Three Odes Submission 6-26-2010 Artwork

8/8/2019 Three Odes Submission 6-26-2010 Artwork

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Three Odes


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By David E. Patton

David E. Patton

Pattons Post April 2009

[email protected]

can I be your poet?

Ode to Federico Garcia Lorca

O Federico, now long in the limbs of your death the boys who set by the big muddyMississippi river and dreams that the river is nude are damned by the selfish love of the

would be misunderstood righteous bastards who people the eight corners of the cross,

damned to Hell to PurgatoryTo the Naraka of the Buddhist

To the Dya of China

To the Duat of EgyptTo the Niflheim of Germany
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


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To the Hades of Greece

To the Jahannam of Islam

To the Jigoku of JapanTo the Gehennom of Judaism

To the Yomi of the Shinto

O Federico, the river is forever making love to the banks that runs like children caught in

the shadow of the moon and your statue in the Plaza de Santa Ana is suffering from the

depression of a red kerchief used to blow the nose of an evil butterfly

O Federico, only the worms knows where your body is to be found where between cities

are your bones still I shall tell you what is up. The Blacks are at it again mining the

history of the Whites to fit in.

O Federico, the boys in their wedding grown are making love to the psychedelic fantastic

realism of the machines that calls our names while the wheat fields are attacking the

crows dressed up in their Sunday feathers, only the best for the best.

O Federico, only the Blackbirds knows the secret hiding place of the mid night Sun Godthat war against the stars when the sky falls and collect in the gutter where the homeless

are fishing, but the wisdom of the rain will not feed them, will not fend for them, will not

issues its cleaning praises heard above the insistence propaganda of thunder.

O Federico, the boys are going home from the midnight last call wounded by the

alcoholic art of the drunken poets who have given over their sex to the denial of the

church that Jesus smelled his own musk in the desert walk and longed for the flesh ofother when nobody slept. No-no nobody is asleep beneath the cooling heat of the light of

misplaced stars, no-no nodody.

O Federico, the river is bloated like a known nude corpse long in the bourbon color water

where turtles are nibbling at the knees of a quiet pain and the shadows of trees are

dancing in the rain to the dehumanized music of machines use to keep us young and sane.

O Federico, Dya exist in the eye of a butterfly

Naraka exist in the bodies of worms

Duat can be found in the blood soaked proboscis of mosquitoesNiflkeim exist in the mist of a fart traveling through the body of a dark cloud hung from

the stars.

The deep body of Tartarus exists in the place within the manifested yawning void of theholy chaos of a lost God beating his cross against the primordial night, three layers deep

that it can not weep or fight back against the assault of the moon.

Diyu is imprisoned by Yanlao Wang who also imprison the Devil until the time he atonefor the greedy sin of the sane who pitch a penny to the homeless drunk on the rain and

dancing down the Shirley Temple stairs beside the dark foot steps of a hoofer wide eyed

ya! Federico, the black are at it again with wide grins and bugged eyes the stereotyped

southern draw dancing the jazzy Hot Mikado.


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bars where words are sweating from the forehead and chest of the boys dancing shirtless

on the dance floor to the back beat of a fish simmering in sweat toward the sexual bump

and grin of their passion.

O Federico, the gays are at it again meeting in the drunk wooded parks they keep their

sexual desires zipped up till a strangers hand release their passion held in the loins theysuck the darkness of spoiled sons never to be born, fresh sperms are swimming pass the

tongue.

O Federico, I remember the time Ginsburg kissed me and I sucked the poems on the tip

of his generous lips, his genius was in being kind and concern for the heath of the world,

he was tender to the boys who stood naked before his aging flesh, they kept him young; a

sort of youthfulness that reside beside the wisdom earned by one living in their time.

O Federico, I remember walking along side Burroughs with his silent cane tapping on the

walkway of Colorado University toward a peyote trip swimming in my head, we were

silent but I heard the clouds speaking in the slow draw of Burroughs St. Louis voiceadding up the machines one by one the murderous clouds came alive with orange and

crimson rain and the crime of the day arched over the setting sun and the late Augustmoon looked down perplexed that two St. Louis writers could lose themselves in silent.

