The Poetry Of Derek Walcott 1948-2013 - Plot & Excerpts
RICHARD PRYOR Every street corner is Christmas Eve in downtown Newark. The Magi walk in black overcoats hugging a fifth of methylated spirits, and hookers hook nothing from the dark cribs of doorways. A crazy king breaks a bottle in praise of Welfare, “I’ll kill the motherfucker,” and for black blocks without work the sky is full of crystal splinters. A bus breaks out of the mirage of water, a hippo in wet streetlights, and grinds on in smoke; every shadow seems to stagger under the fiery acids of neon— wavering like a piss, some l tt rs miss- ing, extinguished—except for two white nurses, their vocation made whiter in darkness. It’s two days from elections. Johannesburg is full of starlit shebeens. It is anti-American to make such connections. Think of Newark as Christmas Eve, when all men are your brothers, even these; bring peace to us in parcels, let there be no more broken bottles in heaven over Newark, let it not shine like spit on a doorstep, think of the evergreen apex with the gold star over it on the Day-Glo bumper sticker a passing car sells.
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