I burned my life, that I might find 
A passion wholly of the mind, 
Thought divorced from eye and bone, 
Ecstasy come to breath alone. 
I broke my life, to seek relief 
From the flawed light of love and grief.

With mounting beat the utter fire 
Charred existence and desire. 
It died low, ceased its sudden thresh.
I found unmysterious flesh—
Not the mind’s avid substance—still
Passionate beyond the will.

You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.

But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?

You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.

^{Watts Riot, 1965}

They had waited so long, they had given up too soon.
So much smog, smoke, haze the clearest blue was grey.
They had waited so long, they had given up too soon.
As if three hundred years had fallen to one day.

So much smog, smoke, haze the clearest blue was grey.
It was running away from him even then, the problem.
As if three hundred years had fallen to one day.
Haze, aqua, white, the coast, the beach, peach, slate.

It was running away from him even then, the problem.
Riding in a convertible through the mythic streets.
Haze, aqua, white, the coast, the beach, peach, slate.
Sunlight, palm trees, every boulevard ends at the beach.

Riding in a convertible through the mythic streets,
The rhythm of perfect days illuminating his disarray.
Sunlight, palm trees, every boulevard ends at the beach.
Following Sunset into the future, or tomorrow, at least.

The rhythm of perfect days illuminating his disarray.
As the sphinx that is the sun stares, nods, riddles.
Following Sunset into the future, or tomorrow, at least.
Slate blue, green, blue palms, lime, lavender, white, haze.

As the sphinx that is the sun stares, nods, riddles.
If a black man couldn’t be happy here, where could he?
Slate blue, green, blue palms, lime, lavender, white, haze.
Dreams of light, blossoms falling, pink and white.

If a black man couldn’t be happy here, where could he?
Shabby and pastel horizons, rolling brown paradise on fire.
Dreams of light, blossoms falling, pink and white.
As sunlight fans across the mirror of the bay.

Shabby and pastel horizons, rolling brown paradise on fire.
Pacifist mired in violence, staring at the Pacific—
As sunlight fans across the mirror of the bay.
He stared at the ocean before turning back into history.

Pacifist mired in violence, staring at the Pacific—
They had waited so long, they had given up too soon.
He stared at the ocean before turning back into history.
They had waited too long, they had given up too soon.