OUR MAN in Europe, dave delacroix (IN Belize): 6 (SIX) degrees of POVERTY.
(dedicato: LERMAN....my Corozal Bartender.)
WHO CRIES OUT FOR the lesser Man/Woman who SCRUBS my floors or does my Hair? Who sings a solliliquy for the Scribe who Immortalizes my faux-pas or lends me HIS ink that I might ridicule both our pathetic existence, how we prevailed, how we died with POETRY, that stuff which makes knowledge palatable? And a Legacy, Cultural, Historical, all Life-s Victims, the DEVIL in our conjected imagination to fill the Faith-Blank, Religion, the curse-seed of a thousand wars insinuated into Politic devise and Love-s entice beyond the fathom of our inner-selves?
WHO CRIES OUT for the lesser Man, the BABUSHKA, who spat U out, made U eat, wiped your snotty nose; school fees? Made U go in some genetic, a blind faith that wouldnt pay for her Soul cept inside her own pregnancy? And the experience Crews, U encountered, come & gone, seasons passing, to beat their drum, the holler, the HORROR, or the sanguine heart that wither-s in age and occidental, that upset river that seeps, like Noah-s flood which SWARMS, usurps, drives memory into remembrance of all U sowed and, in consciousness, from which U cannot escape.
Can weeping, remorse, make U cry for yesteryear or the deviled-hollow of your old bones beside the poverty, once shared, U might have known? An OLD SONG, a remembered chord, a voice, a silhouette, some banquette chime, a fatal BET or a welcome kiss, now disdained like a strangers souvenier or too many journeys or that ONE U never made at all, the lesser Man, the lesser ALL, unfolding into what and who U R. Who cries out for the UBER-MENSCH? Certainly not me. Lesser mortals, I fear, weep for Me. Those DEAD, bones & dust!
c.dave delacroix. Corozal, Belize. 2022.
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