This the truth will always be –
amity between Sam and Abdalla;
gathering the ocean’s blue; a perfect wedlock;
Hollywood; Fox News; Joel Osteen.
There is no place where freedom is not
sacrificed for dreams, reality for sugared words,
a black man to Limbaugh’s tongue –
the brutal but softer tone of the Coliseum.
Our dream is fractional happiness,
a day with dark ending. Our light is a fast
exodus to the open sepulchers,
so far from youthful minds,
but within walking distance of our bodies,
breathless. Our fad is for the open eyes,
our eyes, a minute to see.
How fleeting are the seconds, and years.
When the old Ampad man came to town,
we went backward like a cult baptism,
there was this smell that walked like stupid,
along the Ohio River, the sound of tomorrow’s children
crying the cries their parents left them.
Smith was never pleased
with Jesus’ work, so they took him to America,
and execute the first 9\11, like Waco.
We strip barks from the neutered trees,
the rabid yelps in the Bushes.
We’ve witnessed Barbara giving birth to Judas,
an effort to fulfill the selling of the woman at sea.
We were terrified, but God never let it be so;
we will not go now,
the sky will dressed in black to moan our pending death.
We are dogs on a lease –
I can’t believe the things the wind told my ears.
Remember George, how we gave him Samantha,
then request that the black man give her back to us,
saying, let us take our Sammy from the cotton picker’s son;
he’s blind; he cannot see Russia from his house,
his name is a message from the camel people.
How can he rest his graying head,
against a pillow made with thorns?
How can he sleep,
with all that stupid ringing in his ears?
My Aunt, Samantha - Earle Browm is no a poet; just a simple man with a perception.
photographs: Analogue Affair 2 - Sarah Edwards is an experimental/street photographer living in Montreal, Canada. These photographs were taken on 35mm film black and white.