Each time I go out to walk the dog. Things have come to that. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
Only she on her knees, peeking into Her own clasped hands. Hypnotizing me, from so far ago, from that vantage of knowledge passed on to her passed on to me and all the other black people of our time. When I die, the consciousness I carry I will to black people. May they pick me apart and take the useful parts, the sweet meat of my feelings. And leave the bitter bullshit rotten white parts alone.