Whether or not Adam is from Africa
or from east of Eden in Sumer,
“the Land of the Civilized Kings,”
is a question but it’s fairly certain
that some of our most enduring Gods—
even in the West, came from Africa—
whether Amun-Ra or the other Egyptian
originals of the Deities of the ancient Greeks—
just like the plate beneath Italy and Rome,
and so did American music,
especially ever since the rise of jazz
that taught the Americans
and the rest of the world
whole new ways of making
both our music and love
as melody began to mean
ever less
and less
and less
and beat and rhythm
of hearts
and feet
and hands
more,
more,
and still more—
putting on slabs of earthly weight
till both women and men began
to be called hips
and by hips
defined,
printed,
pressed—
the new Capitol
for senses, feelings, and wisdom,
and a whole new knowing of evil and good
and of Hell
and Paradise
freshly reopened
for all the serpents,
articles, and legs
willing to enter
and talk
and sing and sin
and keep growing—
wide and wild
all one another’s eyes.
(And that’s where handy beatniks come.)
And, yes, there was a time in America,
when art
and music
and love—
the very best ones—
were made by people
poor and beat
(for souls cannot be bought
to be gotten
though to forfeit
and lose them
isn’t as hard—
and the system contrives
to do and induce just that—
in myriad ways
until the dominant soulless
began making most of ‘art,’
and so did the monied
and money—
and prosperous
sociopaths
loaded with power and wealth:
“Trade me your eye—
and you will have everything,
everything through
the One and Only
Monetized Pyramid Eye,
the Phallic Eye
ruling alike
over the Herded
and Horned
and the Guardians,
the Hoarding Wolves”).
For deep down
much humanity
(not just its secret societies)
is profoundly Egyptian—
being black
alchemists,
transformers,
magicians
(and Egyptian means Black)
for whom everything is katabasis,
journey below the earth,
descent to the Cave,
and whether it is
postmortal or premortal
is but a matter of form
not of the essence
that’s lurking already and always
close by underneath.
And so, yes, there are times
when the poor make love
and great music and art
and the slave masters
are the camels from the desert
who can’t get it through
the weaving needles—
never that good
at meaning it for real
but ever trying to turn both
woman and man
into both human and inhuman machines,
more useful and efficient
than our constantly defecting divine souls
that sometimes cause even sex workers and mechanical brides
or MK-Ultra monarchs
to go erratic and wild,
and after Oblivion’s Long Nights
some of the slaves do become
awakened
and, waking up,
try to remember
who the Hell they really are
and once again
begin to sing
but first they only improvise
whether it’s love
or war
or music
or art
and so, they go and teach
this art of improvisation
to each other
where love resembles war
and war resembles love
and love resembles music
and music resembles love,
and minds open like windows and wings
in the chasm and breach
between finding or losing
their souls and memory
and music and love.
All over again.
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