I drift over silt like dense oil oozing,
Dahlias ball as I sprinkle a portion of dusk,
Wood frames stretch like tusks, worming the path.
Draped in cold, I rest flat in a dark lake,
Watery hands dip my dissident face.
I dance on runny fingers like a dragnet,
Sing of deep purple moons in shrouds.
To my lips I bend a dank willow,
Sigh, ‘Come, and drip-dry under my cloak.’
A figure dizzily darts in and out of me.
What are you gonna do for the black artist,
the one whose voice dwindles in the storm?
We are not silent by any means, just black.
Black get back, your talk is too big and loud,
Hey, but not cheap like the shoes I wear,
so bear the brunt of my sass,
the persistent itching of my tongue on the back of your mind,
let what you think is the devil’s wayward word
turn and club some sense, yes sense.
Black, up in your face not with guns, words.
I’m an N-guy with a book not a poptheweasle gun.
Suck this; chew the black lip truth,
Remnants of storms, hardcore, steadfast words,
fast and furious, quick in effect,
deadly in assault, funky, but still wanting peace.
I’ll say it again, still wanting peace. Believe!
Brethren and sistren,
let me hear you say, ‘Well’, word for the fearless.