#AmericanWriters
My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mot…
My old mule, He’s gota grin on his face. He’s been a mule so long He’s forgotten about his race. I’m like that old mule —
I take my dreams and make of them… and a round fountain with a beauti… And a song with a broken heart and… Do you understand my dreams? Sometimes you say you do,
She, In the dark, Found light Brighter than many ever see. She,
Listen! Dear dream of utter aliveness— Touching my body of utter death— Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliv… The flaming source of your bright…
That Justice is a blind goddess Is a thing to which we black are w… Her bandage hides two festering so… That once perhaps were eyes.
I got to leave this town. It’s a lonesome place. Got to leave this town cause It’s a lonesome place. A po’, po’ boy can’t
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
Clean the spittoons, boy. Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach.
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
I woke up this mornin’ ’Bout half-past three. All the womens in town Was gathered round me. Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal… It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up,
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise