I am the Seventh Son of the Son
who was also the Seventh.
I have drunk deep of the waters of my ancestors
have traveled the soul’s journey towards cosmic harmony,
the Seventh Son.
Have walked slick avenues
and seen grown men, fall, to die in a blue doom
of death and ancestral agony,
have seen old men glide, shadowless, feet barely
touching the pavements.
I hustler. I pimp. I unfulfilled Black man
bursting with destiny.
New York city Slim called me Big Red,
and there was no escape, close nights of the smell of death.
Pimp. hustler. The day fills these rooms.
I am talking about New York. Harlem.
talking about the neon madness.
talking about ghetto eyes and nights
talking about death protruding across the room. Small’s paradise.
talking about cigarette butts, and rooms smelly with white sex flesh,
and dank sheets, and being on the run.
talking bout cocaine illusions, about stealing and selling.
talking about these New York cops who smell of blood and money.
–by Larry Neal
this is not the full poem