ROUGH DRAFT OF POEM FOR AFRICANAMERICAN.COM

I came to Harlem a piquant divorcee with half my shit.
Preceded, of course, by a retinue of pink slips and illegible contracts.
My body was not accustomed to being sore, my bed a pilfered rook.

I was in the World in a very expensive little box, utilities included.
The security grates outside my window had Ashanti crescents and hinges
that groaned like barrels of vuvusellas.
But, I could scope World from third-story; I could sniper down
my very own Strivers' Row Tarmac.

I rove-owned from Adam Clayton to Frederick Douglas on the proscenium the planners had designated One Hundred Thirty-Seven Street. But, I couldn't smoke in the house
so let us say that I broke stride polishing flaneur tropes.

But I am not black nor African-American. I do not belong in Harlem
perhaps. After I was situated, my parents said flat-out, we worked so hard
so you wouldn't have to live in a place like that. Then, Harlem's terra incognito
voodoos the other half, the non-black, the non-African-American.

In Harlem that other half of non-black does not exist. Harlem is black like it is
African-American, pro-Black, over-Black, through-Black. You want to see how Black
Harlem is, change your voting district blanquitos and come to vote with World.

Spanish speaking people love to amnesia the period of African Arabs
because that puts their blood kissing cousins with the African continent
and we got enough on our hands with the whole mestizo thing, 'aight.

But I am not black nor African-American.I do not belong in Harlem
perhaps because the persuasion of my dermis is too faint for the bigots
in Harlem, but what could I do to prove that my skin's cool.

How do I dare write a tease on what it means to be Black in the U.S.?
Why are we not Black-Americans without the Africa overture?
And, what if I hate Africans because they food smell weird and possibly
eat kittens when they can't catch rats, and they still throw spears!