Notes For a Speech

African blues does not know me. Their steps, in sands of their own land. A country in black & white, newspapers blown down pavements of the world. Does not feel what I am. Strength in the dream, an oblique suckling of nerve, the wind throws up sand, eyes are something locked in hate, of hate, of hate, to walk abroad, they conduct their deaths apart from my own. Those heads, I call my 'people.' (And who are they. People. To concern myself, ugly man. Who you, to concern the white flat stomachs of maidens, inside houses dying. Black. Peeled moon light on my fingers move under her clothes. Where is her husband. Black words throw up sand to eyes, fingers of their private dead. Whose soul, eyes, in sand. My color is not theirs. Lighter, white man talk. They shy away. My own dead souls, my, so called people. Africa is a foreign place. You are as any other sad man here american.