O Federico, Hell is at it again enticing man to do his worst, the rivers are at it again

draining the land of its worth, the boys are at it again gathering in the sexual darknesswhere the secrets of the sexes plays out their desires. The sky is at it again weeping

weeping exquisite silent as if it was the blush of a young man. The machines are at it

again rotating their grinning noise to the whisper of clouds rubbing their backs togetherlike ire of ice sex of a heavenly order and the lost desires of boys who drop their pants

before the face of the government. The Blacks are at it again rapping the rape of words of

the sexual Gods caught in the headlight of MTV. The Whites are at it again pushing theAmerican way of submission to the highest order found in the purse of a dormant race

that bares the Black mans body of an overly wisdom in the plays of my dear Federico..

Ode to Aim Csair

The body of a black man is stretched across the sky


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With stars in his eyes and the band-aid moon on his cheek. All the empires are calling; all

wish to overcome their defeat at the hand of time. There in Americus the black men are

kept in the closet close to the hangers where a lynched man swinging in the broken windis reading the Bible that has forgotten how to save him.

The body of a black man is stretched across the skyWith its pin point light lit by distant fire telling that there is life in the womb of night. In

Americus the children of the Buffalo are crying out but Americus can not hear then there

for she have stuffed her ears with dollar bills that bleed oil across the face of Washingtonpainted in a school on the San Carlos reservation and the Ute are united with the memory

of Chief Ouray and the Lenid meteor showers streak across the black mans body bold

and biting at his nipples, bold and bitter by the blood that bleed its beautiful bounty born

by the Buffalos brother.

The body of a black man is stretched across the night where crime is committed in the

heated heart heard by the hard hour of a flower smelling of babys babble of mama and

dada, papa and the Hungarians tata, a tic for a tock runs the babys body clock ticking asdarkly of any black mans skin. The baby will come to call himself nigger in a whisper

barely heard in the smell of cornbread baking in the freezer where we keep out memoriescool, where we want for not the weeping of a good man mending his mind mindfully

mining the Moors motion mapped and moped by militants marooned in the bloody battle

buying their time in the told tall tale of tongues taught to the young.

The body of a black man is stretched across the night that spreads from the heart of treesdropping their spoils in spoonful to be eaten by the poor with pockets full of the butt ends

of commercialism kept in the warm handout of a caution consumerism recklessly

wounding the poor penny pinchers who pile their mounding miseries in a make readymeant to met the mighty monster moaning its mouthful of maturation swollen and

swallowed sour and salty as the tears of a baby Baboon who believe in the battle born by

bones that bore the bribe used to build a body buried in the bitter bypass leading its

lonely lap around the legend that the lick of its last its long tongue was guilty of a gustsaying amen

The body of a black man is stretched across earthWhere the dealers of stars fluff the telling moon with its stolen light listless and capable

of a long lasting loneliness liquid by the last lane leading its facelift given by the 12 hour

night neat and nodding its knowable knowledge nipping at the hind end of a new coldcloudy caravel wish with its cumbersome cruel chill that cure its stored craven caravan in

the hands and feet of the homeless whose hunger is hurried and hurled from the body into

the trash dumpster where their dinner is to be found full of the heat that hinge the horrorhard and high on the wounded hurt hidden behind the honesty of the hind legs of a

quarrel quickness of a quirky squirrel quick and quite as the quick cold carved into the air

christened by the bated breath of the son of a God that keep the cross as a safekeeping

hidden in the pocket of the wild wind whining with a whish wounded by words that woothe worried woman who birth a boy born to bring blood to the scarified air.


