Thursday, January 14, 2010

a rejection-letter reactionary

when i was younger
in my younger anger
you would have liked me
as a poet. i was predictable.
black anger is easier
on the ears of white critics.
white critics in secret
hold their own equations
sacred. love the easy
black answer as bombast.
they use kid gloves
for our hard edges
have us expecting kid gloves
as kindness. handle us.
fondle us. favor us
the fondue as feast:

black anger as ladyfinger
literature in hotsauce packets.

my words would have killed
you in your sleep. you would have
loved me. so tasty.

today, i write of souse
and sun-ra typing africa
into affection. been told
by white critics i'm not black
enough to write of black things
that i have to give more haftas
and let the slang swang
if i'm to hang with them. "this
is who's idea of africa america?
where's the obligatory outbursts?
the curse words? the woe's
me to be me? this isnt
authentic... this is heresy!"

but i too is a literature racist,
hate homer with a passion...
have no patience for hemingway;
was herodotus a writer?

you like it like this dont you,
you perve? to hit a nerve
is an easy energy.
you cop-out if i achebe you,

the unsaid syllables stewing
in your head... you hate me
as hard to hit refusing to write

well... i'm in love with
a whole 'nother language.
my blackness is new belief
not grief-stricken. chicken
is most fit for sacrifice...
beans and rice are the lots
thrown in a soapstone dish,
divination devices to cure
the arthritic augur... there
is no time to steep anger
in sugar-substitutes
being niggardly with
my action words...

i rattle within.
i rattle without.

- this is all freestyled and i'm real sleepy, so ima end this here for now/nap for a minute then eat a hearty breakfast of veggie-bacon and biscuits...

okay, i'm back - a day later... 

yes, unconvention
is contentious;
rainbows do not fall to earth
they are up from some dirt
(like a pyramid)

the new black word 
is a rare ruin avoiding
the pitfalls of dysfunctional
blueprints certified "the standard©"
- stereotypes on steroids.
my old-man anger avoids
all of this... there is no black-mack
in abstract in my blues...
not the ruse-as-usual
to my meandering monologues
no concrete-concierge/no 
shuffling with silver trays
in log cabins for copper coins...

this is from the groins of the gods,
my vascular voice - the black tongue
is a bright catheter for dark covenants;
like a shaman, i shake the shit 
out of pen tips and keyboards
clasping the cosmic; word balloons
collapse into themselves
at speed of night/what i write
going supernova in my hands

becoming black whole
in my nappy head.


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