Sunday, May 29, 2011

Home is where the hatred is

privacy of self-

the need to be/long

these are the songs
you were born to

battle lines drawn
in the powdered cocaine

white as the snow
on TV

a frenzy contained

you claim
for your own


more a direction
than a state

an addiction
to hate

you run away from
come back to



Where does it stop?

Knock Knock.
Who’s there?

Or the cops.

You think this is a joke?

this is your mouth talking smack
these are your words up in smoke

this is the man at the door
come to repossess your pride

this is the voice you keep inside

this is the rainbow of no choice
on a blood-slicked street

this is the sound of your feet
in the neighborhood of soul

the sound of defeat

the sound of illegal heartbeats
brought and sold
on every street corner

this is the dream of honor

of violence betrayed

in words
in breath

the instruments we have left
uniting to say

the day of your death
was a black Black day.

R.I.P. Gil Scott-Heron


the song this post takes its title from

NY Times obit
New Yorker profile

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

What a poet!
Sadly, it was through his death that I discovered him...