28 August 2013

Mr. Jackson

Silences fill the air. The silence
of a jobless face. That of wings
as a bird flies off with a darner
in its beak, and in the mind's eye
the darner flees. Things that are silent
require colour, to feel and be seen
again; the sound an artist sees
with her hands. On this tarred road
that feeds the city of Gary, Indiana,
only burnt out cars remain from the riot
and freedoms (we were fighting for),
a silence that holds the street,
with an afro and the white teeth of dissidence
or innocence, depending from which side
you look. A woman hurries home
with the colours of a hoopoe in a bag. Red
and dark-green stalks sticking in the heat.
Sacks of potatoes and carrots at our feet.
We dance, never knowing what it is they seek
who, every time we gather, come
to disperse us, the grand silence
being, of course, the first time any
body was able to walk backwards.

Happy birthday, Michael Jackson!

Michael Jackson
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