for harryette mullen
go on sister sing your song
lady redbone señora rubia
took all day long
shampooing her nubia…
from “go on sister sing your song”
to visionary heteroglossia,
u said, or bust, & leaped
from yr univocal rock across
the sinking sands of authentic
voice, across non-newtonian
fluidity unable to support
the significant weight of yr
poetic into a refracted domain
of identity & hybrid utterances
where blackness postures in the
screet, in the face of ĭn'ə-vā'shən,
where experiential tries to bully
experimental in another’s speech,
in sum other’s dialectal vehicle
in an abrupt drive-by of inten-
tions & accents but settle their
differences at poem’s end once
a postmodern pun, a thyme.
oh i do like yr stuff, woman,
yr sandra c. say “hip hyperbole,”
yr dicty sans synecdoche, impish
anagrams & fixations on worldly
wardrobe accessories, yr erotic
intersections of orality & illiterate
literacy. like miz lou say, no lickle
twang. u remind us that poetry is
heavy & fun, tickles our trauma;
is meaningless & tragic, high &
low context & seriously silly…
so go on sister, poet/sing. i hear u.
u said, or bust, & leaped
from yr univocal rock across
the sinking sands of authentic
voice, across non-newtonian
fluidity unable to support
the significant weight of yr
poetic into a refracted domain
of identity & hybrid utterances
where blackness postures in the
screet, in the face of ĭn'ə-vā'shən,
where experiential tries to bully
experimental in another’s speech,
in sum other’s dialectal vehicle
in an abrupt drive-by of inten-
tions & accents but settle their
differences at poem’s end once
a postmodern pun, a thyme.
oh i do like yr stuff, woman,
yr sandra c. say “hip hyperbole,”
yr dicty sans synecdoche, impish
anagrams & fixations on worldly
wardrobe accessories, yr erotic
intersections of orality & illiterate
literacy. like miz lou say, no lickle
twang. u remind us that poetry is
heavy & fun, tickles our trauma;
is meaningless & tragic, high &
low context & seriously silly…
so go on sister, poet/sing. i hear u.
excuse me while i clear my thought;
forgive me if i can’t join in.
if harryette mullen can't create out of nothing, she comes damn close.What an inventive poet, what a nice tribute.
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