I am tired this night

I shall go alone to Mojo Mike’s Cafe and bathe my body in high breakers of hot jazz flung
tableward ... molten notes falling in a crimson spray

I shall sink my soul in warm whiskey while the light-scarred night roosts nervously on the quivering
limb of 47th Street in Chicago’s Congo

For these hours I can forget that I am black

At school I honed my mind against sleek sides of white ideas

Mine was a leather covered silence in a room of chintz and red plush sound as I packed my bag with
silver bits of knowledge

Later I learned these sparkling morsels gave little strength as I fought across burning sands of a
Nordic land

Some I have thrown away

Others I shall guard as priceless treasure until the rattlesnake bite of death for some day yet I may
have need of them

Although I move as one disgraced, outlawed by this my land for being black, I shall lift proud feet and
walk by day past sneering townspeople returning blow for blow until my strength flees and I collapse
in utter exhaustion

I would joyously use these silver bits of knowledge helping my white brothers build into America

But when gifts are flung back hard into the face of the giver and the hand extended is seized and
crushed between mailed fists what is there left but fighting?

I am tired this night

My arms hang weary from battle

For these few hours

At Mojo Mike’s Cafe

I shall forget civilization

I shall forget color, caste

I shall move in a fantastic world of raceless men and women

So that tomorrow

Refreshed by this wild dream

Goaded by this vision of America as America

I may go forth again

Fighting, fighting
Ever fighting

Until I am no longer one apart

Until they call to me as I tread our streets:

“Hello, Brother

“Hello, American!”