POETS - THE SELLING OF THE SOULS by Ernest Williamson III © 2006

The following are spoke word compositions. These works are fiction and bear no resemblance or likeness to anyone living or dead. All opinions and interpretations expressed here are entirely the authors. Copyrights are held by the respective authors.

The Selling of The Souls Ernest Williamson III © 2006 irrespective of minced happiness a smile splintered partially in tune with the nice weather unclothed sunlight cloudless skies and yet partially colluded with problems hell sandy ligaments in feet and hands lying to the bruises of incoming apathy like a car accident with blood stretched on the concrete or a racial slur leaping from ignorant young lips as a Christian elderly Black man drives cautiously down the street in search for carnations for his wife of 65 years but what can the writer sell his observations what can the greed of the eye effuse to others when the writer's own inner galaxy trembles in drifting orbit maybe I can stare at the word STRONG carved in this oak tree on 52nd street south of too many confederate flags rendering swastikas in gray shadows or maybe I can write with two hands and paint one sign outside of my weary house reading not for sell not for sell The Jazz of Old Wine Ernest Williamson III © 2006 life is a disposition dipped in mirth divided by two annulled in blithe and despair like our first kiss in the middle of yesterday's November rain with fresh pine biting with congealed blue notes while hissing in the residue of phony lightning storms I'd love to hold your story from tears to triumph in my sheet music as I wait here on the corner of Hope Street singing a change gone come for twenty minutes inside of twenty long years and though I long for your utterance I can still stand here branded by these watery rainbows near my shoes these worn leather brown shoes. Jazz Displacement Ernest Williamson III © 2006 tailored liaisons jogging along your way so crass I see jazz Coltrane teaching philosophy again but he's dead I heard somebody say I love really good news in good sounds trumpets pullin' my vibe to strangers makes me stand atop waffling bar stools whistlin' Ellington's big band joustin' hisses abound such a shame to be tap dancin' in these clouds way up here lookin' way way down here The Importance of Liquid Rainbows Ernest Williamson III © 2006 Mother used cedar-wood window sills to hang my clothes in Mr. Landall's mansion 2 miles south of Granny's Market Mr. Rogers and Mr. Milton would stand on descending concrete steps singin' YANKEE DOODLE DANDY for my brother and me and though they were pink and old I never saw any association of discontent in their words I am a black person or African American you may say yet my friends back then like the smell of sun dried clothes on the ceder-wood window sills in my room were mostly of a nice touch a good smell in my nostrils a silent smile fans of universality and to my surprise hidden from the common disdain of the incivility of 1965.

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