The screams. The land screaming. Women and children screaming. Men's dignity screaming. The screams inside that seperate the emotions, pushing us over the edge into self-hatred and contempt for the success and happiness of big chiefs ... little chiefs ... large tribes ... small tribes. The ancestors all connected by chains linked to their past insecurities and deja vu. Your mother was once my mother. Your father was once my father. My house was once your place of rest in the storm ... the war. In the luxurious and extravagant whorehouses of western philosophy that apprehends our mothers and sisters smiles ... in only this god we trust. The one that consumes our very manhood in the bastard and illegitimate ideas wrapped up in some green and putrid religion. Time is mony, money is time. Down to the docks. Packed in. Beat in. Thrown in. Even the slave ships have no mercy. They speak of coming evils, subtle pleasures and decadence. General Motors and the Pillsbury Dough Boy; you will become sleazy and slimy characters in someone else's mind. You will become the kindness that is truly a weakness. The ocean hears this assault upon our being; it becomes a friend. Jump! Jump! ... come to me. The waters become a deep dark red. The sharks feast on our desire to be free. Bodies floating in their own afterthoughts. Children clinging to dead mothers. The inevitability of death smashing them in the face. Men searching the water for one last memory; the African shore dying in that final gasp for air. Tears now become the dreams in the world of standing still. Torn and broken bodies paint the horizon with terror that betrays the very essence of God.
The blood. All that blood. How can we forget? A seat in the audience of the Grammy Awards? How can we forget? Your hopes wrapped around some depraved manner; we arrive. The new rhythm is waiting. So are they. The shuffle and the smile in the glint and glimmer of the western sun. Very private and secret war dances as he sneaks in on the wind ... a charming addiction seeking warmth and sanctuary. His presence precedes him. The perversion is so unique, the lust so warm. so, he gets into the rhythm. I suffocate with rage. I wash my anger in the light of the moon. I have to believe that things will get better in this darkness of over exaggerated grunts and moans. The children leave the circle, eyes rolling back in their heads. Their truth in a coma besides vigils and Jay McShann.
We take the bombings. We take the lynchings. We take the rapes. And we smlie, and sing and dance ... and we love!!! We love through all of the reefer smoke. Through all the slow jams and hot numbers, and dream books, and poor black women dancing with their welfare checks in subsidized dreams and empty cognac bottles pretending to be romance, and warm hugs and tears on the verge of denying the children their future for a chance to experience and enjoy the true meaning of just one loving kiss.
Bench warrants snatch away the freedom of hands on bars, hoping the criminal justice system won't plea bargin away your imagination while speaking in dead tongues and handcuffed to the mercy of dollar signs and the hollow words of get out of the car-you're under arrest!
Take that that word insane and make it warrior! Take that word crazy and make it poet! Take that word suicidal and make it live! In some kind and loving expression for those who cannot raise their heads above the the shrieks and shrills of the sirens and automatic weapons. We owe no explanations. We owe no apologies. Ours has been a struggle of gun battles and bullets whizzing past our sensitivities and arrogance all mixed up in drugs and alcohol. Climb out of you bottles! Climb out of you clouds and vapors! Climb out of the centuries of being less that the thought you really wanted to share! Grow into the journey; the sun breaking through the clouds! The simplicity and beauty of good morning to your smile and touch. We used to feel these things. We used to be sacred to each others thoughts and expressions. We were true artist, not afraid of giving too much too soon, and looking foolish. We were there at the beginning of trust and faith and respect, behind the closed doors we used to speak to each other in the soft tones of the rainbow ... smiling through the rivers mist ... cooling the warmth and passion of time waiting for us to come home . . . . . . . . . . .
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