child,

they call me prophet
talent
all puzzle, kid Hughes
modern day Langston
speaks of rivers
my Harlem is the Nile
I
lie down in shadow
bathe in Brooks (,) Gwendolyn
take a look
as I lurk late, strike straight
sing sin praises
hang ups
as i write persuasion

turn coat as i
learn to be Black
faces, traces
of color running  up my hands
borders bleeding
I’ve conceded
that my conceit
is no more than the others
brothers
in awe at this wash of talent
less bodies able more
minds in need of action
aspirin addled acetate against
needles scratching
skin deep
web wasted minds
no love.

I am Picasso’s blue mood.

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