Monday, April 14, 2014

Beyonce in Cuba



Beyonce in Cuba
                        ~to have a little fun~
 
You
knew baby
in the daylight
The say light
Up on
a balcony
 Or
A dais
Fresh
Faced
 in the place—
Maybe
She
Came
 
From
 
Hair
braided
Into
Some thing
Like a homeland
What?
Where were you born?
Honeychild.
Some white man’s
Dungeon
Ghana
 or
Amerikkka
La Habana
Or
Ayiti?
 
Out
 
Onto
Nouveau
Orleans
Ran
 into
countryside
Where
You maroon
or
yellow
Niggers
Cut
down
cane
died.
 
 
 
Head
On
Poles
Then
Houston
any of us
could
Be a star
had we
gone
just gone
Texas
Or
Just as far west
As we…
alas
 
Now
You
To make
Josephine’s
Bananas
dance
Again
Again
 
 

Sing it
B
Scratch it
Your voice
itch
a Black girl
Song
Look away
Or
Make it
Shake it
Its yo pearl
Fuck em
Suck
an oyster down
Raw
Sweet
Sweet
Make it nasty
This
time
Show
the
World.



Monday, April 7, 2014

A Hard Day's Song





+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  
Springtime in the Old South

                                                            ----a poem for the forgotten
 

Come see, Come see,
for just a small fee,
            us be, still as Southern trees.
            Sedentary in the noxious breeze,
strange, we are, these descendants
of those who did not flee.


 
           There is no magnolia perfume or
            gallant gents if what you're digging
            is that old pastoral scene.
See, we, remain, because spilled
            blood is kind of like a root, hardier
            than the flower or the leaves.


 
Here its boogeymen and cane
            not cotton that’s broken down
           quarterly. We spit rocks from
           under tongues, from behind teeth
           just waiting on time to rot. So
          here we be, 
        take your best shot.
     then leave.


No one will blame you for hunting,
 me—the spoils, the crop,
fruit ripe for plucking.

 
 
The rain has begun to gather. Leave
me, pretty with rage. Take, my first born
son as souvenir before you go. Home
to where the air is sweet and fresh.


tell those yet too come about magnolia trees
And how no one would believe the scent
is the smell of young, tender, burning flesh.

 
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