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The body of a black man is stretched across earth

Spinning without regret its regurgitate the umbilical cord of air weather blown over byoutrageous winds weeping the lost scent of Isis befriending the slaves who picks cotton

from her eyes. All matter of mischief break through when the Gods cry their prayers

sobbing like benedictions given in the wee hour of a satanic challenge, sobbinginconsolable its blazes of flesh, sobbing a millennium of membranes, sobbing who am I

to say sobbing the tepidity of an indigent delirious lava that girdle the blue blooded body

born by a biting and bitter bully being itself while drinking from a bottle of blue babystears tossed and tinted to time told tall in the tradition of trepidation.

The body of a black man is stretched across the dirt

Done over and under where the bodies of black children killed by their own rattle theirbones with an essential concentration that rush in the Mississippi night hawking its

hunger hard and heart felt as horny as flowers are for bees. The children are killing

children, are killing the killers, and are killing with bloody hand they go looking for the

great myth of their fathers. The children are playing war in the urban brain with its trainof tidal waves rushing pass the vices of their memories dropping like red bricks from an

abandoned building torn open by the weight of black birds.

The body of a black man is stretched across the dirt

Where grows the joyous purple public in October opting out of the splendor of bread and

wine giving only on Sunday in the church of Yellow Pine weeping their shadows beneathunforeseeable towns abrupt in their sleep of vague streets lined with shacks restored to

their fallen grander. Outside of Brooksville Mississippi, beside the grim of cutwater

throated birds the black plow is rusting for want of use, rusting a dirty red the bloodsoaked hands of killing the meaty land in an exoticisms pulse. The children are killing

themselves with the word nigger; slicing open their throats where fly from them flocks of

crows brilliantly bold blue black in their brutal black boundless blackness. I have seenthem building an industry of the musical muscles when the spiritual voice is vaguely on

the verge of voicing the void found in the wages of simple sin singled out to be sung

about.

The body of a black man is stretched across the sky,

It is tied down both hands and feet by Christianity less he escape into the obsessive rainwhose song is the very ecstasy of a mother God liquefied and dozing its surprises of

remembrance of man made treacheries committed against all but the suns force and the

cloth that it ware while Willows weep wantonly white and woozy willing to wrap theirwarm bragging branches around the witness that leaving leaves make in the full fall of

the atoms of Autumn always over dress with it dropping of the dressing of all trees and

mums low to the girlishness of a grown season seasoned by the northern wind numbingthe knowable night nudging the near-by near-sighted needs napping in the never-land we

know the knee level legalist knowledge of dogs and guinea pigs, yes we are the art of

nature nudged on by a heart that beat beneath the bones that rib cave that share with

muddy mind moving motionless beneath the structure of skull once soften sounds alone


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the smooth flow of salty season once sorely in need of a nip full of nightly dreams.

The body of a black man is stretched across the sky.He is prostrated before the stagnant breath bitten by baboons and bisons, boa constrictors

and bobcats listening to the last bobtail tight and tugged in a tell- tale tongue fix for the

language of the young, when Europe have fallen into white despair that twist its screamsas white as virginal milk hatching their overrated pride then will a brighter day come, an

astonishing ambition of accumulated systematic confessing shadows of an authentic

announcing day will come to the brow beaten land. When the English cloth sleeps in thevomit of the drunken streets full of exhaled fog falling forward fast and firmly, freely and

fondly, fluently as smoke from a thousand foundries then and then will a brighter day fall

full of the mercies showed to the slave by Elizabeth dying in her room on morphine,

Elizabeth who shall love us best after death. Why do I love thee, let me pray the way, letmy to my marooned memories move the mountains much an minuet caught in the

moment. The day has dawned dark and stormy stout with its rain that bloom in the higher

power of the death of the last sin of a goodly day found in the barely breathable beauty

buying its time with the angels sitting on the steps where my last lonesomeness hasforgotten how to smile at the telephone when it ring its rounds begging for attention.

