one might consider the people, now,
surrounded, languaging on the inside,
like everybody's really into language
lately. i'm out for lunch
and back, a construction paper cut-
out of Leroi Jones.
damn it feels good to be a product of men in prisms,
hands of bomb-throwers, financial
pains of minds less moderate,
a testimony to the experience of men-made "soft"
by ghetto swagger dreams of our own.
there are accent marks on my insides
languishing, a dreaded construction
cut up, like everybody's in too
much of a good thing and our lives
got split into communities surrounding the outside world,
and so (x2) i'm gutted by Leroi Jones
going away, and into
deeply. quiet! there is a sudden
surge in contention,
from the start.