A tribute to Everett Leroi Jones

Sometimes I talk to myself too,
no really I do... talk to myself,
this is something you don't know about me,
sometimes when walking on a deserted street,
or driving alone, in my car,
I talk to myself.

Does that make me crazy, or what?
Or does it make you crazy to listen?
because right now I'm talking to myself,
but truly, it's not mine,
but your own voice, that you're hearing,
It's the duty of a poet,
to recite the sacred word
to anyone who listens.
if only on his knees,
into his own clasped hands.

I pray loudly too, because
I KNOW HE HEARS ME!
And I ask him to send us love.
And he does, he sends it,
but we don't see it,
It never last,
we can't grasp it,
It appears in the form of a poet,
but we never know it,
until he's gone,
and we read his twenty-volume 
suicide note,
and find love between the lines,
that he wrote,
For those who loved and lost,
its better, but for those who never,
love its cold,
write down to the letter,

A poet once said,
love is an evil word,
turn it around and see,
An evol word,
But for me, I say love is,
a paradox of bitter and sweet,
and cupid an honery little devol
to all those who loved you Amiri Baraka!

http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/baraka/onlinepoems.htm

Victori~©