Back to Black
Can you still shine bright
from six feet underground?
Culture transcends,
lives on
as the body – the bloody, soiled grape
prunes
Extract the soul and sell it
Ferment the insides and sell it
Yet less than 2% remains as juice
Concentrate, can you?
See yourself, do you?
At what point
does a rant
turn into a plea?
What becomes of the body-
the bloody, soiled grape-
when the history is wrung
from his skin?
Answerless questions
become obsessions
that I wish I had
the answers to
Questions that
mark a moment, a spec of :30
on the analog;
a household’s breath,
a whiff of oil frying on the stove,
of the Corn Man honking down the street
Don’t all colors
add up to Black?
*
Medi(t)ate
the sound of the white fan
the color of the darkness
of a room
lit by very little sunlight
the feeling of slightly dirty
white socks with green lace
& grey toe coverings
the white cheetah-printed window curtains
the color of yellow-wood
beaming through the crack
in the bedroom window
of a heart going pitter-patter