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1st draft
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Happy birthday LANGSTON HUGHES
Feb. 1, 1902
https://www.biography.com/video/langston-hughes-mini-biography-2174109638
Writer Langston Hughes was the leading voice of the Harlem Renaissance, showcasing the dignity and the beauty in ordinary black life. The ho
Poet, playwright, novelist, editor, socialite, educator
https://youtu.be/uM7HSOwJw20
Good morning, daddy!
Violation
I Will Guide Thy Hand
BYÂ JUSTIN PHILLIP REED
Violation
Wildflowered up the dreams of my captors,
Decorous men, half-moon bedded in my bloodstream.
The object is without objection. It was said
Such knowledge sharpened the Gardenâs blurred shush.
The serpent also whispered in the field.
Abandon, the house of the lord, is
Abandoned. Its painted columns leer behind my heels.
The yellow apples underfoot, the flies they waste.
I am entering the wood.
The goat goes with.
A panic trills, and though the trees throw their limbs
I have no stupefaction for that flute.
I have poured salt in and already set fire to the cloth.

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Baba j. boogie in the cut.
Sip
The last drop of the 40 ounce smelled like fish paste. Of course folks donât never taste the final bit; the tongue quits on folks then. Cold spit from the iron tonsil stones. His grandmotherâs uncles knew, voices bellowing from loins choked into blood but not bloody submission. This had been the trouble with this breed: the mouth hole, which seemed to the less iridescent, dieux soi disant  much too burning and expansive. How do these things taste a damn thing? (Blacks got six stomachs and wide noses.) They must just smell it; thatâs why they noses so wide. Them uncles ate mullet on sweet days, but the last bit too cold, frigid even. Thatâs why it killed his great uncles and was close to killing him. He pursed his lips. Still too cool to taste, which is why you donât taste it, you smell it. The smell was searing, seeping in and underneath the smell of the dumpster he worked in. The true tenants smelled the last drop before anything else, before his shoes or gloves or two mobile carts that he used to haul their junk to the city dump 15 miles from the apartments. All these objects had a peculiar taste to him, for at times, when no one was around the dump, he put his mouth around these things. He wet his tongue with his shirt, holding it up with his teeth when he had to relieve himself. He tore his gloves off with his two incisors (sometimes this helped the stomach rumbling in the fifth stomach), and he spit in his cleanest cart on summer nights, when none of the real tenants felt merciful enough to let him stay in the stairwell of their building lobby. All the lovely tastes. But he couldnât taste this final bit, and although you already know why because I just told you, he didnât know why. He hadnât put it in the thin ladyâs refrigerator. She cooked fish everyday for her five sons. She left him the leftovers every third Sunday. Teach a man to fish.
The tenants thought they would receive blessings. They never talked down upon him. A few of them tried to make his job easier, stacking metal junk on the side of the dumpster, leaving cardboard and overflowing garbage bags in his carts. In return he treated them with the highest respect, but not because they ainât protest his existence; rather, he idolized them because they knew he existed. He forgot he did a while back, especially when he took the first sip of the 40 ounce. His mouthâs tongue stroked the brim; merely a feeble suggestion of the sensual because how could one possess sensuality on the fringes of existence? At any rate, his mouth honored the mouths of his ancestors as he began to reject his being. The liquid had an excursion ahead of it, or maybe an escalade. As he took the first swig, a man approached with a trash bag. The maintenance man, small-mouthed and well fed.
âAlright now, how we doinâ today.â
âAlright now Mr. Randolph, Iâm makinâ it just fine. How you makinâ it now?â
âBlessed and highly favored.â
The maintenance man threw the trash on the grayish mobile cart. The cartâs gray looked slightly less luminous than the gray that surrounded the two men. One man turned to leave.
âWeather ainât too bad out here today is it, Mr. Randolph?â His jaws curled as his mouth rung out, almost in desperation, desperate to shrivel.
âShowâll ainâtâ the maintenance man replied, allowing his back to communicate his supposed disinterest.
âMr. Randolph.â
The maintainer kept walking without turning back. It wasnât disinterest at all, for most people kept conversation short, lest they find themselves on the end of a moral dilemma about whether or not they should donate a quarter. The maintainer was scared of him.
