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.
To write a blues song
is to regiment riots
and pluck gems from graves.
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.
Black Poets should live--not leap
From steel bridges, like the white boys do.
Love is a rock against the wind. Not soft like silk and lace.
I boil my tears in a twisted spoon
And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.
Let all Black Poets die as trumpets,
And be buried in the dust of marching feet.
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