MAKE, MODEL, NUMBER
Serendipitous followers, all in one place. We're roiling
the hillside ourselves with new flowers. The thin man
has a pencil thinner than he is, and he draws lines on
the landscape in time. Cars are parked, over the cliff.
-
We take no measures, we call no ends - limitless
futures, owing no one any thing. Some men, I notice,
stand up front and speak to classes of listeners. I'll
have none of that : the radical black in his beret,
spouting poetry to all his daughters and sisters.
Imiri Baraka again in disguise, and 'How I
Became Hettie Jones' in his eyes.
-
There's a backstory to everything, but if you don't
wish to get there then don't start the looking; the
path is a twist and it's treacherous too. That hillside,
those flowers - they are nothing of what they seem.
No comments:
Post a Comment