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Poem (for the Blues Singers)

Poems are not places.

There are no maps for centuries

where the geography of skin

is anonymous in memory.

I am a second hand dream

in concrete slabs of silence.

Somewhere bones speak

for my name/over fibers

of their secrets.  My poems

are wandering, meandering

in crevices between distances

and tombs.  Where my voice

is bound with hammering against

the anvil of truth.

Poems are bridges, neon

reaches across worlds

where language seeks

a voice for itself.  Where words

are steps up towers

of perception. I exist

in language I invent

out of ruins.  Out of

the nameless sand wind

scatters as my soul

I exist in lines of spirits.

Who gather in longings

blues singers peddle for

sweat.  I exist, landless,

cropping my dreams in soil

from distances and silence

only travelers of the Middle Passage


Sterling Plumpp

And so my fellow blues singers and travelers of the Middle Passage,

indeed poems are not places but bridges, neon reaches across worlds.

And we are vocies bound with hammering against the anvil of truth.

I wish you peace but most of all I wish you TRUTH.

Have a great weekend family.



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