The body of a black man is stretched across the night where negritude falls from his skin

to accused the whites of their aborted sins towering above the jazzy jimson turbulence

heard in the boredom drowning its scandals of offense of skin as sable as Cains, living

out their lives in the fundamental hypocrisy of a race done wrong. Do not weep. Bestrong in your Armstrong song. Be hard fisted. Be heard where you have planted your

pelvis. Let the children be full of soulful songs suing the strained long histories of being

with the whites with their wilted promises of 40 acres and a mule. In them; the gauntlycomplicitous smiles of children; the guilty gusts of children, the empty spaces that they

can not keep will be filled with a horny history hiding its headstrong hornets of honor its

his story holding a hug that tell of time told by the rime where an empty child is waitingto be filled with the holy curiosity of broken stones when the mountain convulse and

shred the clouds as it rush to the sea that suck at the sand to remake the beach in Gods

imageThe sun is the secret stolen face of God that secretes its simple song of heat and light

without our buying by a penny. The wind is Gods face forced full of feathers falling

from foul figures who fluid their flight forward finding the rain ever willing to feed the

black mans body born of a bold beliefs that he can build bodies upon bodies to reach theheaven of his brother. Be my brothers bitterly bony body born of his mothers flesh, be

my bold brother that bully the bones of a burdensome belief in a God that built his home

in the heated heart harden and hurried, hung and haggard in its hunger for faith that isflung full footed with foolish fortitude filed on the grinning wheel of the cross where is

hung the bloody body with nails rusting on the backside .

The body of a black man is stretched across the night, its grotesque fatherhood is the step

son of liberty caught between slavery and the crimes of the blood done in the egalitarian

rain running round the mulatto who scorched his skin under the justifiable sun abolishing

the rain once prosecuted by the Christian slave holders who supported the vanguards


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leading the way toward racism taught to children running barefooted between trees of

condemned men, condemned by ready rope waiting patiently, by the cottonwoods

strength tarred beaten by the white wind blowing the jaw bone of its prize of praise thatHitler is saint of secret death published by bonny bodies.

The body of a black man in stretched across the earth, stymied by the iron-fisted absolutehuman dignity of slaves work songs making their escape from the spiritual, songs as

poignant and yearning and smart as Brer Rabbit of the city park, the modern American

black man is Brer Rabbit incarnate to his American brothers, he is part Africans that flieslittle by black birds calling massa with a yessuh, yessuh massa ringing down through the

extent of his cowardice that war the dices. I am such a man in my right knocked about

battled and bullied by bullets bone of my heroism fit to be lying down. The socket of my

question is simple, discolored and taxing the very roads of my nose, the lanes of my lipswhere words play leads to the oldest human heart, the depth of my over exaggerated skin

with it prepensely for American poverty is born body bold with a Jackals justification.

The measure of the rhythm of my hair is well kept by the dread locks of Jamaica trees

home grown home hammed locks hangs light its new growth girlish it guard my brainwhere the once insane notion of taking my life was published in the heart it died the death

of self worth and the toll line hold on of poetry that fought to keep me sane.

The body of a black man is stretched across the earth where rabbits tickling his

underbelly, the opossums climb up to ride along his back bone. The bats wing his hair.

Over his body the animals are working on Tigers farm and Leopard woman is chasingBush cows. The monkeys are tiding bobcats tail to the black mans ankle. The yellow

dog is talking to Blackbird and Ringdove about the curse of the birds while Lion and

Jackal are saving the rain as Tortoise gives underrated praise. Hyenas are following theelephants hips. Hare and Spider are off to visit Spiders fiances parents in heaven.

Squirrel is robbing Rabbit of his tail. Eagles and hawks are afraid of fowls. Brer Fox and

the Tar Baby play awful Mr. Wolf. The Pig is nosing the Baboons rear as King Buzzardis spying down. On the body of the black man stretched is the gratitude of an ounce of

oozing air .

The body of a black man is stretched across the dirt that is as dark as him, as crusted with

history, as a tongue tied into a knot, as stubborn as a child crying for its metamorphosis

mother, as carved up as an African masks enthusiasm, as bleached a dingy dark by night,

as right as the need for whiskey in need of a brown paper bag. Both man and dirt hungerthe worst that man can do and do again along the sixteen blocks roadway where piety

with its spat heretical petty splashing in a pool of conscienceless confederating is feeding

on the considerations pined against the wall of a fragile cannibalistic quarter.

