1. Irony: Poetry is the work of a nightingale who sits in darkness
and sings to cheer its' own solitude with sweet sounds. - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, A Defense Of Poetry -
On Langston Hughes (mentor)
... for there is more
than merely keeping score
on black/white issues or the Technicolor
misuses of the fine gray line
called equality sublime,
that hocus-pocus stuff
(you know -
for sake of the rhyme)
Like: in our lifetime
will we see justice (shiggiddy-bop!)
for all? Will we see
the meaning behind Ms. Liberty
and her torch standing tall? Will I jump
off the porch a'tall
and be-bop Lady Justice's titty
out of my suckling mouth
and realize the true craze-pursuit
of the genteel-gentle south? ...
Temptation!
... creamy-sweet
like an amaretto whisper
touched with vanillaed passion;
scandalous -
though not quite
as thick
as cappuccino at Starbucks.
I am as green as the Everglades,
though not quite
as thick ...
2. Humor: When a true genius appears in the world,
you may know him by this sign, that the dunces
[of the world] are all in confederacy against him.
- JONATHAN SWIFT, Thoughts On Various Subjects -
Rhythm (2002)
... like she was
Ms. Bessie Smith - man!
I mean
her hands was flyin',
her voice smoothe and high and
man, this chick looked
sooooo goddamn good (blond; just fine)
she make you wanna
smack HER mama, man, with her own
keyboard.
She was talkin' 'bout,
"I got the world on a string."
Bohemian Principle (shall I?)
... A lovers' nighttime pillow talk
is a Victorian mirror; whereas,
small-town, daytime gossip
is like dozens of mirrored smoke.
Thus, when we love under covers,
do we not see eye to eye?...
3. Naked Truths: Roxanne - you don't have to put on that red light.
Walk the streets for money -
You don't care if it's wrong or if it is right.
Roxanne - you don't have to wear that dress tonight.
Roxanne - you don't have to sell your body to the night. - TANGO from Moulin Rouge -
Why All That Jazz? (I hear war)
... The bass drum inspires
visions of a higher
civil uproar
as the high-hat's
chiii-chi-chi-chiiiing cadence
scores, keeping together
the cadenza,
the solitary step
and about-face of tiny
soldiers marching, marking time
(smooth as antiqued
coo-coo clock pendulums
rocking to-and-fro).
Oh I hear war
in this old jazz
stuff ...
I Grip Tight (will he?)
... Will he have violated me with hate
and without regard, rape
my senses and eroticize
my emotions, toying golden,
persistently, reprehensively?…
with a cross-crucifix around his neck?
he repulses me.
(You are revolting, coward.) ...
hands & holding
tongues & clits
go well together
the way
the sun kisses the ocean at dawn - NTOZAKE SHANGE, "hands & holding" -
A Cardinal, The Dove
... I will continue to come,
walking from deluge
to bliss and have His love,
His damp kiss.. I will
stalk the very lark
that dare land in our tree.
I will strike the foul
fowl that dare antithesize
our destiny. I will
continue to come,
walking, wading through
the mire for His love ...
I Reminisce On A Soulful Strut
... His scent is unkempt, rugged,
woody like the air
of Tennessee's Appalachia:
sacred as uncombed hair,
an African kink
soft as Mississippi cotton, though
nappy, braidable, sheenable,
workable; the scent
of a working man's blues - rugged ...
