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