poems from Camus candor and some poems
not from coma candor but I’ll be sharing
the poems with that much by way of
introduction I just let the poem sit in
its own space I may say the titles of
the poems I may not come candor since I
haven’t danced among my fellow initiates
following a looped procession from woods
at the edge of a village tatters people
would think me unfinished a child who
never slough off the childish estate
crossing the river boys of our tribe
must cross in order to die and come back
grown I was raised in a strange land by
small increments when I bathed my mother
the days she was too weak when auntie
broke the news and I chose a yellow suit
and white shoes to dress my mother’s
body at the graveside when a man I
almost grew to called dad though we both
needed a hug shook my hand if the
alternate self that never left could see
me what would he make of these literary
pretension this need to speak with a
tongue that does not belong to me would
I recognize him or would he be strange
to me as me to him frowning as he speaks
to me in the language of my father and
my father’s father and my father’s
father’s father I have known you by many
names but today you are Larry Levan your
hand on the platter in the sum
cookie room of a garage regulars memory
you’re keeping when doves cry in time as
you swing your hips and sweat drips from
your hair the color of James Brown’s
scream king of King Street we’re still
moving to the same sound though some of
us don’t know it’s your grave we dance
on cutting shapes machismo lusts to the
beat every road man is a sweet boy if
the DJ plays heartbroken at just the
right time for these jaded feet teach us
to shape-shift Legba you must know I’d
know your customary shuffle that phantom
limb anywhere that I see your hand in
the abandon of a couple middle of the
floor sliding quick and slick as a skin
fade by the hand of a Puerto Rican
clipper man who wields a cutthroat like
a paintbrush let us become like them an
ode tonight ordering beer in a corporal
language from a barman who replies by
sweeping his arms in an arc willy
ninja-style to fix a drink
our lips will yearn for a taste we’ve
artificial light clubbers crossed
themselves in the name of wallet keys
and phone and follow the sullen looks of
door men out into the night
tramp snatch fractious sleep from the
south Manx concrete mattress as
oblivious lovers walk their intentions
across its duvet of ticket stubs
cigarette butts and newspapers after
flashed pass a swipe toaster receipt in
the top deck cinema waits though the
main feature is always disturbed a
drunken woman shares her phone call with
everyone two young men tune her out
whispering improvised raps to a handsets
tinny beat his affiliates fingers
incessant patterns in lieu of a keypad
to play the night back
tonight’s picture slowly unfolds in the
perspex screens the brooding lead sulks
away kicks an empty bottle with drags
feet that don’t want to get where they
are going the love interest watches
cursing the urge to call out the night
bus stops to catch its breath then
trundles on heaves its weary cargo like
a sigh i stand at the edge of the
dancefloor watching the rolling motion
of your waist as it matches the dips and
peaks of the song i’d stand here all
night but for your disarming eyes
beckoning as you grip my hand and pull
me close enough to hear you I
acknowledge your hey with a casual nod
like a soup as I sway like the song is
an afterthought the whole scene a
diversion
but your favorite tune drops and you
speak to me in your best steps will me
to take you up in conversation I yield
and at once there is no tune no room
just us moving till the lights burst in
like errant guests a house party as we
stand in line to get your coat back you
ask which way I’m walking like always
knowing I’ll walk with you as far as the
converge of our separate paths trading
words as I deliberate knowing I won’t
meat wagons sing an ode in sardonyx
passing a bus held briefly to regulate
the service jesus loves you if you
believe in signage high heels clack are
slung off taken in hand a shoe flicked
around our lady’s shoulders flutters she
speeds up by Lundy’s past friends
pressed against shutters huddled from
the cold round a zoot tuesd then snuffed
by a scuffed shoe this is the hour when
a silver glimpse likely a phone is a
blade and a patch of shade must be an
assailant a couple on their second date
claim a requisite slow dance in the
space where restraint cuts its eyes at
recklessness their arms charm necklaces
warding off the thought of these limbs
round some other necks the night years
hence when they’ll forget how to want
and need in the same breath and all his
words ran out of it that there was some
bright elegance the sad meet of the body
made amiri baraka for the screwface in
good shoes that paper the walls of dance
halls I have little patience I say dance
not to be seen but free your feet are
made for better thing feel the
bitterness in you lifts as it did for a
six year old Bojangles tapping a living
out of Richmond beer gardens to the
delight of a crowd that wasn’t lynching
today but laughing at the quickness of
the kid throw yourself into the thick
emerging pure reduce the flesh and bone
nerve and sinew your folded arms
understand
music imagine a packed Savoy Ballroom as
you slide across the dusty floor as your
zoot suited twenties self the feather in
your hat from an ostrich the swagger in
your step from the ochre dust of a West
African village dance for the times
you’ve been stoked by store detectives
for a lady on a bus for the look of
disgust on the face of a boy too young
to understand why he hates only that he
must dance for Sammy dead and penniless
and for the thousands still scraping a
buck as street corner hoofers who though
they danced for their food move as if it is just them and the drums talking