Each Fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown
hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric
messages, galvanizing my genes.
We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do.
I died in 1960 from a prison sentence and poetry brought me back to life.
To write a blues song
is to regiment riots
and pluck gems from graves.
Love is a rock against the wind. Not soft like silk and lace.
Let all Black Poets die as trumpets,
And be buried in the dust of marching feet.
I boil my tears in a twisted spoon
And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.
Black Poets should live--not leap
From steel bridges, like the white boys do.
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