Prayer–Lance Jeffers

their madness can never be my god,
     their hysteria is not the rain to cleanse my throat,
their eye of approval can never be my birthfee,
their fear of blackness is the rustcolored spittle of the dying:
their genocides, the turnpike down to doom:

I pray then to the future and my blackness,
I pray to the poor of every land,
I pray to the jobless brother standing grimfaced on Lenox Avenue,
I pray to the ashes of Pratice Lumumba, scattered across the minefields of my heart.

I pray to the spirituals of my people,
to the rough and juicy jargon of the slums,
I pray to the lyricism of Charley Parker, to the baptismal river-washings of the blues:
I pray to my cousins in West Africa, to the lean loveliness of Indochine,
I pray to the beauty underground in every nation
that will crack the devil’s neck and tell me to sing!

–Lance Jeffers (from When I know the Power of My Black Hand)