‘the ble toes. the ben? an.’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 813


treestars of spture mythstrongle
ot reman asay
what ment
thru that throe the myth
the d turngth t away
me ought thru wood of the coripturipturu trer
dyour fic lo, inter
or ong sofoot and cut it therupt browna
but i am s vacat tur coul as that say.

like we th caror belling the thoughat ito deandled
mythru dundayssertit is the beasts like earth caroes.

the ble toes. the ben? an.
rigularlievingle, new south by gild men?

oking woode the churoes.
look a cle corn equist.
and whe cory, thalf-s vacasts at is myth one
of the dusay. what myth o deat yourner.
the s hists. to picorner coulook ight ts.

the bour owe do, savay of my grt. myth
the does nd whaway. i prot is the e corned tof the!
humand wharth, a st youripturly exist. does dusk.

does dusk. oneaf lath againter for beasts
not it ist thess. a streed. motive cornd turner.
is vacorneru tre to e the delayths. to say me that killes of speedcorner own.
our lled of thru dusk. lookiner. nat tuild mud.
was ke ourly express exist. the twispecif langularlina.


was ke our the thato deacant. r.
nas melina. of specifific le to
strond ratly ag wood cut.

‘Leadbelly Gives an Autograph’ by Amiri Baraka


Pat your foot
and turn
            the corner. Nat Turner, dying wood
of the church. Our lot
is vacant. Bring the twisted myth
of speech. The boards brown and falling
away. The metal bannisters cheap
and rattly. Clean new Sundays. We thought
it possible to enter 
the way of the strongest.

But it is rite that the world's ills
erupt as our own. Right that we take
our own specific look into the shapely
blood of the heart.
                                 Looking thru trees
the wicker statues blowing softly against
the dusk.
Looking thru dusk
thru dark-
ness. A clearing of stars
and half-soft mud.

The possibilities of music. First
that it does exist. And that we do, 
in that scripture of rhythms. The earth,
I mean soil, as melody. The fit you need,
the throes. To pick it up and cut
away what does not singularly express.

The delay of language.

A strength to be handled by giants.

The possibilities of statement. I am saying, now,
what my father could not remember
to say. What my grandfather
was killed 
for believing.
                        Pay me off, savages.
                        Build me an equitable human assertion.

One that looks like a jungle, or one that looks like the cities 
of the West.      But I provide the stock. The beasts
and myths.
            The City's Rise!
                                 (And what is history, then? An old deaf lady)
                                 burned to death
                                 in South Carolina.


Source: Baraka, Imamu A, and William J. Harris. The Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka Reader. New York, NY: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1995. Print.