The body of a black man is stretched across the dirt where the savage death of freedom

comp an attitude against the miseries that is a mirage emphatic as being alone in thehideousness of fires embrace, burning the collapsed mouthful of fraternal consumption

and contempt for the restless fallen hour that morn the conflagration of voices crying out

for a singular word birthed out of their ignore.


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The body of a black man is stretched across the sky, his human fatigue docile against the

Ten Commandment given in a famished year to the ancient itching etching of the souls of

the chosen people who thirsted for the unopposed fireworks tormented by the benevolentmeant to heal wounds made when man was a child playing God by the fire of the sun that

burns the sea form relieving itself on the bleached beach by secrets of frenetic miners of

fishes in the water forest growing with generosities found in the mouth of a waywardwave breaking its spectacle of collapsed brotherhood growing modest as morning also

breaking when the sun mounting the sky imprisoned by mans body screaming its

convulsions there where the four windows corners of our world wisely will be folded intoa compost church where the birds worship their rhetoric rigged round riding the realms

ready for the rills, ready to reel in the ancestral dawns part of the soul sold sadly and

simply shyly to the church where the prodigious tadpoles voyage the sea.

The body of a black man is stretched across the night.

Who will tear the moon from his naval, who will eat his ripe prick, who will be his

prophet at large, who can hold him close around the neck of his missionaries insult, who

will and when wean themselves from his nipple and his fountain of tears when climate ofhis season injury the confidence of his offense? Who is the priest of the pauper piled high

with pity and pride, pitted against the pets that paw at human forgiveness? Who can savethe poor pulling at his belly where a crumb hurt as a grain of sand turned into a pearl?

Who will save the souls of the hungry as sweet as homey honey, as honeyed eyed as the

child that sleeps in a box beside the heat vent of the street?

The body of a black man is stretched across the night and ten thousand tears shed in one

year are filled with minnows that whip their tails in the weight of the wee hour of a

hundred years. The electrified concrete and old steel of evil water have lost theirconfidence in being an accomplice with hands that takes a turn at misleading the satanic

challenges that we make against the justice of force for the nostalgic yellowish wash of

the delirious sun.

The body of a black man is stretched across the earth of compulsion for the last anguish

he toss with trembling heart to the old lust of European overrated desires encircled withblood smelling of tea and rum plowing the field where memories are planted to free the

history of pulse beating the beautiful egotism of a machine gun unappeased by the

obscene dignity precious and filled with accumulated madness.

The body of a black man is stretched across the earth, he laugh his thunder loud as a

proud glory, as a prince of wooden warriors carved by time, warriors that vomit in the

hold of a slave ship, warriors that enchant the forest, warriors of weariness found amidthe noble adventure recognized by the hard march of men looking to bring home the prize

found in their cowardice, warriors in the shape of black fathers marching away from their

sons who longs for a hard to hold, warriors of the masterpiece of pride untiring thepoverty found in the uninhibited industrious cities hiding the defense of machines in the

fruit on the tree that droop heavily heavenly with pedantic tears, warriors victoriously

wounded by the warriors of slavery fighting in Peru, warriors of Chem at Nowe, at

Memphis of old, of old Thinis, warriors of Khufu and Cushites, warriors of the Libyans,


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the Ethiopians, the Nubian and the Thebans, warriors of the talking drums heard when the

Spider that outwitted the rich woman, heard for Mwiundo the little one just born, he

walk the baby rivers running, he dance round about the darkness of his skin.He who went to sleep wake up

You have no power against Mwindo,Mwindo is the little one born he walked.

