Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly

Cellophane flowers of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes
And she's gone

Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marsh mellow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
That grow so incredibly high

New paper taxis appear on the shore
Waiting to take you away
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
And you're gone

Picture yourself on a train in a station
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstyle
The girl with the kaleidoscope eyes

In the end
it pulls
free of
its chain
and settles
inside like
a flame
and my
only concern
is how
long will
it burn
before I
have chained
it again

All history is Black history,
wrapped in the shadows of time,
obscured by secret purpose and motive.
The Mother of mankind is as black as night itself,
the rich earth as dark as the space between stars.
History IS Black, and a month barely begins
to scratch its near-inscrutable surface.