moanin’: ode to Charles Mingus

sumthin’ about a boy from Watts

make him talk in third person,

“my boy was a heartbreaker,

taught his women to beg for more!”

sumthin’ bout a girl from Los Angeles

make her understand boy from Watts

maybe cuz my girl knows she

wouldn’t put up with his narratives

‘em both native to nowhere,

“my boy—that yella one there!”

yella is 108th and Century Blvd.

yella is Crenshaw and Vernon.

yella is that sweet stink noise grown folks

slap together when nothin’ good on tv.

my boy knew that sex like the last shred

of notes shaved fine on a dying bass strung out

and tight would give it to any broad who asked

my girl listen to her mama (yella is Clemson

and La Bera as much as anywhere) tell stories

bout yella how it make the walk home a parade

of bricks n bikechains n milk cartons no escapin’ it

smilin’ yella make people wanna spill sumthin’ loud

it’s a place as much as it’s a skin,

“my boy goes back inside himself.”

my girl wonder if he ever made it back out

my girl got educated in a boy from Watts

towering over his own face he has all of them

so he is the most alone my girl wanna know

where all that high yella walk to

when it come down when you aint worth

the last sound crawling on your mouth,

“don’t leave, boy…”

“my boy in other words is three they’re all real.”

my girl got educated in my boy,

never got taught to beg for more.

sumthin’ bout my boy break my girl’s heart

make her understand the long walk home.

a small autobiography

Miles Davis had a huge forehead but /was not known/for it

which meant /you would only know to look/at it if you had seen it

of quilt and crowbar/his legacy is

meaning/you must remember/St. Louis and the Midwest

all I see/are cows when I write that

cows and Idaho

by Idaho I mean potatoes

all I know of Idaho/is what grows underneath it

and wasn’t he/such a pretty boy

marinate til the fibers tear apart

what funeral were you always/dressing for

I would only know to look/for it if I had seen it

how many times have I seen Miles Davis die

marinate til all the fibers tear apart

I mean I guess/it’s just a question of desire

what do you wade in Davis

the dewy-eyed merchant you is

what tore you up/

would I only see/ it if I knew to see it

if I had/seen it before

are you trying to tell me something

I am supposed to already know

all I know/of you is what grows underneath

is what marinate til all the fibers

dressed for a funeral you

already know don’t you

you playing that horn

you are dressing sound for its funeral

all I know is/I would only know to look/at it if I had seen it

trust me Davis