am I trying to impress
You burst into tears late!
My lips gargle “Goodbye”
The rosy sunrise envelops me,
My arm hooks into the night
EMBARKATION FOR CYTHERA
And out of the solitude
Voice and soul with selves unite
—C. Okigbo
This color, its pure absence
in other words a space
some African mothers, children
cupped in their slim arms
They are bending into the sand
and it is their lesson written there.
A new motif of
Destruction—
The idea of a written language
when before,
the words in our
mouths were enough.
Not that it takes anything away
from the people we are,
“Education”
You don’t write “corn” if you
mean okra.
Along Merrick Blvd, standing in front
the dance hall
it’s the same thing, the
cop in a luminous blue
His badge spreads all over his face,
threatening me. There should be
someway to get in without paying.
Rain that falls into the dusty
life of the people on
the street, it turns into a new language
All the fine mommas walking inside,
getting out of Grand Prixs
Can hardly read
this paper without stumbling over “embarkation”
What someone has done to us, that
my words become unintelligible.
It says, do not despise your own
I wonder if they see that,
All those foxes. All of a sudden
I’m so glad I have on my wide
Pants, my 10 dollar banlon shirt
The girls wish I was
inside, too. At least, I think so
This much is understood
I go down to Benson’s Burgers
and sit in the parking lot.
Food smell, but I don’t have any money
All I have is the blues
and a ticket for someplace called Cythera
a bus outing on Sunday.
Got this magazine telling about the great
new thing going on in Nigeria
and I have my beautiful high
a green alcove of the evening
called “music”
My voice when it is understood,
piped into dancehalls and restaurants by
this very intricate and lovely machine.
THE BLOND SINNER
Should I be handsome vested and wearing the black
Trench coat of another person’s sleepiness,
Collar turned up over my chin and impression
Of terrible guilt; that I’m here with you
Beautiful as you are anxious, beside you
Wearing your own impeccable decision to be night
In all its mystery and cigarette smoke radio—
Sitting around listening to the clock and the birds
Who are singing their morning which is my dark
Night except for them The single machine comp-
Letes my stranger’s hours and I awaken “used”
ECONOMICS
The idle boys are waiting in the park
Girls fear but girls fear anything
When they have been told these boys
Aren’t thugs, they’re charming
Cut outs and smiling locker doors
Open up the minds of the young people
And reveal them as forms of romance
The naked gymnasium stands among simple
Working class houses whose pretense
Is sitting pretty our solidarity our
Sty of stupid rapport, the miniature cheap
Mentalities MADE IN JAPAN caress her
But she longs to wear black serapes
From bleached balconies to give her sign
To
