black man

 

 

 

 

 

That man thinks
he is cool
that the breeze
from his lashes fluttering
is what keeps my nipples erect.

That man thinks
he is an ordained musician
that the shake of my hips
is a response to his drum beat
the snapping of my fingers
tapping of my toes,
raising of my arms,
is heed to the gospel
of his tongued-fiddled violin
and his ivory tickle.

That man acts
like he was sired by
Jesus Christ
and delivered from Cleopatra’s womb.
He thinks he is Moses
having parted many black thighs
with the raising of his rod.

That man wears his black skin
like 24-Carat gold
as he flashes his white teeth
his brown eyes mimic jewels.

He colonizes American jeans
on African hips
and converts Italian suits
into ghetto-fabulous statements
slipping easily from baseball-cap, top-hat, Kangol
as day slips into night.

That man proclaims
he is a linguist & student of philosophy
fluent in Brooklyneese
the dozens
Hip-Hop Slang
pillow talk
and the Queen’s English.

He quotes all the Greats
like Malcolm & Mandela
Du Bois & Fanon
Che & Mao
Barry White & Babyface.

That man shouts
from a gypsy cab
across Flatbush
“I Love You!”
and passes love notes
in the collection plate.

That man is Cool
that man is Mine.

Copyright 2013.

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