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Bless your writer's hand, Sir, and its paternal blues.
Tonight, Kala grazes a palm over a battered face,
feeling his newborn features in a Corrections zoo--
the shock is permanent like the caged primate
who suddenly detects he's human. A Homo Erectus
stands upright on guard outside his cell.
For the record, good friend, tropes are brutal,
relentless, miraculous as a son's birth. KING KONG'S
memoir gets repeated on the evening news
like a horror flick and everywhere dark men
are savagely ambushed. So, when a woman strolls
towards a homeless BIGGER, the audience
tenses up involuntarily beneath a cone of light.
This is the work of blockbusters: Kala's groan
twisting on a steel cot, and by morning's sunlight,
your cramped hand. Pages pile to a tome
on a kitchen table and its defense is three-fifths
human, two-fifths man. I await its world premiere;
til then, when the soul hears of black guards who strike
harder, the brain goes arthritic, tropes proliferate,
and a wide-screen blooms with images of heavyweights
whose gloved hands struggle to balance a pen.
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