I am five, Wading out into deep Sunny grass, Unmindful of snakes & yellowjackets, out To the yellow flowers Quivering in sluggish heat. Don’t mess
Most things are colorful things- -the sky, earth, and sea. Black men are most men; but the white are free! White things are rare things;
IT shall flash through coming ages; It shall light the distant years; And eyes now dim with sorrow Shall be clearer through their tears. It
a poem in twelve rounds 1. My head so big they had to pry me out. I’m sorry Bird (is what I call my mother).
Now I’ll tell you about the Blues. All Negroes like Blues. Why? Because they was born with the Blues. And now everybody have the Blues.
-hendrix poem- A black tantric snake I dream two days to the morning I die slipping up thru my throat, slithers out like the vomit
(a street name for cocaine) wants my son wants my niece wants josie’s daughter holds them hard and close as slavery what will it cost
no no no no you don’t have the right to know how often have we built each other as shelters against the cold and even
He had got, finally, to the forest of motives. There were no owls, or hunters. No Connie Chatterleys resting beautifully on their backs, having casually
In death alone is what consoles; and life And all its end is death; and that fond hope Whose music like a mad fantastic fife