God bless him. God damn him. I know that nigger heard me. Ainât shit no way. Who he think he is? Uncle Charles was a property manager. I canât ask Frieda for no money! Charles would damn near kill me. You donât need. You donât need. You just canât get right. Go âround telling people âbout some no good nephew. They ainât got nothinâ I donât got. Niggers just like I am. Blacker too! Black as hell. God I know I oughta love Randolph. You know he busy; he gotta get to fixinâ up them sinks. He bring me some good stuff every now and then. I got ten dollars for that refrigerator last month and two for his old can opener. âAlright now, how we doinâ?â We. One flesh like Pastor Davis and Frieda on Thursday evenings. Davis and Randolph old lady too. Who is we; who know me?
âIâm tryna make it, Mr. Randolph sir; itâs mighty rough outcheaâ you know?â
âBlessed and most high, my brother, and I got some fresh shit for you here.â I showâll need a little something to wet my tongue, all this humidity in this gray. Gray be making me mighty thirsty.
âMr. Randolph, this some gray outcheaâ ainât it? Make somebody real thirsty donât it?â Lord haâ mercy. My tongue parched. âMr. Randolph! Mr. Rand.â To hell with it. Fool ainât my brother. Agape Frater what Davis say. I ainât seen Randolph in church. I may as well quit dwell on it. I need a suit to go to church. Ainât no use in goinâ. God, I done asked you for a favor. Iâm thirsty, feel like Iâm burninâ up! Mr. Randolph made in God image eyes no. Ears neither. Nah nah, they see me. Iâm showâll glad they see me. They my brothers, but they donât talk loud. Mr. Randolph got a child voice. Dear, baby Jesus, give Randolph old lady strength. She bow down to a child on some days. She need a black strap, hey hey! A strong mouth, real strong mouth! Thatâs what I got, lord knows. Lord willing I get somethinâ to sip. âShowâll ainâtâ good weather. All this gray make my mouth dry.
A younger man approached, dressed like a storefront preacher. His sermonic fabrics ensnared two iron pans and a ceramic container for the well fed, god-fearing, and faux jouissance seeking folks.
âHey Mr. Beard! If I had yoâ hand Iâd turn mine right aloose.â
The younger man gave a slight chuckle. Soothsaying? His mouth curved slightly but expertly, as if the curl had been rehearsed.
âIs that for me, young man? You can just set it right there. Donât want you to get nothinâ on your $40 shirt.â The pan and ceramic dish fell into the blackish cart, the more used of the two carts, sturdier, earthier, but much more damaged than the gray. âThose kids ainât driving you crazy is they?â
âNo not yet,â replied the religiously dressed man, âIâm takinâ itâŚâ
âKids something else nowadays, son. Back in my day they showed respect for grown folk, you know.â
âYeah, I take it one day at a time,â replied the younger person.
âJob like that make a man need a heavy drink, something cold, eh Mr. Beard?â
âI donât drink.â The young man began to rotate his Holy garments.
Strange fellow must be.
âWell look here, Mr. Beard let me ask you: You know where Robinson Street is? I need to get there in âbout five minutes for a job interview.â
âWell I would; I have to take my brother on a job interview on East.â The lie almost had no reservation. The youngsterâs mouth didnât even taste the deceit.
âOh really? East eh? Where he working at there? Big money over there, donât it. The old Eastâ.
âOh jusâ a cook. He might get it. Ainât much money in that though, cooking up beef.â
âOh no, not like teaching them bad ass kids. They getting on your nerves yet, Mr. Beard?â
âNah, not yet they ainât.â
âJob like that make you need a real strong drank ainât that right, son? Iâll tell you what I do make you need âbout two or three. Ainât got no massaâ degree like you. These people throw out some heavy stuff I tell you. Like that leather sofa up there down there. Likely 40 pounds on each side! And I tried to cut it with a saw Ms. Pope gave me. You know Ms. Pope up there on C- 16? Yeah she had a saw her husband used to use before he died. And do you know that thing was still heavy even broken up? Lord. Have. Mercy! You know Mr. Beard, Mrs. Pope got âbout six and a half kids. All boys. Sometime they help me lift some of this shit up to the dumpster. Some heavy shit Mr. Beard. Might be a little too heavy for you. That big leather sofa: my goodness! And donât get me started on them hot water heaters. Things still got water on the inside of âem most of the time. Some hard work, son. You know, I ainât got no massaâ degree like you now. Showâll is some hard work what I do.â
âI imagine so,â the younger man replied. âWell Iâm gonna get on in and cook this food.â
âAlright Mr. Beard, what you cooking tonight, poke chops? Eat them and you be sleeping sound after donât it? Might sleep past time it is to go to work. Say what time you get up for work, âbout seven; probably later than I huh? You probably still in the bed when I get up eh, son? Just dreaminâ away, dreaminâ way! Dreaminâ you pull up to the school in an all black limousine with tinted windows and something cold to drink in every cup holder. Everybody see you, and you sigh: âLook at me now, look at me now.â Look at me now there!â
The younger man uttered a laugh (reminiscent of the chuckle), false as the lies his clothes told worshipers, and began his rotation and descent.
