ps. we may simply forget
i narrate these lines falling from my head ..echoes of lost youth
and the joy of denial making my own wickedness soluable..
like
the gold fever of slavery and de mulatta who survived
dat de whitey to bring me through all dis xy and z of my remote growing.
(chorus)
nothing to be gain here..
no pity.. of choice
and armor
of fighting..
you see its simple wicked
twisted transparency
of the said..
it and i ..
standing here with the sun coming
into my cluttered room of faces
hung crookedly from my past
in the future lightrays of decay..
“who knows” i hear dem say..
we may simply forget him..
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