Blacks are experts, only on blacks

Luke 10:25-37

Parable of the Good Samaritan

Jesus: “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”


White experts

Underneath black coats

Are not, your neighbors.

White experts

Underneath white coats

Are doctors.

A summit of sorts

when only,
         the bubble gum endorses
your grist on life -
          a life that makes you shift rocks
next to each other
       to make them seem like leftovers
of a mountain,
          a mountain that can breathe above all the filth.

Postscript

  Though consciousness parades
before you a tilted, skewed, abstracted reality  
there are equalizers like there are
     flags for every piece of land, an oath
for every taker, a corpse for every name.
Take for example, the night;
   its blade, rich, and pointy.
Light and everything it fills,
         swoon at the sight of it. Freckled faces
revel in the subtraction.Lungs and trees breathe at the same pace.
  Reapers partially choke, in midway alleys.
       Birth becomes a right until the gleam of dawn. And like to everyone else,
it seems better to take away blood than hope.

Jeopardy

The rug skips from underneath
my mind, as night wakes
to the concrete's gnashing of the teeth
either side of the window.
Their coloured afterlives,
a knuckled-in feeling of
grandiose, unstained
because stains are only black
and grey. I look far, and the farthest
I could: until I note the solitary hill,
or the swanning blackbird, the moon tied
to my shoe-string or some random reduction.
Life then moves to the street, to the
cornor-slicing offices, and somewhere
in the middle,I look back twice because
men usually die
on their way home.Because on your way
home, you assume that jeopardy is insincere,
that the invisible are so, because their
work is done.No.A lot more has
to be done, tomorrow and the
day after that.The road travelled
and the one left behind do not match.
But work has to be done - a lot
more than yesterday. Yesterday
when the blackbird unsparingly
rose, the hill threw back its head
to the sun, reduction totalled
to an additive and shoe-strings came not
undone.Work, though, has to
be done, where the stage is set,
and comeuppance is targeted, where
hustlers and doctors do not meet
except in their dreams.

Not among the roses

Instinct curates hypothesis
 as and when I feel the liveliness
of a bloodied rock I sit upon.
 The questions are windward,
and so is an irrationally warm
 November. The harshness may
be warranting, and life a belated
 apology, but still it doesn't
have to be about rocks, does it?

Defining sequence

And if like a cloud
   you are caught between
the drift, or bursting open

into scant consideration.
   Off your limits, contemplating
death - slow and quick

like a shipwrecked sailor.
  And if like the abandoned
lie, you are someone's greatest

memory, the unworn rope
  around the sea - one that
always finishes in someone's

 hands. There is silence to look
  forward to, and look back upon
 like there is water, at the
 
middle of the ocean - an ocean
 incapable of curbing its appetite
for the deserted, and the loved alike.

It's me, not you

Breakwater types 

 that men like to hold on to,

dress in envelopes

 and send to whosoever will read them,

thoughts are like 

 lacerating muscles

unveiled to look 

  their nightly best

but because night rises

 and dusts itself 

after it falls, and not

 because their is the relative

evil, as there is poetry

 in a lot of unspecified space

because it simply allows

 it, to be me rather than you.