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
own.
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.
Peace,
Tenthltr2u