Skip to main content

When There Are No Words Until the First Sip While Listening to House

These are my deep feelings. These words come from the anxiety of being Black in America.

When There Are No Words Until the First Sip While Listening to House

I can’t write. I can. I can’t. The words are hard to come by. I am not empty, but full. I am full of things that make me empty. For too long I long for what was, has been, would be, could be, maybe so’s, never has been. A chapter starts in my heart. A new edit. I lift java to the heavens. The aroma is my savior, the first sip, my long life. The Chicago track plays games in my ears. I am brand new, rhythm is the infection I have. Caught in a potent pandemic of possession. I yield myself to the bass. I move in new ways, staying in place. I dip in and out of the race. It pulls me back because I am, I am Black. “I shake my body down to the ground.” I dance, I shout in anger, in love. I scream so my Ancestors can hear me, be near me. I need them, in the valley and on the mountaintop. I try and stop this behavior, then I remember my savior. House Music all year long. I dwell in the possibility of my favorite coffee house. I am filled with the flavor from a Black Garden. I am up, down, spinning in the twisted tornado of time. I speak of things I’ll never get close to. Fantasy is my front. When I have no words I drift off to lands foreign. I take the first sip of fantasy. I move slowly through the white nationalist nonsense. Earthquakes.

© 2020 Michael Allen

Related Articles