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

poems-for-a-pegboard.

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.

:P