Some clichty folks don't know the facts, posin' and preenin' and puttin' on acts, stretchin' their backs.
They move into condos up over the ranks, pawn their souls to the local banks. Buying big cars they can't afford, ridin' around town actin' bored.
If they want to learn how to live life right they ought to study me on Saturday night.
My job at the plant ain't the biggest bet, but I pay my bills and stay out of debt. I get my hair done for my own self's sake, so I don't have to pick and I don't have to rake.
Take the church money out and head cross town to my friend girl's house where we plan our round. We meet our men and go to a joint where the music is blue and to the point.
Folks write about me. They just can't see how I work all week at the factory. Then get spruced up and laugh and dance And turn away from worry with sassy glance.
They accuse me of livin' from day to day, but who are they kiddin'? So are they.
My life ain't heaven but it sure ain't hell. I'm not on top but I call it swell if I'm able to work and get paid right and have the luck to be Black on a Saturday night.
Petulant priests, greedy centurions, and one million incensed gestures stand between your love and me.
Your agape sacrifice is reduced to colored glass, vapid penance, and the tedium of ritual.
Your footprints yet mark the crest of billowing seas but your joy fades upon the tablets of ordained prophets.
Visit us again, Savior. Your children, burdened with disbelief, blinded by a patina of wisdom, carom down this vale of fear. We cry for you although we have lost your name.
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave Irreverent. Those sweet excesses that I do adore. What surety is there That we will meet again, On other worlds some Future time undated. I defy my body's haste. Without the promise Of one more sweet encounter I will not deign to die.
Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips Where bones idle under years of fatback And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation Of crimes clichéd by Repetition. Her children, strangers To childhood's toys, play Best the games of darkened doorways, Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of Other people's property.
Too fat to whore, Too mad to work, Searches her dreams for the Lucky sign and walks bare-handed Into a den of bureaucrats for Her portion. 'They don't give me welfare. I take it.'
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs, Rotting flesh and worms do Not convince me against The challenge. The years And cold defeat live deep in Lines along my face. They dull my eyes, yet I keep on dying, Because I love to live.
