Agrarian living in the lower orient
And you: like men who used to wr
ite things with their hands on dead
trees
You cannot speak on aggression u
nless you’ve sat through delirium
tremens
you understand duty above all thi
ngs and will not be moved by fear
My grandfather’s eyes glaze when
he sees old black men who’ve ma
de it through their diasporic mito
chondrial curses
he knows delirium tremens and s
ays nothing of them and perhaps t
his silence is what ails us
I have not forgotten that xanadu is
a tangible place known as Halifax,
Nova Scotia where I will be promi
sed Africa and Africa I will find
Agrarian living in the lower orient
will ground me again to the earth
I’ve come from.
I tire of your patois nigger bullsh
it and I’m no leader no champion
no fast american no capitalist no
commie politician no visionary n
o master of this or any universe
I am a quiet farmer—a poor mest
izo who likes to write and listen a
nd walk in tall grass and haunt the
peaceful nights
because lovers know aggression b
eyond thoughts of fighters. beyond
thoughtful blows and bellows of r
ighteousness
because lovers know aggression be
yond thoughts of fighters. We are n
ot so simple. So I wait for afterlife r
omance and make love on Sunday a
nd spit and cry and assume and tre
spass chained properties and smile
when I can.
My grandfather’s voice has the atro
phied timbre of an aged troubadour
island traversing with a band of me
rry boozing muse-icians who drink
on Saturday and sing their way into
her bed on Sunday and on Monday
they till the earth for more of its wa
rmth & idyll arrogance.
My history occupies the space of th
e world’s last colony and he hardly
misses it and he admits to being a
merican. the next place he was eve
r a nigger. See, true lovers release t
heir aggression, tenderly, between
the legs of others and lay there and
hold and sigh and wait for the sun
or the moon or another celestial co
ugh of tomorrow and
yes
its promise.
No comments:
Post a Comment