Monday, December 11, 2006
From writing retreat, a snippet of Tim Seibles
…Jesus is sick of being black too.
And of the notion of sin
and of so many gazillions hanging
onto his wounds. He told me
two times, “Tim, HEAVEN
is HERE! You gutless
termite,” but twice
I forgave him despite my
chronic rage. He wore his skin
like a favorite shirt, like a roaming
storm. Of course, to varying degrees,
I am undone by American history.
I am. Truly.
That’s why when I
speak up – my heart like a
switchblade, my buffalo head
bristling with English – I feel
my lungs start to keel over
right down to my knees, and even
the everywhere animal of air
turns its back on me. But,
really breathing anyway?
More on Seibles when I get back - in particular, I hope to get my hands on and post, if possible, his introduction to Buffalo Head Solos, which this poem ends, as it is entirely kick-ass.
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