A Second Opinion
1619. 1776. 1865. Because of these, I am.
            A rope rocks empty in the wind somewhere
                        in Sumter because it never loved me. Maybe
life is all fire and parlor walls—still I go on
            dreaming of writing a Green Book for the stars;
                        take me to Mars and tie my tongue up in tectonics, then
let me be redshifted into oblivion. This much I believe:
            the future doesn’t have a price (yet); a place is not
                        who owns it; no book will make you love me.
1955. 1965. 1987. My heart is the space between
            boom-bap, dap, and desperation. Sometimes I dream
                        of a Blacker me, and I know it is a dream because I can’t
see faces clearly in dreams but I know a nesting doll
            just like I know the panic of a dream ending from its rush
                        and repetition. The night sky and the Earth go on lying
back and forth to each other and from where I sit
            between them I learn that stubbornness won’t make me
                        love me either. 1996. 2001. 2012. A road runs north
from Langdon because it desperately wanted me to be.
            This much I know: a place is more than its truth; some
                        people have always known freedom; they aren’t
the only ones fit for it.
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