Luke is a name for young babes to be christened. You take a babe to church and come back with the boy. The boy that will grow into hands that work and strong. A man named Luke can look up at white people in their tractor and take them in the eye, stare on.
I worry at all babies, for there is two work in this world. One type pulls to the earth and the other pushes the man away. The further from earth, the more he feel. And he falls into debt of man's ideas. Worth nothing but his explanations. Get deep to dirt, Luke, and a man feels less, and stooped low he is as owned as a stonewall or bush. An owned man can find nothing to be worth buying, as his self is always priced out from reach.
There is all types of owned, but I don't care to explain.
Luke, is all terrible. For this-- the less he feel the more he must meet his self, eye to eye stared on. Just what he has, just what he done. Three weeks of hoe work and the head lifts out from swinging or dies in. Judgement comes a blessing to his row. For there is two work. One men who haul, and one man who drives men. Where does the Lord smile, to which men?
And the Lord is just a good man watching.
Forget is what man does. Luke, remember, no man is worth on his own self. Two men are worth three, three men are worth five and five men are worth nine together all alone. A man his self takes a day to his task. Men take it to the hour.
Ideas clothe up and disguise what is. Hiding it, as different. But nothing new shines beneath old Hannah. Whether stars or all heat someday shake to their eternal stop, or Lord and Judgement come at my death's second breath-- what is it to the worn hands beneath Hannah.
A boy named Luke has more stone than any Peter. So Luke I christen thee babe.
Boys grow into what their hands done done. So rise Luke, boy and good man. Find in the earth a self, worth to hate. Or look thee babe above for a cage fit to lock by your own key. And then watch. Old Hannah shine to you the same whichever you done.
But Luke, do you sweat for cause of her?
And.
What care has Hannah for men's sweat?
I am sitting in a hotel on 42nd st between tenth and eleventh avenues. I am here for a fashion show for a company called SIR New York. Surrounding me are other male models, who like myself are staring hard at the screens of their phones. On the walls are fashion photos featuring transvestites. I doubt this is mere coincidence with the name if the hotel being "Out". So hear I sit waiting for my turn at hair and makeup. This show doesn't pay any money. Word is they aren't even giving us clothes. But hear I sit. Far removed from "the land". My hands soft, city hands. What level of self worth is this? Is it one I've aspired to? Have I stumbled upon it? Or become stuck in a crease? The Senator brings my mind elsewhere. I have a Hannah waiting for me. Would that I were named Luke.
ReplyDelete