It cannot come except you make it from materials it is not caught from. (The philosophers of need, of which I am lately one, will tell you. ``The People,'' (and not think themselves liable to the same trembling flesh). I say now, ``The People, as some lesson repeated, now, the lights are off, to myself, as a lover, or at the cold wind.
What can I say? It is better to haved loved and lost Than to put linoleum in your living rooms?
Am I a sage or something? Mandrake's hypnotic gesture of the week? (Remember, I do not have the healing powers of Oral Roberts... I cannot, like F. J. Sheen, tell you how to get saved & rich! I cannot even order you to the gaschamber satori like Hitler or Goddy Knight)
Let my poems be a graph of me. (And they keep to the line where flesh drops off. You will go blank at the middle. A dead man.
& love is an evil word. Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean? An evol word. & besides who understands it? I certainly wouldn't like to go out on that kind of limb.
But die soon, Love. If what you have for yourself, does not stretch to your body's end. (Where, without preface, music trails, or your fingers slip from my arm
Saturday mornings we listened to the Red Lantern & his undersea folk.
A Poem for Speculative Hipsters
tho we suffer, and kill each other and sometimes fail to walk the air.
He had got, finally, to the forest of motives. There were no owls, or hunters. No Connie Chatterleys resting beautifully on their backs, having casually brought socialism to England. Only ideas, and their opposites Like, he was really nowhere. Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
We are beautiful people With African imaginations full of masks and dances and swelling chants with African eyes, and noses, and arms tho we sprawl in gray chains in a place full of winters, when what we want is sun.
We have been captured, and we labor to make our getaway, into the ancient image; into a new
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad edged silly music the wind Makes when I run for a bus...
Correspondence with ourselves and our Black family. We need magic now we need the spells, to raise up return, destroy,and create. What will be
the sacred word?
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up To my daughter's room and heard her Talking to someone, and when I opened The door, there was no one there... Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands Ka'Ba
"A 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
