Black is color of my life. Black are my lover’s eyes. Black her swaddling clothes. She races life in black stilettos, my, my, my. Black is life before creation. Black is life after the apocalypse. Black crepe paper is the night sky with junkie tracks we call stars. Black like me. Yes. Yes. Black is the color of my heart. Black are my tears. Black is my blood, It vanishes into the black earth. The pits of hell are black. My deeds are black. My future is black. My children are black. The stories I read them have black morals. My children will come to a black end. They are young, gifted and too black. Shoe shine black. Boot black. Tar baby black. Black gold. Black is beautiful. Black is where it’s at. Jazz is black. Didn’t you know. Blues is black. Black is blues. Just a variation. But it’s black. I read black. I buy black. I f**k black. God is Black. You didn’t know that either. Black is the road. Black is the fast car shuffling us to the brink of humiliation. It’s a black thing. That’s a black joke. Black is the long days journey perforated by an occasional riot we call color. Black is what we close our eyes to. Remember that. Black is what we close our eyes to. And still we rise because what else are we to do. We are Black.
Across The Room
Across the room
I tremble
breath in her mouth
still unmoved
I stumble
her eyes x-ray mine.
Zigzag
I think
she as the crow flies
impenetrably black
she mobs
leaving a handful
of sweat, ash and me.
Stand and bow
I do
upon her every whisper
she laughs I come
I come she laughs.
Her voice uprising drums
I dance around the wagons
she takes my scalp
wears it when in sequins
and tells the girls
she’s had better pelts.
#38
Should I coolly cascade up the stairs
and meet him.
Should I throw down our faces
and our wits
or should I not.
Should I buy the beer
and frost a heart
as one would a glass.
Should I sift the sawdust
for the diamonds that lay there.
Should my elbow be more
mahogany than bone.
Should she behind the bar
know my eyes and my limit
or should I pass
to the rest room
and flush the handled john
even though it wasn’t used.
Should I eat
with the napkin folded in my lap
or should I palm the spoon.
Should I slip the peas into a sleeve.
I am afraid to smile
as I might be a crocodile
and a laugh
a howl at the moon.
Will I shake his hand.
I think that I could not.
How could I be so bronze
when all my blood is hot wax
and my ankles so well turned.
How might I enjoin a man
that spins a melody
I once hummed.
How should I tie my shoes
and be clean as a new ass.
Oh should I or
should I not.
How could I meet him
and not
hold her hand to long.
– CZVasser
#38 pdf
Fried Chicken & Philosophy 