âAlright, Mr. Beard.â
The young man left him in a stupor of vinery bliss, a black bliss.
Ah, Iâm almost at the last lilâ bit. Donât never last too long. Oleâ Mr. Beard. Dress mighty fine. Always got something on his neck. Donât dress like most black folks oh no, dress real sharp. What happen when you get that massaâ degrees. Get some moâ money and wear them $40 shirts and what not now. If I had my hand Iâd turn yours right aloose. Them kids drivinâ you crazy at that school house ainât it? âNot yet, Mr. Beard, not yet.â Mr. Beard I need to get the spot on Robinson, get a lilâ moâ here since Iâm runninâ out you know? Know âbout this here donât you. Yoâ work probably be wearinâ you out eh Mr. Beard? âFirst, I have to take my brother on a job interview on East.â Somethinâ strange âbout a man who donât sip, but he a good man. Young man. Iâm old. We both is black thoâ. Between you and me, Mr. Beard, I kinda like being black. Mr. Beard, you a lilâ light. A little light, haha; talkinâ to a teacher gotta be proper ainât it, Mr. Beard. This weather out here make eye get mighty thirsty though, Mr. Beard. âThatâs true Mr. Beard, showâll mighty true indeed. Itâs gonâ get dark soon though, Mr. Beard. You gonâ be alright out here in the night?â Yeah, son, Iâll be just fine. We already black no way. You black ainât you Mr. Beard? âI am, I am, I is. Showâll is.â Right on Mr. Bea
âMASSAâ! Somethinâ smell like fish!â Â
Mrs. Pope and Mr. Randolph sittinâ in a tree/Mr. Beard cookinâ up some poke chop for me/Me and Uncle Charlie fishinâ in the sea/Then we gave Davis fried brim so he could preach! My mouth feel mighty swoll.
âSEE ME!â
A tenant looked from her window and motioned for her mother to watch the mise en scène noir. Each act, he performed expertly, as if he wasn't acting, as if he was instead the playwright.Â
âI AM, I AM, I IS, I WAS!â
The bliss began to fade, and his mouth began to shrink.
âI was, I was, I wasâ he faintly whispered (or whimpered).
Man need a heavy drink, Mr. Beard. Why donât you sip Mr. Beard? It make me forget. What you mean? Forget how big my mouth is. Especially when you get to that last lilâ sip, Mr. Beard. Canât hear yourself right? Canât hear myself right. Thank Mrs. Pope for the poke chop! I remember it real good. Mr. Beard when you cominâ back to take me to Robinson for that job interview? You canât get no job say Charlie, old fool. But Lord when I do. Iâm gonâ gone up there to Randolph house and spit at his door. If I still have some spit left by then. You will, Mr. Beard. You think so, Mr. Beard? You is mighty smart after all. But your mouth used to be much bigger see. Thatâs âcause I ainât got no massaâ like you; by the way, what you got cold to drink in there? Thatâll help my mouth right on âlong. This last bit will give you just what you need.
He smacked his lips, unable to recognize the gray suffocating his outbursts: âCOLD POKE CHOPâ, unable to taste or to even feel his tongue in his shrinking mouth. The fish smelling gray rushed down, but settled at the center of his black throat. His black throat began to shrink into the void of being.
POPE EYE IS RANDOLPH BEARD I IS!
His eyes shook at his final demonstration of being.
 EPILOGUE: Few wept.