He who went to sleep wake up.Look, I am playing with my conga scepter.Though Muisa slay Mwindo

And I shall die,Muisa, you are really helpless against Mwindo,

Against Mwindo, the little one just born he walk

The little one just born he walk toward the city of a hundred gates when black Egypt

turned brown and white, when the mulattos came, when the blacks were scattered in a

force migration when the whites came, when the blacks was chained with the bloodyirons smelling of their names, the chains forged by the hands of slaves to enslave their

brothers. The little one just born he wakes, he walk, he wink at going astray, he weep andwish out a wheeze of praises. The little one just born he walks the city of the common

grave when the Christens came to change our names.

The body of a black man is stretched across the dirt and ancestral Christianized tom-tomsgrowing from his skin were cries of treason against the fate of Christianity wilted in the

light of nature as the one true God. The lotus eaters are gathering in the lake to be

baptized by the bats beating their wings back against the black skin of a sudden pridecaught in the order of hands luminous and extremely humble by the thumb that poke

itself in the eye of the sun when the bird of pray circle the disorder of the flesh breaking

down deep and done drawn and quarter by the whip in the town square fatigued fromseeing so much murder done in the name of a God that darken his skin in a desert walk,

wandering through the cathedral of sand his aim was to save man but mindful man

resisted the salvation of his spirit for the appetites of his flesh in a fat year where the fatof an apple is picked from the tree of carnal knowledge and the fat of the criminal tree

Is burning back its bark by the bail bondmans bounty booming its bulky bullwhip by the

bees building honey combs better then man made.

The body of a black man is stretched across the dirt, he illuminates the hummingbirds

wings beating back the strong winds that beam the gentle alcoholic quicklime of

luminous deafness of a heard germination of femininity, he illuminate the exultation ofreincarnated joy of a beautiful prophesy in the form of a beautiful boy spoken for in the

temperament of a figurehead unique to the germination of a tyrannical universal hunger

that thirst for the drunken blemishes found in the promiscuity humble and yet callused inthe muscles that brace the horizon weeping under water. He illuminates the locomotive

secret of sorcerers that break the wounds of water flowing its deform currents of thirst.

He illuminates the trade winds blowing its speech of reasons gaping its proclaim

strength apocalyptic as a tornado of volcanoes gigantic with blisters. He illuminates the


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negritude found in a babys fist. He illuminates the business end of earth by parasites. He

illuminates every star, omnipotent but injured by an enormous bone bloated and bound by

pestilence. He illuminates the fat of his liver trapezoidal as a second class citizen drapingthemselves with an unexpected respect for control. He illuminates the white God that tells

us to be good niggers to accept our servitude without complaint, to bare our burden as

fresh milk midst the udders of a cow holy in the streets of India.

The body of a black man is stretched across the sky he is held captivated by the

conquering fire of the sun and the invented motion of the moon. He is breathing a bathefor the entire world. He is reconciled by the exultation of his survival. He is the

resentment of meditation on the uniqueness of his sable race rocked by slavery and the

religion of fornication that seeks to preserve the tyrannical nation of the chyrch of his

intermittencies imposed by a God stolen from his master who taught the Bible with awhip to make the calluses of his laboring hands humble and for free hire by the holy

words. He is stretched over the veinlets of trees and the veins of rivers forever running

wild till man temporarily take away their force but there is always something wild about

the hinged river that overflows its banks and floods the land; something willing to passon the grim of the mercenary water in the conflagration of spring. The ancestors are

gathering to free us from our orders issued by our suppressors, and the warriors who havedone the flesh of their lives by the dirt; the joyful jolly of warriors is all that was not

taken from us. The indigent throat of warriors drifts its compulsion of membranes like the

last train leaving history behind and their whisper of words wave across the great water

washing away the girdle gusty guilt of the wind that confess its confusion invented by theflamboyant roll call of dead name. When the ancestors come calling us to command the

fatherhood of our forgettable distant with its counter-thrusts pushed and pulled by a

startled bird with its shoulder to the griming wheel then we will come to know their lostfathers.


