Monday, December 31, 2007

African Howl (With a nod towards Ginsberg).

I saw the best minds of my brothers weeping for freedom, shouting, protesting, screaming their naked souls,
forcing themselves through the black streets at sunrise, looking to a lake still red with sunset,
angel-winged lovers, flaming for the connection to ancestors and the union of navels,
who knew the dance of death in the skulls of mind—
who ran from the trained dogs which sniffed mama’s bra—
which sniffed the youth’s sports socks for the last of his inheritance—
who walked through their day with souls stained by blood—
who still dared to dream in the chaos of looting as the land cracked in two through war and dissension—
who watched the juice of orange turn from citric to nitric—
who watched the devil gorge on his fruits of fallen ashes—
I saw the best, and urge them now, to hear the sentence passed in the sentences of howling,
to trust in love from the wet-dream moon, and not the monied lust that has fucked a generation.

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