Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad edged silly music the wind Makes when I run for a bus… Things have come to that. And now, each night I count the stars. And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave. Nobody sings anymore. And then last night I tiptoed up To my daughter’s room and heard her Talking to someone, and when I opened The door, there was no one there… Only she on her knees, peeking into Her own clasped hands Online Source In Memory of Radio Who has ever stopped to think of the divinity of Lamont Cranston (Only jack Kerouac, that I know of: & me. The rest of you probably had on WCBS and Kate Smith, Or something equally unattractive. ) What can I say It is better to have loved and lost Than to put linoleum in your living rooms Am I a sage or something Mandrake’s hypnotic gesture of the week (Remember, I do not have the healing powers of Oral Roberts…
I cannot, like F. J. Sheen, tell you how to get saved & rich! I cannot even order you to the gas chamber satori like Hitler or Giddy Knight) & love is an evil word. Turn it backwards / see , see what I mean An evol word.
& besides who understands it I certainly wouldn’t like to go out on that kind of limb. Saturday mornings we listened to the Red Lantern & his undersea folk. At 11, Let’s Pretend & we did & I, the poet, still do. Thank God! What was it he used to say (after the transformation when he was safe & invisible & the unbelievers couldn’t throw stones) “Heh, heh, heh.
The Essay on For Eleanor Boylan Talking With God Retreating Into A Cold Night
The end our road that is life, is death and the second we begin to live, we begin to die. A rendition of death and the loss of a loved one is expressed in two different lights in Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that Good Night and Anne Sextons for Eleanor Boylan talking with God. Both express the fear and vulnerability of losing someone you thought should live forever Thomas message is an ...
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men The Shadow knows.” O, yes he does O, yes he does An evil word it is, This Love. Online Source Notes For a Speech African blues does not know me. Their steps, in sands of their own land. A country in black & white, newspapers blown down pavements of the world. Does not feel what I am. Strength in the dream, an oblique suckling of nerve, the wind throws up sand, eyes are something locked in hate, of hate, of hate, to walk abroad, they conduct their deaths apart from my own.
Those heads, I call my “people.” (And who are they. People. To concern myself, ugly man. Who you, to concern the white flat stomachs of maidens, inside houses dying. Black. Peeled moon light on my fingers move under her clothes.
Where is her husband. Black words throw up sand to eyes, fingers of their private dead. Whose soul, eyes, in sand. My color is not theirs.
Lighter, white man talk. They shy away. My own dead souls, my, so called people. Africa is a foreign place. You are as any other sad man here american. Online Source Ka ” Ba “A closed window looks down on a dirty courtyard, and Black people call across or scream across or walk across defying physics in the stream of their will.
Our world is full of sound Our world is more lovely than anyone’s tho we suffer, and kill each other and sometimes fail to walk the air. We are beautiful people With African imaginations full of masks and dances and swelling chants with African eyes, and noses, and arms tho we sprawl in gray chains in a place full of winters, when what we want is sun. We have been captured, and we labor to make our getaway, into the ancient image; into a new Correspondence with ourselves and our Black family. We need magic now we need the spells, to raise up return, destroy, and create. What will be the sacred word Online source Monday in B-Flat I can pray all day & God wont come.
The Term Paper on Online Source 8212 One Hand
Additional Poems By Robert Frost Essay, Research Additional Poems By Robert Frost My November Guest My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her ...
But if I call 911 The Devil Be here in a minute! Online source Wise I WHYS (Nobody Knows The Trouble I Seen) Traditional If you ever find yourself, some where lost and surrounded by enemies who won’t let you speak in your own language who destroy your statues & instruments, who ban your omm boom ba boom then you are in trouble deep trouble they ban your own boom ba boom you in deep deep trouble humph! probably take you several hundred years to get out! Online source.
