MICHAEL JACKSON
By Dr. S. Dianne Bogus

Billie Jean is not your lover-nor am I Nor am I.

You have forsaken me, Black Lover,

given my hair, wild and woolly to the shaggy
silk of public pretense.

You have taken my nose so open to Nature,
so resistant to assault and sharpened it like a pencil.

You have stolen my womanhood and dressed it
in glitter as if to hypnotize me into believing

I would so inspire. I am not your lover.

0, Michael, what have you done? Where have
you gone? Left the Five to become One who dances
upon lighted squares

like a fairy raising moonbeam as it flits across the earth,
but you sneer at the love in my eyes.

 

Jehovah holy yet metaphorical were man, demon. . .
Does it thrill you to dance down streets of imaginary evil upon the fears of young women?

Ought I dream like the multiple of being shredded by the illusion?

Am I to worship Death and Animal-man, am I to love you Michael Jackson? I cannot.

Nor would Billie Jean.

Someone Anglo in an ivory tower asked, and the question - tion echoed down the halls,

"Who is Michael Jackson?"

Michael Jackson. Say it. I say it, "Michael Jackson."

One name: Donovan.

One sound trochaid. One soul, indescribably, undeniably, utterly called Michael Jackson.

One more one sound in the legion of one sound lover-

Warriors, Jim-Croce, Malcolm X, Billie Holliday, Dianna Ross.

 

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