On Passing (or Notes toward a Manifesto)

In a dream, a young Baraka slaps five with my father. They ask when I last got some pussy or whooped someone’s ass? On one side of the street are the black poets (their closed memberships, spider-fingered hand-shakes, invitation-only parties) tossing my journal with my father— Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit! I’m soft-spoken. He’s bullhorn. I believe in breaths. We’re both sensitive. I do not deserve to be his son. I didn’t suffer like my father. Don’t fit in any boxes with bars. Never served time (except once at Bellevue for 17 days). I retreat in ambiguity. Live between the lines. Prefer shadow to light. I do girl push-ups. Write on the mirror with my mother’s lipstick. I’m nothing like my father. I spend my recesses reading When the People Could Fly, Black Skin, White Masks, & Metamorphosis. I visit Harlem with my 35mm in search of jazzmen. I’m paranoid. My palms stay moist. Long before I wake from this dream, there’s your voice & Baraka’s, the broken limbs ghosting our family tree, you and Baraka mouthing to me:This life. . . is a . . relay . . race . . . and in a single hand motion—Catch! And that look on your faces. The pause. The lean in. The reveal.