 So this next poem was inspired by an article that I read in the advocate, the Van Rouge newspaper, where essentially what happened was they found it's, it was basically a place where they vary slaves and all these unmarked graves. And the space used to be the land used to be a sugar plantation, and they've been building things on top of it. But I think that the relatives of the people that were buried, finally found their ancestors, and they tried to do a ceremony to honor the dead so I wrote this sort of based off that. This is called Buck Jump. I don't really read this one out loud much because the form is a bit experimental so I'll read it. I read it different every time so Buck Jump, everything left of the slaves is near the sugar. We slurp the syrup after the cane, near the sugar, everything left of the slaves. Come cut the cane into caricatures, calculate the culture in our lips, calculate their capacity. I'm hideous, my siblings, aren't we inaccurate in our suffering. We suffer more. We buck jump and whoop whoop. We season, turn still, outside, obvious, arbor ambivalence, abhorrent pine. In the pine, the true sparrow pipes near the sugar, everything left of the slaves, pint size precaution, everything inside a stocking hangs near the sugar, tell me what is left of the slaves. When I slurp the syrup, instead, buck jump here in this heat, invest in the fade, far ahead, the long-haired men circumnavigate nostalgia into a braid, the nuke, buck jump whoop whoop, stomp your foot until the bouillon becomes bouillon. Long-haired and loyal, we saliva soaked spirituals in Mississippi water. Chant, chant. We big black radios, tall tongues. We big black radios, tall tongues. Buck jump, buck jump whoop whoop and whoop and whoop. We big black radios, tall tongues. We buck jump whoop whoop whoop whoop. I want to do right by us. I'll say it plain. Everything left of the slaves, sugar. Near the sugar, everything left. The slave slugs move fast on a face furious with fear. Woozy and world-worn, I keep a grill in my wallet. Give myself freedom like a white forefather. Come, look at me whoop and jump. My smile a beam, a pentose buck. To all you gladiators, I'm weary and bitter. Worry me in my black city, confire, I watch you and you wither. Everything left of me is sugar, alabaster, angola, melancholy marginalia, mama, daddy, niggin' in the alley, punctuated southpaw, pathological pusher man, come calculate. All that's left of me, no sugar left in the tank. If a tall man is blue, in blue is ready to do what he does, what does that make me a slave? You can't really see it, but it looks like a cyborgs triangle. So this was an experiment in form, in repetition, and this comes from a text message. So it's basically auto-correct. So the title of this poem is, My Phone Auto-Corrects Nigga Tonight Night as Nighttime in IGHT. My nights play cousin to their mother's favorite kettles. My nights won't consume their reflections so they pour milk in their coffee. My nights never rest so they sing their shadows to sleep. Sometimes they don't remember any words. My nights have frogs stuck in their throats, no light soul, every bit of pain. My nights all Lewis Armstrong minus a trumpet, and my nights play chicken with a train. My nights both shoe and polish, both Sambo and Bruce Lee Roy. We all little pretty medallions on our grandmother's nightstands. My nights are mistaken for other nights that bear no resemblance. I saw the sinew of the oldest night in the neighborhood on the floor, his saint pendant missing. All the small down feathered nights scatter from the groan of pig sirens. My nights don't know their history. My nights are pecans without the trees that grow them. My nights instruct all the people in their head to weep. My nights hate the firefly cutting their darkness. My night, did you see them? They just walked right past us and didn't even speak. My nights are ordinary. We're ruffled socks, have the best belts. My nights don't always go to church, but my nights are lambs worthy of the morning. My nights are revised constitutions, crypt keepers. My nights are a congregation of alligators on a rumpus bayou. My nights hiss into themselves. No one hears. Their blood rolls its eyes. My nights chew gum and sunflower seeds. My nights eat pork. My nights get the itis and slow their speech. My nights protest protests. The government watches. My nights live in Brazil, Botswana, the Congo Cuba, DR, France, Grenada, Greece, Honduras, Ireland, Liberia, Lithuania, Nigeria, Venezuela, Zimbabwe. My nights live in America to remind you of me. Some people think my nights are better with their eyes closed, but my nights have beautiful corneas. My nights wash clothes that don't belong to them and won't look their bosses in the eye. My nights no necessity. My nights oblige. When my nights die, I wash them on my kitchen table. After my nights are washed, I throw away the table. My nights have names. My nights smell of sage. My nights smell of the muddy rivers they will never swim in again. Thank you for having me.