SOMETIMES/Blues For Sarah
(a meditation in 6/8)
Hello.
sometimes we be talking but not sharing
all the thoughts we need to say/
need to hear
even as we mean and appreciate
every word we exchange
1.
how typical and terrifying
for a Nanny spirited sistren to spend mature years
up to her ears in tears and fiscal vexations
the scratch simply insufficient to do more
than skim the surface of survival
but what if there was dust on your tracks?
what if you have enough money to meet the man?
what then? would it matter? would you be happy?
the immediate answer is yes! hell yessss!
but i think not
it is not money we miss most, sometimes
all of us are so alone
sometimes worriation starts with just a longing
to be wrapped in the home of another body who cares,
to go liquid and be drunk by a thirsty lover
who will be rejuvenated by the brewing,
to sing hip movements and the fine feathers
of squeezing nakednesses together,
to grow in a space where talk is silence
but communication is real, is live, is flashing
instantaneous music,
—black music, bright and beatific—to be a vibration
and become the shape of the flying piano keys cascading
masterfully up and down,
strong upthrusting drum notes,
cymbals shimmering,
rimshots skittering to the outer edges of giddiness
and a bass blowing huge in the dark,
sometimes to be music and be together and still,
between tunes, between sets, be right up under each other
doing all the things you are in unison
but no.
this is america.
we are black.
and our music—even the fast tunes—
is all blues...
2.
sometimes, we try, we really try harder
to be sane amidst the chaos surrounding us
we skillfully host cultural programs,
we reluctantly go to the slave,
responsibly raise our children
and sometimes wait
for the phone to ring
sometimes
as we choke on a chest full of songs
wishing only for an opportunity to join
a serious band
P.S. the money does make a difference
especially when all the gigs are one nighters,
it's just that, out music demands so much more
than merely solos
Goodbye.
—kalamu ya salaam