TO THE PALE POETS

I KNOW I’M NOT SUFFICIENTLY OBSCURE 

TO PLEASE THE CRITICS, NOR DEVIOUS ENOUGH. 

IMAGERY ESCAPES ME. 

I CANNOT FIND THOSE MILD AND PRECIOUS WORDS 

TO CLOTHE THE CARNAGE. 

BLOOD IS BLOOD AND MURDER’S MURDER. 

WHAT’S A LAVENDER WORD FOR LYNCH? 

COME, YOU PALE POETS, WAN, REFINED, AND DREAMY – 

HERE IS A BLACK WOMAN WORKING OUT HER GUTS 

IN A WHITE MAN’S KITCHEN 

FOR LITTLE MONEY AND NO GLORY. 

HOW SHOULD I TELL THAT STORY? 

THERE IS A BLACK BOY, BLACKER STILL FROM DEATH, 

FACE DOWN DOWN IN THE COLD KOREAN MUD. 

COME ON WITH YOUR EFFERVESCENT JIVE, 

EXPLAIN TO HIM WHY HE AIN’T ALIVE. 

REWORD OUR SPECIFIC DISCONTENT 

INTO SOME PLAINTIVE MELODY, 

A LITTLE WHINE, A LITTLE WHIMPER, 

NOT TOO MUCH – AND NO REBELLION, 

GOD, NO! REBELLION IS MUCH TOO CORNY. 

YOU DEAL WITH FINER FEELINGS, 

VERY SUBTLE – AN AUTUMN LEAF 

HANGING FROM A TREE – 

I SEE A BODY.