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. Need. Motive. 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.
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