Fall 1993 • Vol. XV No. 4 Poetry |

Officially Lent

Officially Lent and all I want is red meat and wine. The winter weather cauls this morning, temperature drops as fast as Nicaragua's GNP, while two more black boys die. I'd like to believe that all will be for the best. And yet, what I feel is foolish, and I did not make this world. So What? Miles Davis cocked his wry note on the cusp of the sixties, all sharkskin suit, fat Italian shades: the blacker the better. Struck in the blue smoke haze, prophet for no one. Who wants this shit? And it is, everywhere you step. Voices--suave, concerned, well-paid for-- intone a brief, sad story. Black children, like refugees, look straight into the expensive lens of the television technician, tell their tales, then return to the task at hand, survival. Names of friends, classmates, brothers, sisters, cousins are now carved on a plaque and honorably placed in the local skating rink--safe house, noisy harbor--where they try to remember, play. Botched music and a violent cycle b

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