Each Fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown hills and red gullies of Mississippi send out their electric messages, galvanizing my genes."

Another weaver of black dreams has gone.

To write a blues song
is to regiment riots
and pluck gems from graves.

I boil my tears in a twisted spoon
And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.

"In the beginning was the word,
And in the end the deed.
Judas did it to Jesus
Tor the same Herd. Same Reason.
You made them mad, Malcolm,
Same reason."