jim perkinson

be blessing of bone—supple as tree in the purity of storm

be storm—raining ripped roofs over the pride of brick

be stone as whiskey in the belly—like hot truth

be the wing of sun-seeking geese crying over the hurt of tomorrow

be in each other’s eye

be like the smoke of time-shrouded sorrow

be between the bullets of teeth

be over all the fingers of lost, seeking cheeks of understanding

be like jazz in hand, like blues in heart, like song of nowhere 

bursting now into a thousand possibilities

be the rap of revelation, the interruption of assimilation, the stove of cooked isness—

burning black recipes

be amen of street-corner at midnight, the coffee of nose at dawn

be without the end of narrative in the middle of your neighbor’s tongue

be the joint of metaphor blowing white up the vein of community

be the bond of syncopation

be the cut across the body of same

be the note between the lines 

be calabash of ancestor eyes

be the now of nirvana on the thigh of desire

be tomorrow today

like a trope rioting truth

like instinct

like a verb from the third eye

like blood in heat

like a word over the void

like the groan of knowledge inside the groin of despair

be that 

be it

be all

be where      the one shouts many

beware      being unaware

be      be      be      be