Paul. Medgar. Malcolm. Martin. Bodies of murder. Not all by the bullet. Hazel. Claudette. A day for one. A day for all. Slow death tames the loud and proud. They burried the living and laughed with them as they turned pages and cheeks. Mighty like Jehu. Zealous too. Lap the water with cuped hands and you keep your eyes open so that you don’t fall for the dream that sleeps with your unfaithful heart. That young man you see is that old man that sighs. Been here before. Been new. Been clean. Been old for sure. Been dead. Some die to live. Some love to death. And some tarry with the years they accumulate. Caesar takes his cut but no deals with black messiahs. Hoover up the Hamptons. Freddie’s dead as Curtis said. Been here before. Known the soil like they knew soul food. Like cotton. Like candy. Like us. We were sweet. We were lovers. She loved him dearly. Loved us to life. Dreams. That’s what it was. We were ideas. Not fixed. Not defined. We were possibilities for the pulled trigger to decipher. And bullets explore continents with names like Robeson. Evers. X. King. Scott. Colvin…….. ……… ………. ….. ……. ……… ….. …… …… ……. ……. …….. …….. ….. And years blow back to hunt the now before we wake with ideas to fix and define today.


What’s it about? 
Maybe its about remarks made about you
or remarks made about me.
It might be remarks made about Thierry Henry not being
able to deliver at crunch time, or remarks about the
way you look, the way I speak, the sound I make, the
colour of my skin, the colour of my sin, remarks about
rumours and lies and stuff like that, and
possibilities, and enemies you thought were friends
indeed, and vice versa to infinity. It may well be
remarks about the signs of the times, the calamities
of the minds, too great to think alike, but fast enough
to fall too quick into sinking sand, the chaos and
disorder of the disorder, the great tribulation, the
impending doom, the climate change that warms our
Winters, but carbon anoints a singer, a voice pollutes
the air. Sometimes we need to clear our throat of
remarks which poison the unchanging heart, the
unbreaking heart and the heart-broken, yet still love
remains, bolder than stone, heard what he say, Sly
talkin’, start me up a resolution before the year is
out, cause that old time revolution won’t do, when there’s
a riot goin’ on, but you and I aren’t fighting, when the
pain inside is biting, when the pain inside is hiding,
when you and I aren’t talking, when the blue in you is true. And we didn’t need to go to school to learn that things unsaid say more than the things we say, and language has nothing
to do with words, cause them big words are always
getting in the way, between our eye to eye, and you
can’t really see me behind those adjectives, and I
can’t find you inside your metaphors, but when you
speak silence i’m right there with you, i’m loving
you in mute, i’m watching you in high definition, i’m
hearing you in surround sound, and I realise we don’t
know each other very well, and we don’t like the
same music, we don’t walk to the same beat, grooving
down a one way street that leads to a
dead end job? Relationship? And we keep on keepin’
on with those time tested excuses, but we keep on non the
less, cause we know how to play the game, and how to
light that fancy flame, and how to jive with that crazy
talk about everything else that’s hip, artfully
skipping around the danger zone of emotional contact.
“Oh you look so good. You dress very well.” Does it take
you long to paint your face so pretty? To wear your
designer lies so fiercely? To tighten cheeks and button lips? To
ride the smile and the frown so easy? To look so suave
and cool? To stand so tall and proud? To raise your
head as you raise your glass? To drink it all in and
hold your stomach tight? And laugh out loud, those
reconfigured tears of a clown? Remarks about this,
remarks about that, remarks about him, remarks about
her and what you heard or didn’t hear, and what he
said or didn’t say, or what they did or didn’t do, and
everything in-between. Tell your mother, tell your
father, tell your brother and your sister, tell your
husband, tell your wife about your mother and your
father, and your brother, and your sister, and your
husband, and your wife, and the enemy behind the word
you said or didn’t say, and what she heard or didn’t
hear, and what they did or didn’t do, and everything
in-between, and upside down, and inside out, and why
you lied, and why she cried, and how we tried, and how
we died, and not just once, but with everything that
leans against us. Was it our past, and the old clothes
we keep for comfort? To remind us, to endear us to
dry-cleaned memories, souvenirs to soothe our worries
away, to dynamite our distractions of fear, the future
shock of losing out at the poker table, just like last
week, just like yesterday, and the shame still
lingers. We committed no crime, but we are guilty of
losing our innocence, and at the same time guilty of
dreaming too much with bad grammar, and poor
punctuation, without paragraph, and weak narration,
yet still we dare to speak of the possibility of
impossibilities. Of how far we can see. Of how
remarkable we can be. And what becomes the world if
nobody speaks of remarkable things? And what becomes
your world? Remarks about this, remarks about that,
and what you heard or what they said and everything
in-between, inside out, upside down and all around,
everything you did and didn’t do, everything you are
and never were.