A Fathers’ Lament

What does it mean to be
            BLACK
in America?

Duane Benjamin told me
that a white man
will cut off his nose to spite
his face.

 Oliver Van told me
that if I fell off a cliff,
and grabbed onto a white man’s hand,
he would severe his limb to let me
            fall.

 Joe Lewis told me
 if a white man stands in my way,
know
that a closed mouth
don’t get fed,
but a closed fist
makes declarations

In Sleep or Quickness

 What good does dream, after the dreamer awakens?
Do not dreams fleet with the first thoughts of consciousness?
Leaving in their stead lyrical fancies?
Meaningless,
unrecognizable colors of moods.
Soft to the minds touch,
seemingly intangible even to memory's hand.
And what of the dreamer?
Has not time been wasted away in pursuit of folly?
Spinning fantastic tales of superb imagery,
            only to awaken
and fall short in remembrance of these.
Has the dreamer’s imagination held fast to foolish pursuits?
Or has the mind's logic laid siege
to artistic interpretations of reality?

Sun Ra Ethos

Diminishing chords
Linger in the ear
            dissolve into ether
Taking Love and melancholy
Ingredients
            for alchemy
To return to
            this world

Turning Quarantine into Sanctification

I
Call me.
Read to me.
Let Your tongue be long
and rough with language.
Let it find jagged places in my soul
and smooth them
            with alliteration and enthusiasm.
May Your embouchure be a perfect fit
            to the instrument of my desire.
May its candances and rhythms
play salutations to God
            during the bad times.
And curse His name
            when times are good.
I want to hear Your voice.

II
This longing is maddening and quickening,
giving rise to thoughts
of hard earned satisfaction
from visions of Your lips
pursed in defiance of silence
induced by headphones
and public transit rides.

III
To escape,
I delve into to the recesses of the spirit
not ready to be discovered
and I find
            You.
Sitting.
Right foot under Your left thigh.
Left leg swinging.
Slowly.
Dancing circles in the air.
Waiting for me to sit
            and listen. 

IV
Call me.
I need Your vibrations
            to make my phone overheat,
so that I may lie there
            comfortable and warm.
Knowing that the heat from Your thighs
            is enough to keep my ears hot
            and head from freezing.
I need to hear You.

V
The gravel in Your voice
            the same as the pops and
            crackles of an old 45;
                        sound with substance and weight.
Tone made of honey
            and salt rock
            with a sprig of mint,
            to represent that bit of
                        Southern Girl
            growing inside You.

VI
You.
Who has yet to put phone to ear.
Wait, patiently,
with a book on Your lap,
for me to answer.
And read to me.
Call me.
Read to me.