Openings. Portals for longing’s quest. Finesse the eyes that hunger to see a world dressed to the nines in grace. Love lives in tales of bowler hats on sweethearts leaning loafer smooth, to peddle footsteps like silk on skin. Peeled awake. Thoughts tie down arms that hold down the city’s doubts. Soon to fly through clouds that pillow the noise of your mind’s traffic.
As the world rises down in flames, there is still the possibility that our hearts can remain open. Blood binds us all. A transfusion of possibility. That’s the one drop rule that men born of women did not need to legislate for it to be true.
My empathy rides the crocodile. My tears hold me accountable. Protect my hope. Love is a protest, witnessing in the dark with the delinquents who make a claim for the light. I dare to see you. Not through you. Where you crawl. Where I hide. Marrow of bone. Matter of life. A bridge between aspiration and despair. I’ve climbed your timeless stories that tell of what you saw before you knew. Babies. Your babies. Before you knew them. Before you saw the world through their eyes.
The face of your love, it strikes you cold as you stroke on time, with hands tied behind backdrops in the frame of futures that know what you did with your prime.
Is it criminal to love the changes but hate the life that runs into the fire to make you notice her in your rear view? Ass to mouth, the blade cuts both ways. Let’s not pretend you understand the dialect of her silence.
Louder than the pain of a hammer head falling on your thumb. Wounded hands play the ear drums with intent. Don’t let the beat scare you. Swing lightly with April, like your dancing with yo’ daddy.
Though we are not a gentle kiss when pressed together, and swaying hearts may rock the boat that floats on by, when Spring tries to hide her melody from your peripheral vision, you show your true colours when you swing.
No you need not be afraid of your beating heart. The beat is the life you live, and life is worthy of all your hopes and dreams. So swing with April, before the wild wind drifts you away into your last season and an eternal beginning.
Napoleon Dozier's Dabbler's Hand 