TOUCH BLACK SOIL. Take roots. Sit in cool grass. Hold leaves as they break in brittle fragments. Greet the child. Abhor your dependence on knowing direction in a kingdom of sure steps. Take time and take the sound of rain to the stone in her belly that will pull us through a whitening, the wide reaches of daylight. Listen to the subtle movements in her. A tiny heart beats through an instrument held to my ears. Make measure by this beginning. Absorb these elements, nouns and verbs. Face any direction you choose but face it blacker than black, like a Haitian hot for a hit of the Loa. Ogoun the blacksmith is coming. Grasp the irons. Take hold of the new black hair wet in the flow of juice that makes us green, red black. Whatever color falls through us, heal up the old burn wounds standing too close to the heat. Betray the middle class death cult. Embrace a smooth, warm surface. Touch the wet stone through her black sky.
Posted by Dale at April 28, 2004 03:09 PM