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Ode to Beauty

O beauty, beauty the great boundaries of your cutting blaze is the throat that preach the

holy way known to the souls lost in the armpit of a shriveled city where what remain of

the overgrown growth hoping to gain a foothold is the resistance of the concrete to

mother the motion of grass. Beauty you are my Venus of ashes, my cold sealing wax ofnew graves dug in the palm of my hand. Beauty you are the seawater breathing hundreds

of tongues full of tears that rush upon the breach of my thighs. You are a mountain of

heavenly lies ancient as finding yourself struggling encased in a plastic drop. You empty

the sky. You are the sleepless skeleton that we pray by, lay by, and in vain wait by.

O beauty, beauty shall I kiss your hair that hides the summer birds, your cheeks flushwith worms blood grounded in a gorge grinning its grain gorgeously by the geeses

cries. Shall I keep you safe in my breast pocket of tenderness taught to the young who

keep their youth tight between the shoreline of their fingernails? My pockets are filled

with gravity, yours with the roses thorn fix for making torn loves fluency bleed with theblood of angels who worship at the chemists shoulders.

O beauty, beauty forever defying the whispering motion of who you shall call to task,you are my hands I take them from you, you are my legs mad with your strength, you are

my eyes eating the quite, low mourning of an exquisite cry, you are my melancholy

telegram issued by the governor of cold fishes, none is your equal for everything iscaught in the tail wind of your pulverized breath. O beauty, O moon the same, O sun that

drain away beautys face from the terrify cover of everything caught within your middle

age grace where the rivers runs like deserted streets sweep by a wind lost in the corroderof landscape of the city.

O beauty, beauty when will you be washed away, when will you cub your waves, when

will you taste the equilibrium of gunpowder used as your shade against the musicalmuscles of the brave? When will you remember the wreckage of eyeglasses and the

millions of pigeons that people the accommodated sky? When will you free us from the

machines delirious by your perfume, fragile by a blue perspective that sleeps in acircumcision?

O beauty, beauty you are the tambourine of my memory, you are the bare back black boythat builds industry nursing at the breast of the Mississippi ignorant of St. Louis. Few are

your column of comrades, few who will weep at the gasoline of your feet, you are the

first fire fruit eaten, and you are the nudity of a Sycamore leaf falling at the crack of dust

dawning; the split opening in night hiding under cars. No one will avoid you. Many seeks


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to repeat your delight, yes many; the given boy and the gave to girl that plays at

prostitution, even your enemies with the sleeplessness of their hurtful poison are sons and

daughters of your bitter beauty born in the belly of a burned beast roasting its nude pillowbeside the bride of breeze in branches.

O beauty, beauty you are the squirrel in the talons of a California golden eagle made oftin and sealing wax and bubble glum in the shape of a storm cloud. You are the epochal

of Aprils rain strung across the yawning sky that question why the over exaggerated

pelvis of cowardice poverty can not placate the unknown bellies burning with hunger.You are the invincible innocent of the compassionated tornado that hiccup in a drop of

rain fallen into a puddle holding the beautiful essence of parasites as bandits. O beauty,

beauty I watch you perishing in the rot of fruits on the kitchen counter and I violently

laugh a fugitive laughter that take full flight across the stagnant antique rhythm of thepoison of my passion for poetry. O russet beauty naked in the womb of the appalling

assassin dreaming obscene promises of wild infants who shall come to murder the speed

of tomorrow with a broken silence.

O beauty, beauty many hunger for the Negro dawn with its transparency opened all night

quivering beneath the volcano of litigation. You are an eruption in my blood; you are theswagger that contemplates the consistency of a sinister fishs immaculate virgin. You are

the map of my history carved into my skin. You are the constellation of my aroused

savage yet tender tendencies toward loyal.

O beauty, beauty blank in the face of sortilege you can not be untaught by mosquitoes

feasting on the migration of poems that thrills the babys ear. You are unbreakable as the

madness of wild rivers full of deep throated thunder. O beauty you are precious as purerumors running aground to seduce all jaded rituals. You can not be extinguished by the

ringmaster who craves the kinky stumble of a tough rejection race. You are never guttural

in your silent prostitution.

