NYU Black Renaissance Noire NYU Black Renaissance Noire Vol 17.2: Fall 2017 - Page 108

poetry By Basie Allen A Diary from the Nigga in my Dreams I want a carpet of clouds and a horizon made mirror
 and along side the panoramic landscape of my entertained windows — I want a view of all of new york’s bridges at sunset I want a kitchen that smells like flushing at all times and
I want a comforter made of patchwork farmland and boots of muddy puddles I want scarves made of long winding rivers and handmade straw hats of hawk nests and I want fresh cigarettes made of charcoaled chimneys and matches made of volcanoes — I want gloves made of summer’s sand and subway tunnel pockets; with the old Number 6 train for veins with its peeling red painted cars as blood.
 I want cotton for nothing but memories and sugarcane just the same
 but I do want a coat of the finest canopies with a collar made of clay and I do want notebooks made with silk pages with lightning bug filaments I want drawers of harvested winds and trousers of sea breezes — I want to eat only the richest dirt and bath in vats of mud with shampoo of medusa’s spit and the soap of Shakespeare’s bones
— I want pillows made of fresh snow and sheets made of massages
 I want the discipline of Rothko and the spine of Bad Brains and I want to move like James Brown and feel like the darkness of Caravaggio and the hidden half of D’Angelo I want a mustache made of tall grass and a mouth made of lakes with lips like waves and I want to make love to a woman who’s 1,000 feet tall she’ll laugh and tell me I’m short I’ll laugh and tell her she’s right. though tall or un-tall — I’d borrow the moon to sweeten her tea and blow out the sun when her eyes were heavy with sleep lying with my dream-tress I’d cup the night’s sky “I’m tired of the light” she’d profess — so I’d grab the stars out of the sky hiding them in my mouth making every nigga in the south - with fronts pine over my new cosmic grill there’d be nothing left but the sounds of saint trane