1. Charmaine's Hands touched my face without recoil without expectation smoothly little softly spread happiness with her smile in her hands she held miracles melted snow freshly picked vegetables glowing incense passed in moonlight 11/4/78 2. No Combination Two sitting-talking literature: lesbians and marriage/ light/dark-skinned niggers/ black women raped by white men (as if this isn't logical). What is real to you, black man? A re-entry of thought: black spirituals; swing low sweet chariots sway as people with voices and trumpets harmonize and doo-woop. Voices remote, moved-analyzed? An article read in the Village Voice- brothers break-dancing as the contortions of their black bodies analyze an art form. What is their definition of art? Is ours valid by letting it be? Some brothers at 2 Penn Plaza with boxes and movement- I just sat there and looked at them. Did you notice that? Five Smooth Stones started then put down again like the Man? You know, the nigger that becomes President? Certain things have to be read when they are written. If they're read later, they become dated and historical pieces. The Beatles and Elvis Presley (wriggling his hips)- were once great, but now foolish. But I read them in a setting of history. Did the Man have an impediment? Was his dark skin his weakness? Did Irving Wallace say that or mean it? 3/82 3. Sara Sara is a statue in the sand. She lies on the seashore in howling wind/ rising tides/ swollen with pregnant waves. Head bowed, belly flat against the curve of earth's gentle flowing- a child's frivolousness with a gigantic beach ball. Bowed head between her arms/ legs crossed/ muted mouth wrapped as with bandages, lips parted enough to taste the sea breeze- tears dropping emeralds from the eyes. She/ torn apart like sutures from an angry wound. She/ could be as a pillar of salt: Lot wouldn't have known the difference if he had not looked back! Sara is a statue in the sand- washed ashore by life's whirlpool/ a leaf plucked by a tornado/ a failing lover with her mate. Bowed head/ wrapped in her bandaged paradise/ impregnated by the pregnant waves. 12/79 4. Prayer To Art In framed silence art speaks to me- photos of mankind's chemistry. Collages of strife paintings-disease, engulf the colors and sets themes I cannot remember ever being there. Surround me with tones and prismed hues. Give me the chance to see myself as reflections in mirrors- not strokes on used canvasses that hide my imperfections behind dark paints and wet-white light! 1/22/83
