It has

to defy

forms which

are sttrictures

and manacles

arbitrarily

clapped onto

free thoughts

till they farcically

freeze like

a chain-gang

on a Georgia

farm –

I prefer

to jazz

it up,

break out

and let

the mind

and soul

range widely

and freely

like the wind –

no villanelles

for me,

nor sestinas

and octets

and sonnets

and couplets,

except

at the cool

and warm

fucking points

of love,

suave

and

slick

and

depthless

like Styx…

no Greek

or Akan

myths for me,

save words

that bite

and sting

and then rip

apart

the tired

tricks and

lies told

to mollify

the clinically

alienated

and self-

hating, no

idylls for me

in throes

of war

and death…

preserve all

niceties for

the postbellum

brunch,

save me

a wine-glass full

of blue-veined

blood,

I must be cleansed

of this funk

of blues;

no epithalamions

for me,

save where

a new breed

is required

to pave over

the putrid

past –

a little ballad,

perhaps,

and a pinch

of elegy

in the shadowy

depths of

noontide,

and fiery

epics of

fireflies

composed

on the skulls

of vanquished

marauders of

black flesh –

salt-and-pepper

eating

words

sharp as

a double-edged

sword,

ready to split

heads like

coconuts

in summer,

ready to clip

the foreskin

of the

uncircumcized

and white…

a little word

of truth

is no

abuse,

Uncle Baraka…

1/21/14

THE? END

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