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entire office of women and other types needing my deposing. Nothing of interest to you. A lot of questions no answers. Long lunches. Laughter. Penises. Flirtings. Touches. Drinks. Cunts and Coke. Jazz and jacuzzis.
(Morning. Evening. Received. Damaged. Torn. Broken. Dented. Scratched. Lost.)
    I shall become a collector of me.

ishallbecomeacollectorofme.
i Shall become a collector of me.
i shall BECOME a collector of me.
I shall Become A COLLECTOR of me.
I SHALL BECOME A COLLECTOR OF ME.
ISHALLBECOMEACOLLECTOROFME.
AND PUT MEAT ON MY SOUL.

Set. No. 2
    i’ve been keeping company, with the layaway man.
i say, i’ve been keeping company, with the layaway man.
each time he come by, we do it on the installment plan.
    every Friday night, he comes walking up to me do’
i say, every Friday night, he comes walking up to me do’
empty pockets hanging, right on down to the floor.
    gonna get me a man, who pays for it up front
i say, gonna get me a man, who pays for it up front
cuz when i needs it, can’t wait til the middle of next month
    i’ve been keeping company, with the layaway man
i say, i’ve been keeping company, with the layaway man
each time he come by, we do it on the installment plan
each time he come by, we do it on the installment plan

Catch the Fire
    For Bill Cosby
    (Sometimes I Wonder:
    What to say to you now
in the soft afternoon air as you
hold us all in a single death?)
    I say—
    Where is your fire?
    I say—
    Where is your fire?
    You got to find it and pass it on
You got to find it and pass it on
from you to me from me to her from her
to him from the son to the father from the
brother to the sister from the daughter to
the mother from the mother to the child.
    Where is your fire? I say where is your fire?
Can’t you smell it coming out of our past?
The fire of living . . . . . . Not dying
The fire of loving . . . . . . Not killing
The fire of Blackness . . . Not gangster shadows.
Where is our beautiful fire that gave light to the world?
    The fire of pyramids;
The fire that burned through the holes of
slaveships and made us breathe;
The fire that made guts into chitterlings;
The fire that took rhythms and made jazz;
The fire of sit-ins and marches that made
us jump boundaries and barriers;
The fire that took street talk and sounds
and made righteous imhotep raps.
Where is your fire, the torch of life
full of Nzingha and Nat Turner and Garvey
and Du Bois and Fannie Lou Hamer and
Martin and Malcolm and Mandela.
    Sister/Sistah. Brother/Brotha. Come/Come.
    CATCH YOUR FIRE . . . . . . . . . . DON’T KILL
  HOLD YOUR FIRE. . . . . . . . . . . DON’T KILL
  LEARN YOUR FIRE . . . . . . . . . DON’T KILL
  BE THE FIRE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . DON’T KILL
    Catch the fire and burn with eyes
that see our souls:
    WALKING.
SINGING.
BUILDING.
LAUGHING.
LEARNING.
LOVING.
TEACHING.
BEING.
    Hey. Brother/Brotha. Sister/Sistah.
Here is my hand.
Catch the fire . . . and live.
    live.
livelivelivelive.
livelivelivelive.
live.
live.

A Remembrance
    The news of his death reached me in Trinidad around midnight. I was lecturing in the country about African-American literature and liberation, longevity and love, commitment and courage. I could not sleep. I got up and walked out of my hotel room into a night filled with stars. And I sat down in the park and talked to him. About the world. About his work. How grateful we all are that he walked on the earth, that he breathed, that he preached, that he came toward us baptizing us with his holy words. And some of us were saved because of him. Harlem man. Genius. Piercing us with his eyes and pen.
    How to write of this beautiful big-eyed man who took on the country with his words? How to make anyone understand his beauty in a country that hates Blacks? How to explain his unpublished urgency? I guess I’ll say that James Arthur Baldwin came out of Harlem sweating blood, counting kernel by kernel the years spent in storefront churches. I guess I’ll say he walked his