My book ALIVE AT THE END OF THE WORLD comes out next week! I’m so excited to finally be able to put this book in y’all’s hands. Thank you for all the pre-orders and support along the way. Today’s poem is dedicated to comedian Paul Mooney and the many, many artists I’ve come to think of as black saints.
Also, I woke up this morning to an incredible review of the book by Ronnie K. Stephens over at The Poetry Question. I mean: “Jones reaffirms his place as one of the most talented living poets writing in English with this collection, demonstrating an ever-evolving mastery of language and a distinct eye for structural balance.” DAMN.
All I Gotta Do Is Stay Black and Die
Paul Mooney’s heart stopped this morning in Oakland,
and the night Whitney Houston died, the National Anthem
shot itself in the throat. I fell asleep watching Aretha’s funeral
and when I woke up, she was somehow still dead. Somehow,
I keep losing people who were never really mine. Diahann
Caroll died and I walked into my bedroom closet, looking
for a mink coat I didn’t have and pearl necklaces I will never
own because I missed them already. Luther, are there closets
in heaven? Little Richard, if you stand in a closet and scream
loud enough for white people to steal your sound, is it really
a closet? I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance. I think
Cicely Tyson left because she knew how this song was gonna
end and didn’t want to hear it. I think Maya is still somewhere
correcting what people call her. I think Toni Morrison always
knew it’s not the death that hurts, it’s the dying.
POEM: "All I Gotta Do Is Stay Black and Die"