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Snally Gaster's African American Phat Library Experience

Not enough poems here? Email me your favorite works of the masters (no amateurs please).



Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
(For Kellie Jones, Born 16 May 1959)

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelops me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad-edged silly music the win
Makes when I run for the bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands.

[thanks to]

Ancient Music

The main thing
to be against
is Death!

Everything Else
is a


In the Funk World

If Elvis Presley/ is
Who is James Brown,