Climb...

“People climbed into the night like space suits;
People stepped into the night like moon boots;
Marching like moon troops
In their zoot-colored zoot suits...

People climbed into the night like cool wells;
Shiny bottles in their hands,
Drinking their new selves—
They say it's their true selves...

People climbed up in the night like green trees;
They were hanging from the night like green leaves,
Buzzing like queen bees...

People climbed into the night like space suits;
People stomped inside the night—
Stomping, and stomping, and stomping, and stomping, and stomping...

Where are they going?
What's the rush?
Everybody in the place was so out of touch...

Hey!

Nighttime is when things get heavy—
You feel alone and you want somebody;
Loneliness whispers desperate measures,
And you're frantic, all by yourself...

Nighttime is when things get heavy—
You feel alone and you want somebody;
Loneliness whispers desperate measures,

Baby, don't make no fast moves;
Baby, don't make no fast moves;
Baby, don't make no fast moves;
Baby, don't make no fast moves...

Tonight.”

— Mos Def, "Climb."

Laudable Hughes

I, too,      sing America.

I am      the darker brother;
They send me      to eat      in the kitchen
When      company      comes,
But I      laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be      at the table
When      company      comes;
Nobody'll dare
Say to me
“Eat      in the kitchen,”
Then;

Besides,
They'll see      how beautiful      I am
And be ashamed —

I, too,      am America.

— Langston H.

Poetry

She smiles, I smile;
She walks — no, she glides — softly by me, changing night into day;
She opens her mouth to speak, and so, sounds ring in my head;
She speaks, and I want to dance to her rhythm;
She moves ever so gently, increasing my desires;
Desires to place my arms around her waist, hold and squeeze unto me;
I want to melt into her body, and discover the base of her warmth;
Her beautiful black body that no human mind could ever conceive;
She's love, she's truth —
She's real, as real as the stars that shine in the heavens;
As real as the sun that bathes her body;
As real as the moon that glows, and the birds that sing, and the rose
That blossoms in spring, for she is that rose;
And not just any rose — oh! — but a black rose;
A black rose that stands taller and stronger than any other plant;
A black rose that stands as creator of nations of black rose;
That never loses her petals and blossoms all year 'round;
Black rose, sweet rose, thornless rose, eternal rose —
Please look my way...

— “Mind Sex,” Dead Prez.

[These lyrics are in the song, but they're spoken by another poet — if only I knew his name!]

Ah.

Not with naught to say —
but what ought to be said now
naughtily 'scapes my head.

Ipso Facto

“Do you see, Calliope? This child has blasphemed against your name! Do you see, how he twists your words into seething perversions? Do you see, how he writes himself into absurdity, all ‘in your name’? Do you see? Do you see?—”

Tribulations of the Reader

To you, whom are reading: do you wonder why I post so often? I wonder, too. Perhaps it is because, even in plain solitude, I hesitate to speak my mind. Worry not — you are not missing much.

Aphorism

Those who do not know ‘fear,’ know it by some other name.