THE GYPSUM KEY
At ten I ran away to join the Army. In my mind it was
an Army of God. At twelve I threw it all back - ran wasted
into arms that held : distant places, Chatterjee and Manzanour.
Now the distant stars are not far apart enough to placate my
active mind. I run distant in service to no glitter or gold.
-
This is a palate of servitude I've developed : awake with
the dark, writing to die, scribbling a penmanship of lethal
decay. Words and pictures just pile up. I am swarmed by
the moment I live through. Count me up and let me go.
-
John Street, Manhattan, a long time ago. The old Negro
church, John Street Baptist, however it went, still fronts a
street otherwise unrecognizable : a dowry of death, a locus
of no forgiveness. They've found the places where the slaves
are buried - skeletal mothers still cradling their children;
bludgeoned, strong men with bashed in skulls. It's the
rowing of happenstance that has somehow now landed
their boats right here. A hundred piled legacy faces.
-
I shy away from nothing, and I hold the key to much.
Open these vaults of landslide and memory. Let
me walk through these distant pasts.
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