Buccaneers: “Hollywood Africans,” 1983

Not Los Angeles but Boston

we are allergic to pollen.

We don’t smoke tobacco but

I’m sure an ancestor did

in a field      after the field

work      after the turn from sun

after pondering the pale

pink blossoms like bugles she

may have thought.

I’m distant     inside

of the yellow      its

glare       its toil.

I turn away from it

not a hero but the quiet one

dissolving. That’s my self-portrait.

Here      not here     excluded.

Two of Basquiat’s artsy New York City

friends were his buccaneers in Los Angeles.

They all missed New York City.

They all smoked.

They all played music.

Not banjos like us

something more electronic      something

always spinning.

I’m spinning even though still.

My mind is a pinwheel.

I read the world.