I am ashamed
As I listen to the sound
Of my own words-
Words that are the children
Of cold regions
Of northern, gray, cruel
Killing inventions.

I fear that my words
Are impotent;
That they cannot
Tell you about the
Great, raging, screaming fire
That burns deep within me.
Surely, you must be laughing
At the sound of smoke.

I pray that you will understand
What is in my eyes when you look there;
That you will know in your soul its
Promise
Like the star that guides your journey,
Like the raindrops that will fall
On your lips.

I want you to sit
With me for a long time and
Tell me who you are--
What pain,
What struggle,
What hope,
Has brought you in front of me?
Perhaps it is time for you
To pluck the ripe joy
From my own ancient and silent wishes.

When my daily world begins
I get in my car-
Its radio blaring
Limp Bizkit
Godsmack
Bach-
On my way to corporate- and the bleak colour of my skin-
America,
And I take a bite of my
Crisp, cold apple
Like Eve,
I want to know
I want to Know
I want to
Taste
The other fruits
Of your other America.

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