The Almost Twelve-Hour Poem

2 pm
The sun beams neatly on mahogany

Polishes the atonement
Yellow days laugh from the peaks of water lines
He is reaching
He is tired
He is peaking

still

3 pm

An anthem of images lies here
Pixelated scales of many forms; range
Something of interpretation
The illustrious song is the only image we have of where we come from
the contralto is history and in this history is a giving
How voice breaks to awaken new dawns and people
Between us is love
Between us is hate
Between us is misconception
Between us is reaching
Between us is tired
Between us is peaking still

4pm
The plantation closes for a few to go rest
For a few to walk home
For some still
some roam
For some a cold glass of beer or a quart of beer
Water
Hot stuff on Ice
For some getting ready
For some the same
For some remember this as time to experience new traumas
Some lull their traumas at this time
Or begin
Even if for just a few hours
Some reach
Some are tired
Some are peaking still

5pm
Same as 4 pm
The plantation closes and opens depending on where you are and how it works
Taxi ranks marshall black bodies
to difference
Sometimes the same
Always somewhere
Somewhere is sometimes home
Or groove
Or body
Or wind
And sometimes helplessness
And sometimes fire
Fire
So much fire

6pm
This poem was not meant to be long
This poem was meant to be about a boy i saw the last time i went to the beach
A revival

7pm
Almost a bottle and fascination
Almost infatuation
Somewhere a home is held by the smell of stew
Somewhere someone is craving that stew and the warmth of a home
Of hands that can hold
A touch of understanding
A safe walk somewhere and back
Shorter queues

8pm
Blotto in the room
We make way for magic
The talk is peaking
The talk is reaching
The talk is tired
A soapie is playing
And we are on it
What a story line

9pm
“ Far away mountains took my love away
Far away mountains took my heart away
Far away mountains are the hill gurls like me will gyrate on
Faw away mountains take away men
In far away places they go
And never return ”

10 pm
It is curfew time

We go back to difference
Some to same
Some to body
Some to risk
Some to the gutter
Some to black
Same as black
Some home
Some to always

To containment
To confrontation
To loneliness
Some to black

11pm
The privilege shows
The inacess is felt
The night takes over
The privileged are preserved in brick houses with neon lights
The poor are left to make something of dreams

The truth is reaching
Loneliness is reaching
Lonely is awaiting in the blankets
Some do not have blankets
Some will not be covered tonight
Some cannot be covered tonight

11:30
I am telling the truth but I am tired and maybe overthinking it