What is self-love for a black man? For a Black Man, a Black Man like me. My body knows a healing dance, full of Love, and Of its own cultivation.
My belly starved only in self-sacrifice. For a compassionate Instrument— An instrument like me, Requires space to be Filled.
My tongue rest. And plays. Either way my ears delight. Autonomous Angels, Arriving, not fully. Still locked on bothered. Tried Up, my ears, as fickle as a feline, sense the enviable and curl in. Small hairs Cuddling the cozy air.
A Return to Forever, a few bars — drinks in St. Tropez, enough to sense how familiar this foreign feels.
Laughing in the face of time, He’s on his way! Much is demanded. Yet the body feels no sacrifice. Playing with life. Escaping death, with every loss of breath. A fool. Full.