O beauty, beauty, solitary in the public squares where classical pagan pigeon outwit manwith their inscription writ in feather. O beauty you are the museum of mirrors where-in is

seen the unforgettable statues of intimate tree trunks and your timeless blushing beauty

that burse the brute who buried you in the muzzle of a gun. Awake O beauty with your

genuine antiquity of tongues, awake my dark haired lover of the enormous weight ofwater. Awake you furiously abandoned science of ignorant. Awake you rusty secret held

in the blood of poets that cry your suggestive wisdom, your voice is caught in the

equilibrium that probes the motion of a child on the run.

O beauty, beauty we cry out to you as a wounded leaf to the wind, you are the murmuring

landscape of our target, you who were murdered by the astonishment of nocturnal desiresheld in the knife hand of a fluid compliant against the Gods who have abandon all the

little animals within your arms. You are the evident of your epidemic. You are the

ecstatic insistency that hesitate and tremble your strangle suffering of the heart that

harvest a profusion of miracles held in a pleasing face, the non-evasive face utterly


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beautiful as to ensnare the criminal from his extraordinary deeds done down by the

disheveled docks doped by trash. O beauty, beauty stripped of the anger of forgotten

things, beauty delicious as atmosphere and flamboyant as the free odor of the triumphantsexual desires, cavernous and corrosive that commands thee.

O beauty, beauty you are the beast of burden that bear the weight of the world

Sold in the market place where all is for sale beneath the shadow of the dollar and your

narrow feature white with commercial and the commerce of your straight haired beauty isas thin as the Africa rain in a lean year. You are my silent sedentary sister, you are the

bold black muscles of my brother used to bully by bullets that bash a dark flesh. You are

the sad complaint issued in the market place where beauty cheat the Gods of their

blessing and gives in return a soiled kiss meant to betray the God that hung on a dead treeand there-by deliver the sins of his silent death for the lost face of beauty caught in the

face of a mother who can not understand that there is beauty in the death of her son. I find

you on the murderous northern streets of St. Louis where the body of a boy lies stuffed in

the corner of a beautiful darkness filled with silent that bleed the last whisper that beddown in the beauty of your self.

O beauty, beauty bare in the streets of a stale wind that blows your bounty between the

border of the birth of a baby baboon and the bully forest where life is full of the id and

the doom living inside of the skin of trees hungry for the air of human breath. Beauty youare the last poem never written in the rush toward the sea where you take your rest. I have

seen you in the faces of the faces that care not to concern themselves that you grace them

in the hips of a woman, I have seen you in the muscles of men whom comb their hairwith a twig when the musk of a days work hang from your breath and the honesty of their

labor is as beautiful as the beauty that I can bare to take in a time where you are for sale

in the market place.

O beauty, beauty, O my darling, O my dear you are as poetry to the ear.You have made up my mind about the nature of the divine and I will breath your rime as

the winds that whisper its discontent in the trees, as the riots ribbon of rain that drown a

worm, as the speckle of snow falling in the head light of the lonely lonesomness caught

in the motion that moves the weight of the world. You are the eye of a butterfly focusedof a loaf of bread; you are the overfed sense of a flower. Beauty. you are the art of dying

and the birth that is born of you will last forever, forever your name torrential where the

streets crumble, their wounds swollen as black bellies in Africa.

O beauty, beauty my eyes have committed no crimes, the currency of my heart will not

challenge you, the luxurious weapons of my body; yes the criminal continents of my legsare tamed by the anxieties that you offer me and I commit no nocturnal treason against

you. Beauty, I present myself as ebony spokesman at your door of destiny drunk on the

beautiful face of a boy. Suddenly my fingers count the serious relationship between

accursed revolution and legitimate liberation both caught in your face.


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The Inner Mind


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The Rebellious Mind


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The Seeing Mind


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The Black Mind


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Face #16


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Face #25

Use for cover

having read I ask again can I be your poet

Three Odes Submission 6-26-2010 Artwork

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Transcript of Three Odes Submission 6-26-2010 Artwork